| Thursday, June 16, 2005 |
21:12 - Out of my way! I'm a motorist!
|
(top)  |
This is a continuation of the saga begun here and continued here. If I didn't know better, I'd think there might be a pattern starting to form.
The current cavalcade of whimsy began when I got my clutch replaced at Midas, last Thursday. In the process, they checked to see why the power outlet in the trunk wasn't working, and in so doing apparently yanked out the stereo from the dashboard, unplugged it, and crammed it back in, damaging it in the process so that the faceplate no longer fits on snugly and immovably. I guess they figured I'd never notice; who turns on their stereo system in this day and age, honestly?
So I then took it to the smog place to get the smog check done for the registration renewal. On the way home from work after that, I noticed that the Check Engine light was on. This, I discovered after having Bob Lewis (the dealership) look at it, was because of a faulty mass airflow sensor—something the smog check apparently didn't test for. (It gave me a perfect bill of health.) So Bob Lewis set about fixing it, for an estimated $450 all told, parts and labor. I can handle that. I can rationalize that. $450? Why, that's a mere three months of bandwidth, or a paltry four months of cable. I've still got lots of cash from the latest book. It's all good.
I should know better than to expect that the initial estimate will ever be the whole story, though. They called me up on Tuesday to tell me that in test-driving the Jetta around the auto mall after installing the new mass airflow sensor, they got more engine fault codes blipping up—which turned out to be misfires from the ignition coil unit. (Which, of course, reminds me of those aviation repair zingers: Problem—Number 3 engine missing. Solution—Engine found on right wing after brief search.) My new service advisor, "Matt", called me up and told me the unfortunate news: a new part that cost $500 would have to be ordered and shipped up from LA; I would have no use of my car until Thursday. Oh, and by the way, the stereo's fixed—Midas unplugged it and broke the faceplate, the morons. But the rear power outlet is fixed, at least—it was never plugged in by the factory, so it would seem.
I resigned myself to this new reality: not $450, but more like $950 plus a bunch of extra labor hours—call it $1200 and I'd be lucky to get out of there. I did some poking around, found an aftermarket VR6 ignition coil pack for $302, called Matt, told him about it, gave the okay to go with an aftermarket part if he could get a hold of it and it was cheaper. Taking whatever shortcuts I can glean, here.
I drove Lance's car to work on Wednesday. Then, this morning, I called Bob Lewis to verify that the car was done—it was—and had him drop me off at the dealership, where I finalized paperwork and paid the final bill: $968. Hey, less than four figures—a pleasant surprise! "Now, we did over eight hours of work on your car," Matt told me with a conspiratorial smile, "but we're only charging you for four. Well, three, actually, when you consider that we didn't charge you anything to investigate this window problem you reported or to fix the rattling thing in the armrest." I agreed, that certainly sounded like he was giving me few causes for complaint. I had them drive the car out so I could look at the stereo faceplate before I handed over my money; they amiably agreed, and I found that it was seated quite firmly—you could move it up and down a little, but just pressing buttons you'd never shift it. It was pretty clear to me at this point that Midas was wholly at fault for breaking the stereo, and I couldn't fault Bob Lewis for anything. At last! Out of all these service places, at least I can be sure that one has treated me right the whole time... or at least has only given me cause for suspicion and circumstantial evidence for failures that could just as easily have been one of the other place's fault, which I could never prove.
You see where I'm going with this, perhaps.
I got in the car and started it up. Sounded great. Shifted into gear nicely (I'm still basking in the joy of a new clutch). I pulled out onto the expressway, U-turned, got onto Guadalupe and then onto 85, and headed to work. I got off 85 at Stevens Creek and pulled up at the first stop light.
That's when I noticed that the idle speed was wrong.
It's supposed to be 700. On the Jetta, especially the silky VR6, 700 rpm is just about silent—I can barely tell the car is running and hasn't stalled out. It's a beauty at idle. But not today... because the car was idling at 1000 rpm. Which, coincidentally enough, happens to be the harmonic frequency of the VR6 engine block. So now it's noisy and wobbly and I feel the vibrations traveling up the gearshift lever into my forearms, and the needle is buffeted around the vicinity of the 1000 rpm mark as the vibrations kick up stronger and back off, batting the engine back and forth across the spine of the complementary waveforms.
I pulled in to the parking garage and went to my cubicle. I called up Matt and got his voicemail; I left a message noting that the idle speed seemed to be set too high. Was this because they'd reset the engine computer while installing the ignition coil pack, and it was now tuned for Jet-A fuel? Was it because they'd put on the wrong part, the one for the R32 or something? I didn't know, but it sure didn't seem right for the idle to be right on the harmonic frequency—there's no way they'd do that on purpose. Right?
No calls had arrived by lunchtime, and all the other guys decided to go to the Chinese place, so I was left behind to forage for myself. I got in the car and started it up. There was a slight hiccup as it started, but nothing to worry about, surely. I noticed, before leaving the garage, that the idle speed was back down to 700—oh good! So that's all taken care of, then. Jolly.
How charmingly naïve we can be sometimes, eh?
I drove down Bandley and up toward Stelling. After about three minutes I noticed with some consternation that the engine was idling at 1000 rpm again; apparently the gremlin of the ECU had not departed after all, and only required a certain amount of engine heat to prod him to liveliness. Ah well, so it's idling at 1000. Whatever.
But then I pulled into the drive-thru at Taco Bell. Sitting motionless in the line, waiting to give my order, shifter in neutral and clutch out, suddenly I notice that my instrument cluster was full of weird red shapes. Warning lights.
