Braking Down
(copyright 1999)

Fast cars, great cars, expensive cars. You read about it, you fantasize about it, and you probably have a couple in the garage. That's your life -- and not mine. Forgive me the lights on at three in the morning and the splash of cold water, but this is about me, not David E. Davis, Jr.. Caveat lector.

My car is no marvel. It barely does zero-to-sixty. The salesman's commission was a delivered in pennies. It's brakes were designed to fail. It does not seat five comfortably. One must, as we shall see, extract its timing belt to change the thermostat (add up those labor charges for a seven dollar part...).

It came to me by way of an ex-wife who was still, technically, a wife at the time. Seems the mortgage money, one July day, was better spent on a cheap used car than either a) the mortgage; or b) fixing our Jeep Grand Cherokee which needed a new front end. Look, she married me, so judgment she lacks. She wandered off to a used car dealer who dealt her a really bad deal on a bright red Pontiac LeMans, red being the weak spot. The dealer got a great deal on the Jeep, plus my two months mortgage. Go figure. Some call it estrogen, although I think it was enhanced by something inhaled. Whatever. When she then ran off to California to teach Hollywood how to make movies, I inherited the Pontiac. So, yes, the car was a blessing in cheap disguise.

But that didn't stop it from shaking along I-95 in lower Rhode Island. My daughter said, "Daddy, I think the car's finally gonna die. Goodie" Needless to say, my children (both, thankfully, of my first ex-wife) despise the car. They call it the Green Booger. "But it's red," people say. "A color so awful, none dare call it by name," the children respond. Well, it delivered us to Maine a few weeks earlier, and it had the decency not to get in the way of a spectacular August. Come the trip back to reality, it had a point to make, in this case with a jittery rear end.

Applying my innate mechanical skills and empty powers of deduction, I decided the shake had something to do with the roads in Rhode Island, and if we could just make it into Connecticut, we'd be fine. Well, by Mystic Seaport, Connecticut, the car was bouncing. I stopped, but so being 5:05 p.m., we couldn't find an open garage. With no contrary advice, I deduced that the tires needed more air. So I pumped them up to about 45 psi.

A few exits later, I decided to stop and let our friend, George, in on the fact that we weren't exactly going to get to his place in New York before midnight. We wandered a bit, got lost on US 1 (goes North and South, doesn't it?) and whatever, stopping to hear every gas station attendant explain that nothing could be done tonight, but I could get in line in the morning, and besides, it was probably a broken axle or something easy like that. Finally, we found a garage that was open. Actually, it was closed, but the mechanic was unusually kind and agreed to look at it. He took the car for a drive. He then raised it on the lift and showed me how the back tires spun in a perfect ellipse, which, he explained, was not normal.

And, oh, he said, putting more air in the tires makes the ellipse more pronounced. I shook my head in agreement, and we both wondered how anyone could be so stupid. Well, nice as he was, his garage wasn't stocked with a tire our size, so he sent us to the nearest Sears where they treated us like shit. But the tires were on sale, so who's complaining? If you're in need of good mechanical advice at 6:20 on a Tuesday night, New London is a good place to break down.

It was nine o'clock by the time the Sears guy stopped laughing at me long enough to switch the new rubber for old -- and still two hours from Manhattan. I called George to say we would keep on South. The children didn't take to this concept, with my son crying that I'd promised -- yes, PROMISED -- that we could see George, and my daughter cursing the car, me and the gods, and otherwise blaming me for denying her the city of Manhattan. The Indians gave it away far cheaper.

Happily, as parents out there will know, the only good thing about a child's anger is that it is very tiring. They fell asleep. The car ran smoothly until about midnight, when, as we approached NJ Turnpike Exit 3, my daughter awoke and demanded to know where we were going to camp for the night. I explained that we were heading to the house in Virginia. She accepted this with a wrath equal to that handed me when she learned that we would not make it into New York City. Ok, we can't camp, for it's too late to set up. So here's the choice: we either go home, camp in the backyard the next night, or we spend the night in the car somewhere. The lesson was all mine. Never give a child a choice you don't want.

I awoke at five because my neck was wrapped about the headrest like a Corvette around a telephone pole. Looking about, I noticed that most of the cars had Pennsylvania tags, so it looked like we might as well head on over to a car show I knew of in Lancaster. No sense fighting any more, so I drove off in that general direction. The kids awoke unfortunately refreshed and proceeded to complain about everything. Eyeing retribution in the form of an historical marker, I dragged them off to the grave site of "Mad" Anthony Wayne, Revolutionary War hero and the man for whom every town of Wayne is named, including Wayne, Pennsylvania, where we found ourselves, and the Wayne, Maine, where our summer camp is located. Miraculously, the kids thought all this very cool, especially the grave of the Tory laid under the entrance to the church. This was so the good patriots could step on the bastard every Sunday.

