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…
>>><<<
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…
>>><<<
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???)
>>><<<
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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