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From Nov. 8, 2000 |
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Our Audrey Earns Her Reputation As A Renowned Lemon Collector
By
AUDREY YEAGER
of TheColumnists.com
A TIPPLING car salesman once told me in a moment of " weakness"
that the public pays thousands of extra dollars just for the
privilege of purchasing certain new cars. According to him the
act of signing on the dotted line and driving off in one causes
the estimated resale price to drop like a sack of lead. Typical
of someone in his condition, he then turned stubborn and refused
to reveaI to me just which automobiles these were. With this
in mind, and because of a predisposition toward frugality, I
long ago settled down to driving used cars--"other people's
problems" as my dad used to say.
Since
then, I've spent a great deal of time trying to make sure my
purchases didn't have too many of those "other people's
problems." And "trying" is the key word there.
As the owner of 10 automobiles over a period of two years, I
claim some expertise in the matter of used cars. Disgusting familiarity
with the idiosyncrasies of various machines at emergency roadside
stops and in the midst of freeway traffic has produced one advantage:
Their inner workings are no longer a total mystery to me.
For
instance, it is not a good sign when the engine won't turn over.
I also recognize the significance of blue smoke pouring from
the rear end. I am also not clueless as to the implications when
the brake pedal goes to the floor as I start down a long grade
behind a couple of logging trucks.
Any of those events is a good indication I'll soon be attempting
to perform "Mission Impossible." Translation: visiting
a car lot to purchase a vehicIe that will run for a fair amount
of time after its 30 day warranty instead of just 30 days
plus one hour.
Car lots are full of temptations. There are nearly always a couple
of automobiles from one of my fantasies. They can paint anything
candy-apple red and I definitely will sit in it for a few minutes.
Any old Porsche, alive or gasping its last, forces me to a test
drive. And a 1963 Corvette would have me caressing my checkbook.
EventualIy a choice will be made. At least once I have been known
to drive away in a conservative ride like a stately Lincoln Continental
with too many years and not enough repairs under its hood, which
is sort of like its owner. A short stop at the bank for a loan
to fill the gas tank and I'm all set. Then, no matter what kind
of a car it is, I'll head for an auto parts store to buy a little
scented green tree to hang over my rear-view mirror.
I know
the program. It's always the same. The overpowering stench of
lemons grows stronger with each mile travelled away from the
lot. Before too many days have passed and our inevitable parting
draws near, the Lincoln will have ballooned into a giant yellow
citrus fruit.
Sometimes my automobile's mechanical insufficiencies are common
occurrences like everybody else's. But, unless you have had a
squirrel breathe his last inside your rusted-out catalytic converter,
my problems are uniquely peculiar. I am a regular at most local
vehicuIar "fruit stands"--the ones that specialize
in lemons.
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Wait until you see the lemon-colored Porsche we just got in! This time we'll throw in two dead squirrels!" |
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One incident that could have proven deadly came about during the first rain storm after purchasing car #7. What a downpour! I switched on the wipers and the one on the passenger side worked fine. The one I needed made a couple of sluggish attempts and then flew off and knocked a passing dog out cold.
What about the warranty? Get real.
My family is so sure I draw these incidents to myself through some messed-up personal magnetic field I have a tough time getting a loaner in between automobiles. I suppose their concerns are understandable after the whole electrical system burned out in the Dodge. But how they figure I could have induced a squirrel to build a nest in my catalytic converter, I have no idea.
Once my daughter-in-law actually gave me her own trouble-free car. She was hoping I would be able to keep it on the road for some time before the miasma that apparently hung about me like a shroud had a chance to taint the innards. A few weeks later I was coming home about midnight on a lonely country road when I glanced down and saw the temperature gauge pegged on HOT. I didn't have a cell phone with me and there was no way I was going to stop out in the middle of nowhere. I kept going, praying ferventIy all the way. Someone must have seen the flames shooting from beneath the car as I came through our small town heading for my driveway. The fire engines got there the same time as I did. Scratch one almost-new Horizon.
My last car was a small blue pick-up, the cutest little thing you would ever want to see. It ran like the proverbial top until two days after D-day, meaning Don't Even Ask About the Warranty. There was an awful clanking sound coming from underneath the truck. I stopped, got out and leaned down to see what I could see. I saw copious amounts of lemon juice (some might call it oil), dripping onto the ground.
After limping the pick-up home I caught a bus and headed for the nearest automotive fruit stand. During the short ride I thought seriously about considering a new car. Mmmm. A real possibility. Maybe next time.
© 2000 by Audrey Yeager. The cartoons are from IMSI's Master/Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA 94901-5506, USA.
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