"Welcome to KFC/Taco Bell. May I take your order?"
"Uh, just a second. You seeing this?"
The seat belt light was on. The ABS light was on. The hell? I checked my belt; it was securely fastened. I checked the brakes; nothing happened to the light. My seatback was in the fully locked and upright position. All cigarettes were extinguished. And yet these mysterious lights were glaring at me. And, as I watched in numb silence, the ABS light began to blink on and off.
Then the seatbelt light went off. Then the ABS light went on solid again for a second, then started to blink faster than before, once or twice, then went off.
My car is haunted!
I bought the most occult-repellent items on the "Mexican-inspired" menu and picked them up at the window, staring at the instruments. No lights showed their faces; only the engine continued to judder and putt along at 1000 rpm. I drove back to work and parked.
Back in my cubicle, I talked to automotive necromancer CapLion, who told me to go back out to the garage and pop the hood and check a variety of possibly loose electrical connections. Unfortunately, the VR6, being crammed into the engine bay through the magic of Teutonic cylinder placement that lets you fit six cylinders into a hole made for four, exists under a carapace of plastic that pretty much obscures the entirety of the engine bay, eliminating any chance of even seeing such things as the wires leading from the radiator to the engine or from the battery to the alternator or the vacuum hoses leading to the throttle body, much less checking them for loose connections. All I could do, really, was poke at things with an index finger and note that they were hot. "Hmmm," I said to myself, rubbing my chin sagely.
I made a couple more calls to Bob Lewis, trying to get a hold of Matt and tell him of the new developments that had occurred, which would surely be of interest to him, especially considering that I am sort of planning on driving this car to San Diego on Friday afternoon, if he doesn't mind. But he hadn't called back in response to my initial message, and he was still away from his desk. I asked the service department receptionist to take down a message to have a service advisor—any service advisor—call me back pronto to tell me whether I should worry about the car abruptly dying on me somewhere in the middle of the Central Valley, most likely at Coalinga where the stench of cattleyards overpowers anyone not hermetically sealed into an air-conditioned car cabin.
Finally, just before 6:00, Matt called me back. I told him the whole story that had transpired at Taco Bell. He made clueless sorts of noises that belied his earlier seeming conversance with all things potentially odd in JettaWorld. "You say the seatbelt light was on. Was your seatbelt buckled up?" Uh, yes. "Sometimes when the engine needs to kick on certain systems, like the air conditioner, the revs can drop for a second or two, then come back up to speed." Well, true, but that's not what's happening—the engine is at a normal 700 rpm idle for the first three minutes of the drive, then shifts up to a 1000 rpm idle. "Ah. Hmm."
He advised me, in his expert opinion, to bring it in in the morning if I was really worried about it, but that it was probably okay to drive to San Diego. Well, phew. Now I can rest easy. And lo, it's 7:00 now. Time to go home.
I go out to the car and sit down in the driver's seat. I put in the key. I turn it. It goes COUGH... and stops. Nothing.
The battery is totally dead.
Now I am seriously unamused. I call up Bob Lewis—by this time of night there's only a single on-call person to take questions and appointments—and ask if it's okay to bring in my car and leave it there overnight, because if I get a jumpstart I'm not about to drive it home and go through this all again tomorrow morning, because there's clearly a short somewhere, or at least a gremlin that feeds on electrical energy and might escape from the car into my computer at home or something. She says that's totally fine. I get Kris to give me a jump, and I drive to Bob Lewis, high-revving the engine on every shift to make sure I don't kill the engine and strand myself on the side of the freeway with a dead battery. (Kris left the parking garage right after I did and tailed me all the way to the Guadalupe exit, for which I have no doubt he'll be rewarded with karma points or other valuable spiritual prizes.) I fill out a statement of My Royal Displeasure, write a big fat 0 in the "Amount approved for repair" space, seal my keys inside, and get ready to leave with Lance, who's met me there.
But who should still be there, burning the midnight oil, but Becky?
I couldn't resist. I went over to her desk, where she was chatting with the on-call person, whom I asked where I should turn in the night-owl envelope with my key in it. She pointed to the slot outside. And Becky took the bait: "I didn't expect to see you back here so soon!"
And I regaled her with a condensed version of the story. This time I could afford to be dismissive and a little magnanimous, because it was painfully clear that this time—instead of the first, where the brake fluid flush may in fact have been done as claimed, or the second, where maybe Bob Lewis broke the stereo faceplace or maybe Midas did—it was pretty damn cut-and-dried that whereas I had given Bob Lewis a working car with a working electrical system, what they'd given me back was a big sparking pile of crap. Becky's face was gray and wooden. There were no sneers of condescension this time. There was no attempt at passing of blame. It was all she could do to turn a wan smile in my direction and tiredly promise that if they found anything wrong—and I knew they would—I'd know by noon.
It's anybody's guess whether the car will be in any shape to drive to San Diego tomorrow. I'll call in the morning and see if there have been any developments. But in the meantime, I can't help but notice that this makes three consecutive car repair places that have, in the process of trying to fix or verify one thing, succeeded in breaking something else. I'm beginning to wonder what chance I'd even have if I knew what made all these mysterious car parts work together—they seem hell-bent on thwarting me at every turn, no matter how hard I work to head them off physically and psychologically. This game is just too intricate for the likes of me.
I'll stick to installing Windows 2000. It's less aggravation.
|
|
Brian Tiemann
