My husband and I use tow trucks the way people use public transportation.
Sunday he got the big-truck ride, while I got a ride home with a friend, after a pleasant outing in Point Defiance Park. We had been walking around looking at daffodils, and watching a seagull drag a crab from the Sound onto the rocks, hail his mate with a loud, high-frequency croak, and stab the crab to death while his mate demurred. The two gulls feasted together from there. My car’s water pump gave up the ghost a few blocks from the park, throwing the serpentine belt, and locking the power steering. Three water pumps in seven years isn’t very many. . . .
Wednesday, I took the towing receipt to my insurance agent and picked up a reimbursement check. From there, I headed for a yarn shop knitting session. Passing through a construction zone, I heard the deafening vibratory roar of a jackhammer. Oddly, I saw no jackhammer. Oddly, the sound didn’t abate when I left the construction zone. Oddly, the sound escalated when I accelerated and disappeared when I stopped. Oddly, it sounded like something that would get me a ride home on a tow truck. And it did.
When my husband came home, he determined that some bolts on the water pump were loose, a condition in which they should not have come in a sealed assembly configuration. He tightened them and the jackhammer went away.
My Buick is sweet 16, and in its seven years and 48,000 miles with me, it’s been indulged with a new transmission, new anti-lock brakes, a new computer, three water pumps, two batteries, two sets of tires, and regular oil changes. It’s been a good car. The seat springs are sprung and the shocks are on their way to flatland.
“This time can we please skip the “runs good” ads and get a real car, like with a warranty, and brakes, and a transmission and everything?”
He agrees. . . .the search is on, but we’re skipping the “runs good” ads.