“I wasn’t going to bring her in. It’s been like that for a while, and she drives fine.”
“Hmmm. Oh dear. Hang on.” The mechanic reached further under the hood and his face disappeared from view.
“What is it?” I peered over, trying to see what he was straining with.
“Have you ever had someone refill the transmission?” he said, his face appearing from the depths of the engine compartment.
“No, no. I can’t say I have.”
“Hmmm. Something odd is going on here.” The mechanic rubbed an eyebrow below his furrowed brow, and stood silent for a minute, before walking towards his office. “Let me just call a transmission specialist.”
I stood looking at my car, and eavesdropped the telephone conversation. I couldn’t make out many of the words; they were too technical. The words I caught suggested replacement, transplants, and overhauls. I was worried about the implications, but knew that I’d be taken care of – I had a mechanical insurance policy on the car that was still current. There would still be trauma to the car, but she’d soon forget.
The mechanic returned and told me that I shouldn’t drive the car – but that I should call the transmission guy immediately for him to take a look at it.
“I told him what I’ve seen, and it’s probably going to need a rebuild.”
“Oh right, thanks. I’m glad I brought it in.”
“It was a good job you did. You’d cause some major damage if you continue to drive like that.”
So, that’s what happened today. Substitute “Raz” for “car”, “hand” for “transmission”, and you’ve got the picture. He broke two fingers on Saturday at Transformus. He’s now on Vicadin. Maybe he’ll need surgery. We find out tomorrow.