Thursday, February 13, 2014

In true first-world fashion, my response to my first-world car troubles was one of disbelief. After all, wasn’t I supposed to benefit from the concept of double jeopardy? One automotive woe couldn’t possibly follow another in such short order, right? But follow it did, the moment I left the median, to the sound of grinding metal.

Hick Nolte had assured me my axle was fine, and I wanted to believe him. The faster I drove, however, the more piercing the sound, and I was certain parts of my car were hanging by a thread, if at all. Driving on the spare meant I could go 45 max, but with the prospect of both my front tires dislodging at any given moment, I decided to shift to the right lane, flip on the hazards, and bring it down to a cautious 30.

When you’re doing 30 in a 55, though, even with all these precautions, people still go aggro. For three slow, long miles, traffic honked and swirled around me. Every traffic light, a milestone. Every bend in the highway, an opportunity for catastrophe. And at every inch, the sound of metal scraping along asphalt. Finally, finally I limped into the parking lot of a Hampton Inn.

The next morning, another tow truck appeared to bear my car to the shop. A far younger fellow stepped out of the truck. Customary handshake, during which I noticed he was missing about a third of his teeth. But what he lacked in enamel, he more than made up for in troubleshooting panache, because within minutes he diagnosed the source of the grinding noise: a piece of wood entwined in chicken wire had lodged itself into the undercarriage. This chicken wire was dragging along the road the night prior, and the axle was indeed fine, exonerating Hick Nolte’s work. In the end, I got away with replacing just the one tire at a place that reminded me of my favorite shop back in Charlotte. Would I go back to Birmingham? Absolutely. But first, I’m going to bed. I’m headed to the gym tomorrow. Second time, in fact. I’ll tell you all about it next week.