Got lost again, but we eventually found a place to camp near Lancaster and the kids were very happy. They learned nothing about setting a tent, as they couldn't see much of it from the playground. I learned all about how to put one up in a near hurricane. The kids did take a brief fascination with my attempts to light a fire in thirty miles an hour winds. This was boring after a few minutes, and, tired of my cursing at burnt fingers and spent matches, they ran off to peer into RV's. The fire thing was fixed by a gallon jug of lighter fluid. Supplies, I learned, are only available in bulk at RV parks. Fortunately, no one noticed the scorched branches of the trees above us. So an idea that started with hopes to save money from hotels turned expensive, what with having to buy string, mosquito repellent, a knife, food that could be cooked on a fire, a can opener (that took a second trip to the store), a grill, charcoal, matches, self-lighting charcoal, more matches, a lighter, and a gallon of lighter fluid. What fun. And HBO was free at the motel down the street.

Our tent was the only one amidst ten thousand RV's. They had no problem with the charcoal, as Benson burners are standard-op for the "camping" crowd. Later that night, I was amazed by that distinct, flickering blue light that comes of the other RV necessity, the television. The RV people are serious about their relaxation. Damned if they'll leave the city behind while they enjoy the Pennsylvania countryside. It rained that night, but the gods were kind and we stayed dry. The kids slept all morning and ran off to play just in time for me to take down the tent by myself. God again intervened, and the tent fit back into the bag. We made McDonalds for breakfast.

All was well to Virginia, and onward South the following day. Until Statesville, North Carolina, that is. Wonderful town, home to a Pontiac dealer, at least one jaded State Trooper, and Mark, the nicest damned tow truck driver below the Mason-Dixon line. Cruising I-77, and exactly one hundred thirty two feet past Exit 46, the engine died. Thankfully it still rolled, and enough to make the side of the highway. Nothing was going on from the car. No electricity, no clicking of the starter, no emergency blinkers. I'm not sure who cursed more, I or the kids, but since we always half expect something to happen, it was almost a relief that something went wrong. We set about finding a flashlight and gathering shoes and clothes for a little hike. Just as I started out the door, however, a cop pulled up.

You must understand. This never happens. The rule is when you break down, nobody's around. I thanked the officer relentlessly, to which he replied, "don't thank me, thank the poor S.O.B. up the highway who broke down an hour ago." He asked me to his cruiser, where he already had my life history up on his computer screen. There being no outstanding warrants, he offered to call a tow truck, so long as I signed something about a promise not to hold him or the State of North Carolina responsible for anything the driver does or what he (over) charges me.

Suddenly, a figure appeared, knuckles banging the cop's side window. My heart jumped, but the man beside me was a pro. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and lowered the window. The figure jabbered something about a "10-B" down the road. The officer thanked him and closed the window. He shook his head and said, "Everybody thinks they're a cop. What the f-- is a '10-B'? Moron." I asked him what it was about, to which he replied that the good citizen was reporting the other car that had broken down ahead, this being the fiftieth such report. With that, he called in a tow truck and left.

Within ten minutes, the truck arrived, and Mark, the nicest person since Gomer Pyle, had the Green Booger up, and the kids and me in his cab. Not only did he put the car in the first repair slot at a Pontiac dealership, and not only did he carry our luggage to the room, he spoke to the motel lady to make sure she didn't overcharge us. And he refused a tip. If kindness is its own reward, Mark the Tow Truck Driver is world's happiest man. If he's just being the way folks are in Statesville, God bless 'em all.

Needless to say, the problem was the timing belt, which took four hours and too many hundreds of dollars to replace. The dealership was kind, the motel was clean, the kids slept all night, and we were on our way by eleven. Remember Statesville, for it's a good place to break down.

We made the kids' house in Miami late the next night safely, and happy to be out of the car. I set out the next morning for Virginia, by way of Atlanta where I had an appointment at the Georgia State Archives to review the papers of the man who purchased the first official automobile for a President of the United States, Capt. Archibald Butt. The cars he bought were the greatest of the day, a 1909 White "M" steamer and two Pierce-Arrow limousines. The irony of the Green Booger taking me to view the Butt Papers was underwhelming.

