Living In One's Car

I walk down the street thinking I will  barely have enough time to buy the cup of coffee let alone finish it.

I am on my second 20 ounce cup and my fifth biscotti and have written about three blog entries before I realize I have been sitting in the Farmer's Market for far too long for it to have been a simple issue.

I finish my coffee and log off of the iPad and walk back to the dealership. And once there, I sit some more. In fact I have one of their complimentary cups of swill disguised as coffee before my phone rings.

I look around as I answer and tell the Toyota man that I am in the lobby. We find each other, make eye contact and he waves me over.

"So what's up with my car, Don?" I ask, looking at his embroidered shirt.  He has a lot of papers on the desk in front of him.

"About your car," he begins.

"Yes, what about my car?" I interrupt.  I have been waiting for nearly three hours (only a very slight exaggeration, mind you).

"We should walk outside," he says.

Why? So my obscenity-laced swearing doesn't disturb your other customers?  So the loony bin people can throw a net over my head without chasing me around the garage when you tell me what you are about to charge me?

I start looking at the papers on Don's desk, thanking God once again for granting me the ability to read and add upside down just as swiftly and efficiently as I do right side up.

"What is that note on your papers there that says '$2,000???' And what is that note about a back order?  What exactly is going on, Don, my friend?" I am trying and failing to some degree not to raise my voice and become screechy.  My inner Estelle is scissor kicking to the surface like an Olympic platform diver.

"That's why we should go outside. I need to show you."

Now I am convinced that some numb skull technician who thinks my 6-speed off-roading manual transmission behemoth vehicle seemed like a lot of fun to drive barreled into traffic and plowed blindly into a cement truck.

I speed walk with Don to my car trying to control my breathing.

He opens the hood and stands in front of it for a moment.

"Some squirrels built a nest..."

"WHAAAAATTTTT???"

"Some squirrels built a nest under your hood and have chewed a bunch of holes in your wiring harness. It is the wiring unit for the entire car and in this condition the car really is unsafe to drive.  You could be stranded anywhere at any time.  It needs to be replaced, and the part is nearly $2,000.  And then there is the labor.  And the part is on national back order for 10 days."

I look under the hood. Clearly half a dozen squirrels have bellied up to the wiring harness and made it their personal buffet.  It is chewed to bits. And there is quite a nest underway under the hood as well. They have made themselves quite a little man cave. All that is missing is the Keg-o-rator. They have probably been traveling back and forth across the bridge with me for weeks as stowaways (though I can't blame them for not abandoning ship in Camden. I don't even want to get out of my car).

I practically swoon.  Don holds my arm and tells me we need to get my insurance card so he can talk to my agent when I call in the claim.

I look in the glove box for the insurance card and am secretly hoping I find a paper bag to breathe into while I am there.