The warning light winked at me from the dashboard like a small, evil eye. My car, Scarlett, so called because she’s small, red and always demands her own way, had developed a problem. Somehow, she must have sensed that there were only three payments left on her. Never, ever congratulate yourself about something like that. It never fails to anger the evil car gods.

In my mind, I’d already begun finding ways to use that extra $290.06 that I’d have each month. Bad move! I made the mistake of saying it aloud. You’d think I would have noticed Scarlett’s high beams blinking out a message to the heavens—“Quick, I’ll be paid for, she’ll take me for granted. That money will be spent on something besides me!”

I frowned at the red light on the control panel again, that little figure of a car battery with the plus and minus signs. I grabbed the owner’s manual and looked it up. Oh no! It was an electrical problem!

Now, I know precious little about cars. I mean I can drive and I know how to put in gas and oil. I’ve even been known to wash my car every year or so, whether she needs it or not. However, this was way over my head. And up until 2004, I would have taken it straight home to my husband, handed him the keys and the manual, and pleaded for him to fix it. Of course, that would have been a waste of time, since he only knew marginally more than I do about cars, and he hated working on them anyway. But, he would have handled getting it repaired.

Trouble was, he wasn’t around anymore to help me with things like this. He had gone to that great Super Bowl Sunday in the sky, and I was alone with the responsibility of car repairs. So, after I came home and parked Scarlett, I sat in the car hyperventilating and yelling “Why me? Why now?” And believe me, that’s not an easy feat, while hyperventilating.

Then I remembered taking Scarlett to an auto shop not far from home, for her annual inspection, just a couple of months back. So, the next morning, armed with my credit card and holding my breath all the way for fear the car would simply stop, I headed to the auto shop. It’s true I had gotten her started, but I had no assurances that she would continue to run until I got to my destination.

I let out a great sigh of relief when I pulled into the auto shop parking lot. A very nice, friendly man greeted me at the front door and asked how he could help me. I wanted to dash over, thrust my car keys into his hands and whimper, “Car broken, please fix!” I forced myself to be calm, and explain evenly and slowly what Scarlett’s problem was.

Twenty minutes later, I had the good, the bad, and the ugly news. It was—oh no! (The music builds here)—the ALTERNATOR! Translation: “She’s not getting enough juice Lady.”
“Ah-h-h, I see.” I didn’t, but I continued to nod knowingly.

That was the bad news. The good news? “I can have her fixed in an hour, hour and a half.” Hallelujah! I wouldn’t be car-less the whole rest of the week, or even for the rest of the day. I’d be home in time for lunch. I didn’t know whether to thank the angry car gods or curse them. Then the mechanic gave me the ugly news—the cost! That’s when the cursing started. Oh, not out loud, certainly, just in my head, along with the weeping. I nodded and smiled politely at the man, as I okayed the repairs. After all, what choice did I have? Pay for the repairs or walk? It was June, in Texas, where it’s ninety-six degrees in the shade. Not a hard choice.

The nice man made the repairs and I thanked him, though he had to pry the credit card from my fingers. Then he handed me back my keys and I was on my way.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I put the key in the ignition and turned it on. Scarlett roared to life, and then purred like a kitten, as I readjusted my seat and fastened my seat belt. I needn’t cry now, the trauma was over. My little Cavalier was healthy and happy once more. I had spent the equivalent of a car payment and two fill-ups on her. She felt loved and appreciated again. All was right in her little auto world. She purred all the way home.

I felt relief and confidence again; at least until I looked at my credit card balance and began mentally calculating how many repairs I could manage on what was left.

But I learned several valuable lessons that day…
(1) Never brag openly when you have fewer than six months of payments left on your car.
(2) Never take for granted that your car will be loyal and true and not let you down.
(3) Try never to anger the car gods.
Bow down before your car and invoke reverently the names of the car gods—Chevy, Ford, Toyota-the lesser gods. Then gods of the upper echelon—Cadillac, BMW and Lexus.

Watch your tongue, they see all, they hear all!

Alanna Parke Kvale is a freelance copywriter and owner of APK Writing Services in Plano, TX. Find her at: apkwritingservices@yahoo.com