Just across the Everglades, the car started to run hot. I stopped, started, and otherwise cursed my way another twenty miles to a small town by I-75, Brooksville. It was, of course, 5:05 p.m., and both garages were closing. At one, though, the nicest man that side of Statesville, kindly offered to run water through the radiator in the hope that the thermostat might "unstuck hisself." He was as certain this was the problem as he was that he wouldn't be able to get a new part for three days. We had a lovely chat about Taft's cars for an hour while the thermostat resisted the tickling. He told me to get as far as Exit 66, where there is an all-night garage. I made the fifteen miles in about two hours, and the car didn't blow up. It was pushing nine o'clock, and there was an open garage. The mechanic, not the friendliest guy I've met, agreed to have a look. While he got to work, I helped the lady in the convenience store stock the refrigerators with beer. We agreed that this was a thankless chore. After about forty minutes and having taken apart various things that looked like carburetors, radiator belts, and I haven't a clue what, the mechanic announced that the problem was the thermostat. But the real problem was that it could not be found. He told me to come back in the morning and ask for Al.

The motels were, of course all sold out, so I camped out at the local KOA, amidst the flickering blue lights of the RV's, and thankful for the children's insistence on bringing the tent. Up at six the next day, I went looking for some mechanic other than Al, all the while hoping his friend had actually put everything back at least in good enough order to get me to the next town. Just as the engine temperature gauge hit red, I glided into a Chevy dealership in the town of Wildwood. The garage manager showed up a few hours later, and promptly refused to work on the car. I was sent to a garage down the street. The manager showed up to work an hour later. Two hours after that, it was announced that the thermostat had been discovered. One problem, though: to get at it, the timing belt must be removed.

The garage happened to be the home of the nicest damned group of mechanics between Statesville, North Carolina, and Brooksville, Florida. While Louie cursed Korean engineers, the foreman, Jack, and I chatted about everything, from cars to politics to the local trees (Jack explained the difference between long and short needle pines, while Louie taught me all about live oaks, his favorite; Louie also told me that next time I get a new timing belt I should ask for a new thermostat at the same time). Despite a thin stock of Korean thermostats in Wildwood, Louie managed to find one that fit, albeit after some gentle persuasion. Jack and I, meanwhile, carried on our discussion of the deleterious social effects of deconstructed standards in modern film. They fed me lunch, two hotdogs and a burger, grilled out back. I was out of there by three that afternoon. The car managed to stay cool from there. If you ever break down in Florida, Wildwood is the place.

Unfortunately, this all happened on a Friday, so I was forced to cancel my appointment in Atlanta. I wandered over to I-95, and started my way directly back to Virginia. Driving alone now, I could better exercise suicidal tendencies, so I made good time, despite the complete jerk in a Lincoln who pulled one of those speed-up, slow-down routines whenever a fellow speeder in a minivan and I tried to pass. All the minivan guy and I could do was curse the bastard to each other in sign language. I managed to slide by at a vulnerable moment when the Lincoln tried to block the minivan and a third car by riding down the middle of the road. Past the lunatic, I sped onward.

Things went well from there. At least until halfway through Georgia, when the air vent started blowing what I suppose were remnants of air vent liner that flew like Styrofoam and smeared on me, the seats, and everything else like warm chocolate. I kinda don't want to know what it was. What didn't blow out on its own I extracted by shoving a gas station vacuum hose into the now-broken vents. But the engine stayed cool, and I got used to a new steering wheel vibration that turned to an outright flutter around eighty. I was relieved to find that over ninety the vibrations ceased as the engine wailed to the smoothness of its upper range.

Somewhere in South Carolina, a Honda in front of me blew a flat. I was feeling most empathetic with break downs, so I pulled over to help. She was not only gorgeous, but on her way to a modeling job somewhere North. Despite the shake in my arms, I managed to slip on the spare, although it occurred to me an hour later that I had not tightened the lug nuts all the way. OK, not only was I generally stunned by her beauty, but we were amidst an animated discussion about the Institute of Art collection in Detroit, which she happened to have visited the week before and which I admonished her for not having adequately surveyed -- she had missed the Georges Braque of a bicycle in the rain, his most stunning piece, so I kinda forgot to give the lug nuts a second turn after I put the car down. Off she went, while I walked back to my car. It didn't start. I had left on the ignition. It turns out that not even a new timing belt can keep charged a tired battery. Another nine minute wait and a cop pulled up to give me a jump, right on schedule. And, there was nothing in the news the next day about dead models, so I figure she made it to a garage.

All told, the trip went well, you see, for I never had to wait more than ten minutes for a tow truck, the cops were always helpful, none left me a bill for overly exuberant use of the roadways (when I think of it, I probably avoided tickets by breaking down, as each time it was within yards of a cop), and not a single mechanic ripped me off. In fact, everyone was downright considerate and purposelessly nice. Seems the scam artists have moved into the new economy and are too busy selling penny dot.com stocks to Lexus owners to bother with the feeble likes of me and my idiot car.

Above all, the kids got home safely. I thereby remain thankful for the four wheels, although I sure wish Pontiac had given it a more appropriate name. Something like, "LeMoins," perhaps?

- Bromley, August, 1999