Driving Miss Demeanour

Bob Morrissey

Like many seniors over 75, a fate worse than death would be having my license revoked by the Quebec government after failing a driving test because of underlying health issues.

Let’s face it: we love our cars; to hit the road whenever we want. To cruise along the lakeshore on a breezy summer day; a trip into the Laurentians in the fall. Or just to your favourite mall or fast-food restaurant.

In my dreams I’m driving forever. But I know the day will come when a family member, likely one of my sons, takes me aside and says, “Dad, give me your car keys; it’s time.”

And I fire back with, “Are you kidding? I haven’t a clue where I left them.”

I was thinking these melancholy thoughts recently while cleaning the inside of my Chevy Cruze — wiping down the sticky steering wheel; picking up dusty old fries and discarded straws off my floor mat. Also a few tiny wooden forks — all the result of too many Big Macs. Just the usual stuff, except for the dead frog.

All this required much twisting and turning, which left this arthritic old senior exhausted. So I took a break. I shoehorned myself onto the driver’s seat and rested my head on the headrest. Then I thought about my car — and why we’re a perfect match. The answer? Because we have so much in common.

For one thing, we’ve both logged hard miles. We’re both high maintenance. The car hates cold weather as do I. We’re both big guzzlers and we both strain to climb hills. We both have gas … and we’re sometimes in a fog.

Then there’s the traffic snarls, flat tires, parking problems, speeding tickets, road kill, road rage and, finally, falling asleep at the wheel — or, in my case, in the back seat after our company golf tournament.

Oh, did I mention maintenance costs? That’s a biggie. Consumer Reports says car owners spend, on average, $10,859 Cdn yearly on maintenance and repairs. And that doesn’t include collisions.

Despite everything, my car’s been good to me — not to mention a cash cow for my garage owner, Tony. Because it’s 14 years old with over 200,000 km on it, it often needs repairs. I’ve taken the car in so often lately that when I leave the shop the mechanic automatically gives me an appointment, just like a dentist would.

It turned out my “ride” needed more repairs five months later — the brakes felt mushy, engine rattled, oil was leaking, steering was off and don’t even mention the engine block. A call to CAA and my car was back on the lift an hour later.

I accompanied the tow-truck driver to the garage and strolled into the boss’s office the second we arrived.

As I made my approach, Tony looked up from his computer and said, “and you’re …?”

“Very funny,” I said.

“Where you been the last two weeks? Thought you might of died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Then I remembered we overhauled your exhaust system two months ago.”

“You miss me?”

Tony smiled. “Always.”

All these trips to Tony’s garage have made us fast friends. The first time I came into his shop, five years ago, he called me “Mister.” Then it was “Sir.” Then it was any time he was lonesome. We started exchanging Christmas cards. We gave each other nicknames. He even gave me the hockey tickets that his satisfied customers gave him. I was seen with him so often his oil-change guy thought I worked for Tony part time. I must have put 5,000 km on Tony’s “loaner” cars. Sweet Jesus, a month ago he asked me if we could share the same burial plot.

And, now I was back — again.

“So what can I do for you, Wrench?” he asked, using my nickname.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Say no more. We’ll give ’er a thorough inspection.”

Then he left his office and joined the three mechanics surrounding my car. It looked like a rugby scrum. Everyone appeared puzzled; everyone was animated. Lots of talking. Greasy, my nickname for Tony, even kicked a tire.

When he came limping back into the office he said, “The inspection will take about two hours. But it doesn’t look good.” Then: “You can wait here, or I can give you another loaner car.”

“I’ll take the loaner. Is the Corvette available?”

That usually draws a laugh. But not today.

“Funny guy,” said Greasy. “Take the Sentra — and don’t eat Chinese food in it this time.”

I’m out and back in two hours.

I open my mouth, and the first thing Tony says is, “You smell like egg rolls.”

I say nothing.

Then I ask, “How’d the car inspection go?”

“It was more like an autopsy,” he says.

“That bad, eh!”

“Maybe even worse. It’s unfixable, therefore undriveable. The only thing salvageable was your license plate.”

Then Greasy put a hand in my shoulder.

“Look,” he said, “cars  don’t last forever — and that car’s been good to both of us. It sent my kids to summer camp, paid for my daughter’s education — and don’t forget the lap dances. Think of the times it’s taken you on vacations and up to the cottage.”

I just smiled and said to Greasy, “Je me souviens.”

Then I left.