You Rascal, You

It was a warm, sunny Thursday in San Diego when I hopped in the car, put on some shades, and turned on the AC for a tool around town. Much to my chagrin, the AC, usually reliable, wasn’t cooling anything. And worse, soon the engine started to buck a little bit. Now, any car that's just had its first 3,000 mile oil change shouldn’t be having those symptoms, but, figuring that the service might have jostled something loose, I made a note to have it looked at, parked downtown, and forgot about the problem for a few hours. Until I started to drive home and the Check Engine light came on.

Now, I’m no mechanic, but I’ve put several hundred thousand miles beneath me in any number of cars and have a few tricks up my sleeve. Or, at least, a few good suspicions. So when I got home, I popped the hood, looking for the belts or a loose cable. That I didn’t find one was not surprising -- a modern engine compartment has a lot in common with a packed can of sardines – but what was surprising was the amount of strange debris that I did find under there. I didn’t think too much of the twigs and leaves (I park right under a tree), but I hadn’t expected shells. Big shells. Snail shells. That's new. How the heck did those get there? I closed the hood without further investigation, thinking that some of that debris has gotten somewhere it shouldn’t have, then ran inside to shoot an e-mail to my good friend Kenny, a shade-tree mechanic.

Though Kenny agreed that debris damage and belt issues were certainly options, the clues weren’t quite adequate for a cross-country diagnosis. The engine light, he said, could be anything. To know the problem, one needs to know the engine’s error code. Fortunately, he said, Auto Zone will read that code for free. Most fatal systems have their own light, he assured me, so the odds were good that I could safely drive the car far enough to have the check done. Through sixteen years and as many cars, I’ve never known Kenny to blow an engine, so if he wouldn’t hesitate to drive it, neither would I.

There is an AutoZone conveniently near the doctor’s office where I’d made a Friday appointment, so I take the car for a quick check after I’ve had my own. A guy at the counter hands me a snappy little device that I can hook up under the dash to get the error code. It’s easy as pie. Or should be. But my car isn’t talking. The computer refuses to link up. I check the cable, the connection, my ignition switch, and the troubleshooting manual before giving up and asking the guys inside for opinions. They’re stumped. Every car made after a certain year is required to speak to this thing, but mine had clammed up. One of them asks me “Your car is a 2005 and the Check Engine light is on?!?” Yeah, I tell him. "Is it a Ford?” I nod, “Mercury.” Then we laugh and laugh. Good times.

I ask if the recent oil change could have anything to do with the warning light and they tell me it’s worth having the guys at Quiki Lube take a look. But as I'm driving across town to the Quiki Lube, I pass a bright banner that reads “Engine Light On? Let Us Fix It!” How can I resist? I turn around, pull in, and tell the guy behind the counter about the light. He tells me that there's an $88 diagnostic charge and asks if I can leave the car with him. Ah… no. I suspect the guy just wants to get rid of me so that I won’t notice that he’s about to use the same universal code-reader that AutoZone handed me for free and charge me $88 for the pleasure. I clutch my wallet, shielding it from the Midas touch, and turn on my heels. Then I send a quick mental “thank you” to Kenny for the heads-up and drive away.

At Quiki Lube, I pull out a two-week-old receipt and try to make it clear there are no accusations when I ask if my engine problem could be related to their lube job. The gentleman behind the counter is accommodating and has me pull the car inside. As I watch him in the driver’s seat, scratching his head, I assume he’s getting the same silent treatment from his code-reader that I got from AutoZone’s. When he steps out of the cockpit, I witness something amusing: mechanics gathering, surprised that they might have to (gasp!) pop the hood. (Just how computerized HAVE our cars become?)

It was the first time that anyone else had looked under there. The debris that had distracted me earlier was a dead giveaway to these guys. They call me over to have a look. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it on my own, but when it was pointed out to me, it was obvious. And horrifying. I was looking at the remains of my electrical system. No wonder the car was bucking! All six cylinders were firing, but only two leads hadn’t been severed.

Happiness, to a rat, is a warm engine compartment. The wires had been eaten through. The snails had been dessert.

So, on the heels of having one Mercury returned from the repair shop, I’m preparing to send the other one in. I’m sure my father’s company will be happy when I leave California, and their cars, behind. But… call me crazy… in Tennessee, I’ve never heard one single person complain that a rat ate their car. Not one.

Is it just me?


In the interest of fair play, it should be noted that, despite a good laugh at Mercury's expense, the Ford Motor Company had nothing to do with this early system failure. Also in the interest of fair play, I accept a certain number of girl-geek points for being able to share that laugh, knowing that Ford and Mercury were here synonymous.

Oh, and if you're curious about the doctor, he did speak English. Well, at that. As for me, the chassis is healthy, but the fluids must be checked after a fast. Next week.