Check Your Engine

        The ‘check engine’ light went on out of the blue as it usually does when you’re not thinking about the status of your car.  The tiny computer somewhere under the hood that constantly monitors the well-being and the general good nature of the automobile found an anomaly as I was driving home from work one evening and shot a warning sign to my dashboard.  It was the symbol of an engine with a lightening bolt that ran through the middle.  It was one of the more concerning symbols in my dash’s inventory.  Like getting a letter from the bank saying they are about to foreclose on your house.  I was a little caught off guard and being an anxiety-ridden, panicky person my own tiny computer inside my brain began assessing the well-being of my body and immediately shot a warning sign to my psyche.  There was no symbol to recognize, it simply said, “You’re going to die.”

            After a lengthy inspection my lovely Armenian mechanic, Feres, concluded that the problem was a faulty crankshaft valve and suggested that I take the car to the dealer, seeing that the car was still under warranty.  Feres is the antithesis to the stereotypical auto mechanic you see in movies and TV.  He's not gruff or burly or short with words.  He has an ever present smile and speaks in a soft, humble tone.  Feres used to work at the Audi dealership and branched off a few years ago to go into business for himself.  He’s a very honest mechanic, which is difficult to come by these days.  If you ever have the good fortune to find one, hang on to them for dear life.  Feres suggested that I go see Johnny B.  He will take good care of me.

            Two days before there had been a severe windstorm that left Pasadena looking as if it had experienced a severe windstorm.  Most people were incorrectly comparing the damage that the wind had caused to a war-zone.  I have never been in an actual war-zone.  Having our country involved in two wars and having thousands of videos posted on YouTube by the troops of actual combat, one would think that some tree branches and leaves scattered on the ground would not trick people into thinking they were in Iraq or Afghanistan.  But, most people are very quick to make that hasty comparison. 

            I brought my car into the Audi dealership and was met by Johnny B., an Italian man in his late fifties with a strong accent that reminded me of the character Poppy from the TV show Seinfeld.  He was very happy to see me, and he greeted me as if I was a minor celebrity in a small town out in the Midwest. 

            “Whadda seems to-a be da prollem?” Johnny asked as he scurried around the car, taking note of various scratches and imperfections.

            “Well, the check engine light came on a few days ago and I’ve got it on good authority that it might be a defective crank case valve.”

            “Whoah did youa take it to?”

            “I took it to Feres before.  He told me that it was the crank case valve.”  Johnny was in the car jotting down the mileage on his inspection sheet.

            “Feres, he’sa good guy.  He’sa one o’ da best,” Johnny relayed as he logged my mileage.

            “Oh yeah,” I immediately agreed, “he’s one of the good ones.  I wish there were more like him.  I feel pretty fortunate that…”

            “You knowa,” Johnny politely interrupted, “weah gonna have to have da’ car, prolly, all day.  You needa ride somewhere?”

            In the past when I’ve taken my car in I usually stick around Pasadena because it takes no more than a few hours.  There’s plenty to do there, coffee shops, a bookstore, bars, and I was prepared to wait it out.  I brought along a book and some paper and a pen in case I became artistically inspired.  It was when I heard ‘all day’ that I took Johnny up on the offer.

            “Whereah do youa live?” he asked.

            “Just over in Hollywood, you know, off of Forrest Lawn and up Barham Boulevard.”

            “No prollem,” he confidently said.  “We hava someone ah to take you.  Juss hava seat righta here an’ some-a-one will be wit’ you, okay?  Hava good day and Happy Holl-i-days.”

            I normally become nervous when I’m forced to be in the same zone as a stranger, mostly because I’m afraid that I’ll run out of conversation topics.  I’ve managed to place all the responsibility for conversation on myself when encountering strangers.  “I’ll do all the work,” I’d think to myself, “Don’t worry your little head.  Save your topics for someone more important.  For the moment we’ll just be talking about the weather.”

            It was Martin, a pleasant looking man of Mexican descent, who cautiously approached me and sheepishly asked if I was the one who needed the ride. 

            “That would be great,” I said, not wanting to put him out or anything.  I’m positive this man had more important things to do than give me a ride home.

            In a moment of rare confidence, or maybe it was the quite un-rare fear that the two of us were going to spend the fifteen-minute ride home in complete silence, I decided to make a game of our journey.  I was the governor of California and was touring the wind-damaged city of Pasadena.  It’s what the voters would want in a time of stress.

