Monday, October 15, 2012

That Gentle Touch

 
Pouting like a forgotten Valentine and stewing all alone, Cecilia (my 1997 Toyota Tercel CE), sat brooding on the roof of the parking structure at work, reflective sun-shield still held in place by her visors from the morning glare as the night swept dewily over The Valley.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I apologized profusely to my automobile.  “I thought we’d be done sooner, but camera-blocking took a long time, and we had FOUR pre-shoots!” I winced.  “I know it’s late, I know it is dark outside, but it’s not like I was carousing at a bar.  I had to work!” I explained logically.  And tossing my skull and crossbones backpack onto the passenger seat, I happened to notice that her right front tire seemed low on air pressure.

“Really?  You’re taking a passive/aggressive stance?” I sighed, knowing full well that I was facing a bumpy ride over the canyon into West Hollywood, wherein she would randomly give me the silent treatment and go all fuzzy with her radio.  Yet as if that weren’t quite enough, turning over her engine, Cecilia immediately blared a magnificently terrifying night-time orange “check engine” light (for the hundredth time in our relationship).
OH, FFS…

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Negotiating her successfully into our parking spot at the bat-cave, I let Cecilia know that we had a late call the next day (Friday), and that (fingers crossed with the love from my new ADs), I’d be out early enough to treat the old gal to a trip to Jiffy Lube. 

“You DO realize we were just there six months ago, and you haven’t even hardly been driven for the last four months (except to McDonalds Drive Thru, of course); so you’re welcome!” I snarked sarcastically, blowing a kiss to the slamming of her door.  “And turn off your ‘effing check engine’ light!” I stomped away petulantly, already feeling guilty for going to bed angry…
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Piling into my automobile at 9:30am, I couldn’t help but notice that Cecilia was still irate.  Clearly she had festered all night, and despite the cooler temperatures the following day, she continued to blare her garishly orange warning.
“I should be done with my sit-com today around 3ish, and I’d be happy to take you for a check-up” I attempted to appease my Toyota.  And only a few hours later, I returned to her side, to live up to my promises of taking care of my car.

With her “check engine” light off, her veins full of new oil, her other vital fluids (if you will) topped off, and her tire re-inflated to standard PSI, we tooled happily around the neighborhood together to run errands.
Oh, she was purring like a kitten!

And treating her with the respect of informing her that we were back to work Monday, and that we’d be headed over the canyon at 8am, Cecilia wheeled into our spot, gung-ho to prepare for the day after the weekend.
Now, odd as it may sound, we actually perform a Network/Producer Run-Thru on Mondays on my particular show, and as notes were being given, I was once again, lovingly released from the stage early that afternoon.  (!!!)  So with the soaring gas prices in Los Angeles (and gauging Cecilia’s belly at right about a half a tank full), I thought I’d continue the Glam Treatment of filling her up out of courtesy as part of my ongoing mea culpa.  (Plus, twenty bucks is waaay easier to stomach then coughing up $45 a pop if I waited any longer!)

Unfortunately however, approaching the pump, I made the classic stupid-girly mistake of not pulling ahead far enough to actually open the car door with a cement pole next to me.  And needing to move Cecilia one foot further, I attempted to turn over her engine which patently flat-lined in front of me.
WTF???

“I’m trying to fill up your tummy!” I pled to my automotive friend.  “What the heck?” I tried again and again and again.
Hmm…

I’d just bought her a new AAA car battery in June, so THAT shouldn’t be an issue…  And sure, she’d been mad at me for driving at night…  But, REALLY??? 
Was it my Fate to spend the rest of my days pinned inside an immobile Toyota, unable to escape lest I clamber over my purse and work bag out the passenger door, or suffer debilitating paralysis in all manner of an imminent frenzied-panic-attack attempting to dial 911 and be extracted by the Jaws of Life??? 

But trying ONE LAST TIME, she cranked up properly, and allowed me to motor her carriage ahead before I shut down her ignition.  “How much more love can I give you?” I sighed to her, pushing the button on the pump to print out our receipt.  And hopping back into the driver’s seat, I nearly wept as Cecilia once again, dramatically REFUSED to budge.
Plodding into the gas station attendant’s bullet-proof cubicle, I hung my head in shame as I attempted to explain the awkward situation of my Diva refusing to move.  “I just filled up my tank, but my car withered and died.  I have AAA roadside assistance, so I hope you can bear with me as my car is stuck there at your pump until they arrive?”

“It died right here?” he restrained a giggle.  “No worries!” he laughed at the irony of an automobile taking its last breath at a Service Station.
Oh bother…!

But blanketed by the ongoing Protection of my Mom and Dad in Indiana, I whipped out my AAA card to request some help.  All I had to do was call Triple A, remind them that I had bought a car battery from them in June, and wait patiently for a truck to arrive to make Cecilia “Go”.
Unfortunately, as I’m still painfully challenged by the technology of my new cell phone, it took me about 15 minutes to figure out how to dial a number that doesn’t currently exist in my “contacts” file.  So, pulling out my AAA card, I slid my QWERTY board open to access numbers, dialed the number on the keyboard, made it to Step Two of declaring that I was not in the area of Indiana or Illinois, slid my QWERTY shut, vocally declared that I was in fact in California, narrowed it down to West Hollywood (ooh, I was on a roll!!!), and even ALMOST made it to the next step, until I was asked to type “1” or “2” for a specific service.  And sliding out the QWERTY once again, I apparently accidentally hung up.

