666!

If you’re new to my blog and haven’t been properly introduced to my 1999 VenJetta, then you might consider going back and catching up on our adventures before reading this post. But if you’re short on time, all you really need to know is that 1999, if you turn it upside down, is pretty much 666, with an exclamation point.

Let’s press on, shall we?

Things have been going well for me, in general. I have a new job, a reasonably priced cat, and a mild-mannered apartment. My days have been mostly enjoyable with a 40% chance of idyllic, and my mood has been generally merry. Lately, I’d even let my feelings toward the VenJetta teeter on tolerable, and I began to think she felt the same way.

Now, looking back, I suspect this delusion was probably my first mistake, because the VenJetta can smell complacency the way sharks can smell blood and children can smell quiet.

Friday morning dawned at roughly two degrees below zero, the coldest it’s been all winter. I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but the VenJetta awoke to the cold with the sort of mischievous determination that only comes with a rare opportunity to land a devastating blow to your greatest enemy. In the early morning chill, the car planned her day while I puttered about my apartment, getting ready for work, oblivious to what was in store.

The drive to work was uneventful. The car was quiet. It was thinking, plotting, smiling.

I have half-days every Friday (I know you hate me, stop sending emails), so when I left work at 12:30, I was in good spirits. As I drove to my salon for a hair appointment, I was even humming a little bit. My tune stopped abruptly in my throat when I realized I had no power steering or brakes.

A couple of things happen when you realize you’re encased in several thousand pounds of glass and metal, traveling forward at an alarming velocity, and all options you may have once had to change the trajectory or speed of your travel have suddenly been taken away. First, you regret having ever taken those options for granted. Second, you analyze the situation with a lengthy inner monologue.

In my case, my thoughts did not begin with, “Oh, no! What could possibly be wrong with my vehicle?” No, my thoughts were: “Well, that’s it. Things have been too good. She doesn’t like seeing me this happy, with my life coming together. The ornery bitch has decided it’s time to put me in my place, and remind me who wears the Turtle Wax in this relationship. I hope that Explorer in front of me turns, because I’m young, and I haven’t climbed Mt. Everest yet.”

Putting both hands and all my weight on the wheel, I wrestled the Nasty Beast of Passive Aggressive Vehicular Manslaughter to the side of the road, and eventually was able to coast into a parking lot. The dashboard warning lights were blinking in an exasperatingly cheerful rhythm. I put both feet on the brake pedal and pushed as hard as I could, barely stopping the car’s forward momentum before the engine’s whine dwindled into pathetic silence. As I sat there, I looked around and took stock of the situation. I was sitting in front of a bank, blocking their driveway, utterly immobile. The VenJetta was now incapable of starting, turning, or stopping, and so had become a very large paperweight with no heat and an unfortunate sense of humor. The cold started to seep in almost immediately, and I began to hate life.

Coincidentally, my mother happened to be in town, and a quick phone call to her assured my rescue before my fingers froze to the steering wheel and broke off. Another phone call to AAA (who should really be receiving Christmas cards from me by now, and perhaps a nice cheese log) decided the fate of the car, which was towed somewhere. Anywhere. I don't care where, but it would be a nice bonus if it employs a compactor. I wasn’t as angry or upset as you might imagine. I was resigned, and a little tired, because the car has destroyed my soul.

I’ve decided the VenJetta does not need a mechanical overhaul, or even a stern talking-to. It needs a priest. Preferably one whose resume includes several qualified exorcisms and a fluency in German. An exorcism, while dramatic and initially terrifying, might just free the vehicle from whatever demon calls itself Car-ma. The procedure will take place in a darkened garage, with several hooded clergymen holding bibles and tire irons. Holy water will be poured into the radiator, a crucifix and a clove of garlic will be hung from the rear-view mirror, and several “Got Jesus?” bumper stickers will be slapped onto the fender while I sit in the corner and cry, “There must be another way!” A sudden wind will howl through the garage, the VenJetta’s rear-view mirror will start spinning around, the muffler will spew pea soup, and coolant will bleed from the walls. The car alarm will go off, but it will sound disturbingly low-pitched. Several well-meaning priests will not make it, but in the end, the howling wind will subside, and the Check Engine light will finally—finally!—turn off.

Still, I don’t hold out much hope, because if there’s one thing Stephen King has taught me, it’s that the car always wins. Well, that and never trust a clown, but I already knew that.