            We pulled out of the dealership and I looked around at some branches that had been blown off and were now swept to the side of the road. 

            “I guess you guys had a lot of wind here the other day, huh?”

            “Oh yes,” Martin answered with grave concern in his voice, “some of the branches came into the property and damaged three Porsches.”

            “Wow!” I exclaimed, “Three?”  I shook my head poignantly, staring at the car lot that was filled with new Porsches, Audis and Jaguars.  “Three Porsches.”  Then, in a very ungovernorly way I accidentally blurted out, “That’s crazy.”

            “Yes, three.  It was the city’s trees.”

            I looked around, surveying the limbs that were scattered in a very unnatural manner as we motored up Colorado Boulevard.

            “It looks like a war zone,” I finally declared with authority.

            “Yes,” Martin agreed with me.  “A war zone.”

            Having a trusty driver is important when your governing such a complicated state like California.  Someone who knows how to navigate even the most convoluted streets in the city and still get you to where you need to go on time.  Someone who’s got your back in a bar fight.  This was Martin.  He came up from Mexico City ten years ago with nothing but a backpack full of hopes and dreams and now here he was, driving around the most powerful governor this state has ever known.

            Most politicians use times of distress as a platform to elevate their own careers.  Not this guy.  “No press,” I declared.  “I don’t want to give people the wrong idea that I’m using this tragedy for my own gain.”  What I would do is tour the devastated parts of the city, assess what I need to do and then report back to my constituents on the progress.  Everything was on a need-to-know basis in my administration.

           

            “How are the people doing?’ I asked Martin while observing a city crew cutting up a pine tree that had toppled onto the freeway.  Most of it had been sliced up and only the massive roots stuck up into the air like a giant cockroach that found itself upside down and, after hours of struggling to right itself, had finally given up.

            “Everyone seems okay,” replied Martin in his own positive way.  “I think it was just some sort of freak storm or something.  This doesn’t usually happen here.”

            Suddenly, one of those annoyingly good looking Fiats cut in front of us and Martin instinctively laid into the car horn.  There was a brief moment of silence when Martin, coming back to his senses, slowly turned to me, almost apologetically, “I don’t know why I honked.”

            “It’s okay,” I quickly assured him, “he wasn’t even using his turn signal.  That car is a menace.  I guess they give licenses to anybody, huh?”

            Martin turned back, disgusted with himself for letting his anger get in the way of his professionalism.  He must have been thinking how I could allow such a loose cannon to be in charge of my driving detail.  We drove on.  I looked around at more crews cutting up fallen trees for compost.  "This place looks like a friggin' war zone," I quietly muttered.

            "Yes," Martin politely agreed, "a bad one."

            We pulled up in front of our house and Martin opened the side door.

            “This has been a very eye-opening experience for me, Martin.” I shook his hand, “Thank you.  I will do what I can.”

            Martin looked at me with those trusting eyes.  “If you need a ride back to the dealership they can pick you up.  Just tell them.”

            And just like that, I was snapped back into reality.  We made it.  That wasn’t bad at all.  There were no awkward silences.  I didn’t run out of things to say. 

            As I got out of the minivan I turned to Martin, “I usually honk when someone cuts me off too.  Maybe it makes them think that next time they should be more considerate.”

            There was a moment of agreement, something that only two war buddies can experience.  Words were not necessary.  All was understood.

            Martin pulled away and I looked up at the house that my wife and I shared.  Our green, mid-century modern house that stood above Troy Drive and was nestled in a quaint little neighborhood just behind Universal Studios.  The house was no longer ours.  The times had caught up with us.  We were underwater with our loan and were well on our way to foreclosure.  We would probably need to cut our losses, short-sell the house and move somewhere cheaper.  Starting over was nothing new to me.  I had done it before and, although, it doesn't get easier there's comfort in knowing that you will always come up on the other side.  The key is to keep moving forward.  Always move forward.  Forward.  From the moment we're born the universe is trying to kill us.  Ironically, it also provides everything we need to defeat it.  That's the balance.  Also, don't cut people off in traffic.  It's rude.  Put on your turn signal first and make sure there's enough room for your car and then give a friendly 'thank you' wave to the person that let you in.  That's what a considerate person would do.