AWW, C’MON!!!!!!
Second time around, I got so far as to enter my whole AAA number (leave the QWERTY out!  Leave the QWERTY out!), and was promised a tow –truck driver (should Cecilia need more than a jump) within a half an hour.

And THIRD time around, I was notified that the AAA driver was behind schedule, and may not arrive for yet another half an hour.
Meanwhile, plopped on my ass on a curb in the shade of the gas station sign, I nursed my Diet Coke from work and contemplated lighting up a frustrated ciggy.  But playing the scenario out in my head as the entire block exploding from gas fumes, I thought better of the idea…  And eventually seeing the AAA tow truck make his way into the lot, I waved cheerily to the driver to direct him to my car.

“Tell me what happens” he queried (with a German accent?) from his rolled-down window, eyeballing Cecilia.  And explaining her erratic behavior to him, he demanded I surrender her keys, to which she apparently immediately felt the Life Force of Dr. Frankenstein turning over her engine on the very first try.
“What the Hell?” I blathered.

“Ze car has a bad starter.  Take it to mechanic and replace” he dismissed me, heading back to his truck.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, can you at the very least pop the hood and show me what you’re talking about?” 

“I do zis all day, every day.  I KNOW ze bad starter.”  And with that, he was off.
NEVERTHELESS, Cecilia’s engine was running, and despite mundane errands (why aren’t they ever finished?), I drove her immediately to my visit my friend Jose; a brilliant mechanic whom I’ve known for over twenty years, and who has never ONCE tried to sell me anything that I (or my car) doesn’t absolutely need.

“What’s up, Pen!” he smiled as we hugged each other warmly. 
“I guess Cecilia needs a new starter…” I patted her hood affectionately, re-telling the tales of the day, credit card at the ready.

“Well, let me listen to her” he smiled (Cecilia’s very own Cardiologist!), taking a seat and stopping/starting her about twenty times with different configurations of her gear shifts.  “Let me pop her hood and have a look too” he added, double checking all of her connections.  And hopping again into her driver’s seat to confirm his suspicions, Jose assuaged all possible worries.
“Her starter sounds REALLY great, and Toyotas – even the older models – are seriously hard to beat!  She may have become a bit temperamental with age (as we all are! (he laughed!)), but let me show you a little trick” Jose pointed out.  “And I won’t even let you leave until you prove that you can do it” he added protectively.  “Go to start your car” he advised (as I did so).

“The next time Cecilia doesn’t start immediately, pull up the emergency brake, turn the key until all the dashboard lights are on, and then slide her gear into “Neutral”.  Now, put one finger on her gear shift and without touching the button, nudge it less than a teeny tiny space backwards as you twist the ignition.
“VAROOM!” Cecilia purred once again.  (Who the fuck knew a car could start in Neutral???)

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Glomming on to my friend Tara at work (decades younger than me), I picked her brain for some technological advice should I find myself in any more precarious situations wherein I can’t figure out how to use my stupid/smart cell phone.

“Let me use your phone to call mine, then we’ll see if you can access a number pad on the touch screen to type in information or if it just locks up again, and whether or not you DO need to use the QWERTY” she fiddled patiently.  “OK, here’s you calling, which I’m gonna ignore.  Try answering the call, and then find the touch screen.”
And in yet another frenzied-panic-attack, I hit miscellaneous buttons and screens which seemed to accidentally erase all of my “contacts”.  CRAP!!!!!  Yet with two gentle slidey-tappy flicks of her index finger, Tara effortlessly restored my “contacts” to the main menu, as well as showed me how to edit my “home page”, which I’ve now proudly managed to include my setting for “tools” and my alarm clock!  HURRAY!!!

Oh, once again, my world began to make sense!
Wheeling Cecilia into the parking structure at work for yet another lengthy day of camera-blocking, I parked her on the fifth level at 7:10am, and respectfully informed her that I probably wouldn’t be done for the day until later that evening.  “No pouting!  I’m hoping to be finished around 8pm” I reminded her, blowing a small kiss to the sound of the shutting car door.

And with love in my heart, I tackled a particularly difficult day at work (my Gorgeous Actress occasionally unavailable), as our Director playfully batted me around the stage like a puppy chew toy as he contemplated camera options.  “Let’s try her over here” he postulated, as I scampered across the set.  “No, that won’t work for the next joke, so let’s try setting it with her at the upstage chair” he mulled as I scampered once again.   “Well now, she doesn’t have enough room for her exit line to herself!” our Director flustered as I stood patently docile and quiet.
Quite frankly, I didn’t give a crap if he made me do back-flips through a burning hoop whilst balancing a ball on my nose; because I had the distinct honor of performing a scene THREE times with none other the fabulous Florence Henderson.  (!!!)

And positively walking on air at yet another childhood dream come to fruition (I got to act with “Mrs. Brady”!  I got to act with “Mrs. Brady”!), I slid with all due buoyancy in Cecilia’s driver’s seat (uh-oh… sometime after 9pm…).

AWW, C’MON!!!!!!

For now, however, I think we’ve made peace.
Sure, Cecilia continued to pout as we headed to the bank the next day.  And yes, she blared her orange warning all the way Smart and Final for diet 7-Up; but pulling into the comfort of underground parking at Target, I stuffed her trunk with two bags full of delightful Halloween décor to upgrade my happy bat-cave; as well as one small  “Valentine” for Cecilia, who happily turned off her “check engine” light.

Remembering that a touch of kindness goes a long way,
~Gentle P

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