First thing Thursday morning I took my car to the service department of my local Chevy dealer because my check engine light came on a few days earlier and it refused to shut off. Now I know what you’re thinking. You never take your car to be serviced at the dealer. They charge too much. And you would be absolutely right. The problem is that when it happened around the same time last year and I took it to my mechanic, they couldn’t shut it off. In what must surely be a conspiracy, the car had to be put on a machine that only the dealer has and I had no choice but to take it there. The bitch of it is I knew it was the gas tank cap because that’s what it was last year. And, come to think of it, the year before that. But what can I do? I had to get it shut off. I am convinced the dealer programs it to act up to insure they get my business at least once a year.  

Sure enough when I picked it up later that afternoon, it turned out to be the gas tank cap. It was warped and needed to be replaced. The grand total was $80.59. $14.00 for the cap and $65.00 for labor plus tax. I couldn’t help but think when I saw the labor charge for that price I could’ve purchased four and a half more gas caps. I mean how labor intensive is it to put on a cap that it cost $65.00? I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t need windshield wipers too or else I may have had to dip into my 401K. Anyway, I paid my bill, waited for them to get my car, waited for them to get my car some more, and yet still waited for them to get my car. After I finally got it, bid them adieu, and drove off the lot, the check engine light came on again. I did a quick U-turn, took it back, waited another half hour or so, got it back again, drove it off again, and the light came on again. Apparently, $65.00 worth of labor isn’t what it used to be.

I took it back and they told me they would keep it overnight and work on it tomorrow. The service manager offered me a rental car. Now let me explain something. I live literally three minutes away from the dealer. I’m not working so I don’t need a car because I don’t go anywhere. Even if I did need to go somewhere, my wife works from home so I could always use her car. But there I was surrounded by cars and couldn’t resist. What if they gave me a cool SUV? Finally I could embrace the LA lifestyle! Better yet, what if they gave me a Corvette? Even if it was a used one, it would still look cool in my parking space going nowhere. So I said yes and was told it would be a few minutes. I anxiously waited to see what cool car would pull up knowing most likely it would be a mini-van but still I held onto the fantasy.

A few minutes later, it wasn’t a car that pulled up to me but a guy. He told me to follow him to his little white car and get in. At first, I figured he didn’t realize I was from the East Coast and didn’t mind walking a few feet and was driving me to the part of the lot where they kept the rental cars. Instead, we drove off the lot. Where were we going? Was he ordered by the service manager to drive me to the LA basin to meet a grizzly demise? Had they found out about all those oil changes at Jiffy Lube with their money saving coupons and were finally getting their revenge?

I was a little confused when he asked who would be paying for the rental and I said the dealer. He informed me he would have to fill out the paperwork as if I was paying for it, use my credit card for the security deposit, and it would all be taken off when I returned the car. It was at that moment I realized what was happening. We were going to the rent-a-car place a few blocks away. There would be no glamorous SUV. No living the dream. No contributing my fair share of pollution to LA's air. No getting the chance to waste  oil inadvertently letting the terrorists win. Alas, there would also be no sexy, cool Corvette sitting in my parking spot tomorrow. Nope. I had been through this before and knew a Ford Focus was surely in my future. When we got to the rent-a-car place, I apologized and told the guy I had changed my mind and wouldn’t need the car after all. Nothing kills the buzz of a car fantasy more than hearing the words “paperwork” and “your credit card.”

I called my wife and asked her if she could pick me up. I said I would meet her at the 7-11 across the street from the rent-a-car place. I haven’t had a Slurpee since I was about twelve so I decided to relive my youth and go buy one. When I arrived at the machine, I discovered things had changed in the world of Slurpee. There were no cherry or blueberry flavors. That polar bear was nowhere to be found. No superheroes were on the cups. Instead, the cups were clear and boring and my choices were all soda flavors. Being a Coke drinker, the choice was obvious. Despite the fact I remembered not liking the Coke flavored Slurpee when I was a kid because it tasted like Coke when it was stale, I took a chance. Besides, none of the other flavors appealed to me. Not to worry though. This was the 21^st Century. Surely, with the advent of fax machines, cell phones, and the Mars rover, Slurpee technology must also have advanced. Unfortunately, I discovered it had not. It still tasted like stale Coke. Although as someone who doesn’t really like change, I must admit I was amused by the irony.

As I stood outside waiting for my wife, drinking my stale Coke Slurpee (hell, I paid for it, what else could I do?), another customer got into his car. Or rather eased into his car with a painful grimace on his face. He told me he injured his back and his entire right side hurt down to his leg. I said I knew how he felt cause I have arthritis and my lower back and entire left leg bother me every once in a while. We both agreed the pain was excruciating. After he drove away, I thought to myself: A few months ago, I was walking on the Warner Bros. lot enjoying all the perks of being an employee (even if I did hate my job) while dreaming of where on the lot my production company would be one day. And now here I was: unemployed, standing outside of a 7-11 sipping a Slurpee, waiting for a ride while discussing aches and pains with a stranger. What next? Would I be standing out here next month with a shopping cart full of cans giving some smelly guy pointers on where the best dumpsters were? All the while thinking, “This time last month, I could’ve been driving a Ford Focus.” Luckily, before I could reach maximum freak out worrying that I was turning into a cautionary tale, my wife arrived.

Later as I was deducting the amount from my checking account for my car that still wasn’t fixed, something on the bill caught my eye. In a box on the left side was a list of services recommended by the dealer along with their estimated charges. The first thing on the list was “Have A Nice Day…..1000.00.”  Obviously, this had to be a printing glitch. But then I thought, what if it wasn’t?  Even though money can’t buy happiness, was it possible that my dealer’s service department—the same service department that would end up taking two days to finally shut off my check engine light once and for all (well, at least until next year)—could provide you a nice day for a thousand bucks?  And if so, did that include labor?