There is an expectation in America that men...all men from puberty to the grave...should know something about cars. We needn't all be NASCAR mechanics, but there are certain things we're all supposed to know inherently, things imparted to us by our dads or older brothers, things that elicit knowing glances, sypathetic head wags, or back-slapping guffaws. Not knowing these things means that one is, in a very real sense, outside the fraternity. Like a gay man coming out of the closet at a Klan meeting.
That said, I know almost nothing about cars.
If any of you have seen the film "The 40 Year Old Virgin," you'll recall the scene where Steve Carell attempts to keep pace with his pals as they share stories of their sexual exploits. I am much this way with car talk. I know enough to throw suspicion off me for the first round or two. But after that, my cover is blown. I am an alien being with tentacles exposed.
So today, I got a flat.
I was rounding the last corner to park and pick up Cecily at work, when I heard the pop. It was more like a crack, actually. I thought I'd taken the turn a little tight and that I'd played a rimshot off the curb. I was wrong. When Cec and I got back to the car and attempted to drive away, we heard that sad flubbety-flubbety noise that every motorist dreads. When I parked and got out for a look, the tire was a pancake. The can of Fix-A-Flat that I keep in the car for just such emergencies would be useless. The tire was gashed.
So we flip on the hazards and begin looking for the equipment. Fortunately for us both, the car did have a jack, a lug wrench, and a fully inflated donut. I will tell you now that we are approaching the exact moment where my automotive knowledge ends. Which is this: I know enough to loosen the lugs BEFORE raising the tire off the ground (try it with the tire in the air and see how far you get). Aside from the fact that I am TOTALLY out of shape physically, things went rather well. Well enough at least, that when a guy half my age stopped and offered to help, I was able to wave him off while Cecily responded with a confident "We've got it." Of course, in our family, it's Cecily who loves machinery and lug wrenches and all things mechanical. My family crest on the other hand is emblazened with a guy waving his arm in the air and hollering "TAXI!" Really. It is. Look it up. But Cecily is pregnant, and I am supposed to be in the fraternity of men. Tho whether that fraternity encourages the sort of puffing, spewing, and cursing sounds that issued from my mouth remains questionable. Especially for something as simple as a tire change. You know that in certain southern states there are 4-year-olds who can rotate the tires on a pick up?
So the tire got changed. I changed it. Just like they tell you. And I loaded the pancake back into the car, Cec turned off the hazards, and we drove off. Only problem was that when we got home, the parking lights wouldn't shut off. Even when the engine was off and the keys were out. Now it's difficult to imagine, even for me, how the two things could possibly be related. I don't think that I've ever hit a bump large enough to kill both a tire and the parking lights. So I played with the switches for awhile...in that random way that a chimpanzee might try to type a resume. No luck. So, I reasoned, I'll have to disconnect the battery for the night and reconnect it in the morning to prevent it from being drained. But even to me, that didn't sound quite right. I phoned a friend who knows cars well...not only does he know them, but he can build one from items found in the home, and it will run. Unfortunately for me, he lives in Arizona and he wasn't answering his phone. So I came up with Plan B. Rather than disconnect the battery, why not remove the fuse? Turns out that the auto makers must know about guys like me, because the fuse box comes with a handy schematic printed right inside the cover. So I pulled the fuse marked "lights" and lo, the parking lights went out. "Well, " Cecily offered, "we can do this for awhile...pull the fuse at night...until we can get it looked at." As hillbilly as that sounded, I agreed. So I put the fuse in my pocket and went inside.
But just for laughs, I thought, why not check the web? So I Googled my car model and the phrase "parking lights stay on." What I expected to find was that my make and model of car had some persistent wiring defect that would cost about $180 to repair. Instead, and to my surprise, I found that there is a little obscure switch atop the steering column that lets you leave your parking lights on all the time, even with the keys out of the ignition, should that ever be your desire. So, I ran back out to the car, re-inserted the fuse, and flipped the little obscure switch. Turns out that it's located in the same spot as our hazard light switch in our last car.
Voila. Problem solved.
Of course, there's still the matter of the tires. But so much less humiliating than describing some electrical ghost to a mechanic, only to have him reach inside the passenger compartment and flip a switch. Afterall, having a flat is not un-manly. And I can rest secure in the knowledge that I can at least change a tire.
Maybe they'll let me join that fraternity yet.