*ABC Malfunction*, an orange message flashed on the dashboard screen.
How the fuck can the alphabet malfunction in my car? Did a muppet hack into its systems when I was parked at that shady 7-11?
I ignored it and continued about my day, feeling no effects.
Then a few days later it happened again. And this time, it was ugly.
I was driving down a residential street when my car suddenly went into lowrider-hydraulics mode. It bucked like a (non-Ford) bronco, as if someone swapped “unleaded” with coke in the fuel line.
I pulled over immediately and noticed my car was on stilts. No wonder it was pop-lock-n-droppin it all over da place.
I also noticed one tire was super low. Like “pull over or else we’re dragging this enormous paperweight with wheels back to the dealer” low.
16 psi low.
I gave it a tidy little inflation of air when I noticed a shiny lump coming from the tire.
That’s right.
It was a nail.
There I sat, in the CVS Agoura Hills parking lot at 11PM on a cold January eve, using a pair of pliers to try to yank this piercer of dreams out of my tread-worn life.
45 minutes of efforts were unsuccessful. I filled the area with rubber cement and called it a night. And then the next call I made that morning was to my dealer to fix-dis-shit.
The cheerful folks at Mercedes Benz of Beverly Hills took my car in without question, gave me a free loaner, and told me those magic words that always come back to haunt me: “We’ll get back to you this afternoon!”
“This afternoon” passed.
As did the next.
Silence.
9AM. The phone rings.
I groggily and weakly answer to the sound of my “service advisor”, who is “advising” me on service that I’ll have to pay hand over fist for despite the car being under warranty still.
Advisor: Good morning! We’ve got some news on your car.
Me: *gurgle*
Advisor: My technician found THREE nails in your back tire. And your other one is worn. So we can’t repair anything until we replace both.
Me: *mmf*…*waits for information to register* how much is thisgunnacostme…
Advisor: It will be $340 per tire, so $680 total. Then we can work on your suspension light.
Me: WHAT?! HOW much?! Can’t you just patch the one tire?
Advisor: uhhmmm…errrrr…well…both tires are down to 4mm and werequestyoureplacethemat3mmandicantauthorizemytechniciantodoanythingaboutthatsorrywecanonlyreplacethem
Me: you…you can’t just patch the tire?
Advisor: wellummnoseebecausethetread…thetreadistoolowasdjkewfhkeadljwdkaewfbejaf we’re not responsible!!!111
Me: I’ll get this fixed myself. When can I pick it up?
Advisor: oh, it’s ready to go, they’re just taking it down now. But remember the tires have to be replaced or else or else (some drastic reason that sounds like Iran’s acquisition to a nuclear weapon is hinging solely on me replacing my fucking tires)
Me: I’ll be there soon.
I get a courtesy call an hour later telling me my car is ready, so I wait a few more hours to get work done and head down their way.
I drive up and hand the polite serviceman my keys, then ask if the car is ready.
“Yup, it’s ready! No charge! You can just wait right in front of the rental area and we’ll have it right out!”
I should have noticed by his disturbingly-wide grin that this wasn’t going to end pretty, probably with me taking an SLS hostage and mowing down Beverly Hills denizens, but I had a call and had work to handle.
I talk on the phone for 15 minutes. I get some documents done. I pace. I get some more work done, and pace. I pace enough to wear trenches in the cement.
After a half-hour I go up to my service advisor. “Isn’t it supposed to be ready?” I ask, tensing up slightly.
“Oh of course! I’ll get them right on it!”
For those of you at home playing “bullshit bingo”, yes, you can put a pinto bean, mark, or red circle on the “I’ll get them right on it!” square.
I return to sentry duty, pacing, watching other people drop their cars off, get rentals, get their fixed cars, solve Millenium Prize problems, watch uranium-238 reach half-life, observe erosion, laugh at the Simpsons 574th season, and grow seven Methuselah beards.
I walk back to my service advisor. He can likely tell by the look on my face that I’m not only ready to bite into the SL65 that just pulled in out of sheer anger, but replace the car’s dipstick with his plump body.
Me: “I have to be somewhere an hour ago. Is. It. Ready?”
Advisor: “Uhhh…sure! They’ll bring it around.”
Another half-hour passes. By now it’s been well over an hour of bullshit.
Just as I’m about to hijack the GL550 they’ve wisely parked in front of me to probably block me from spewing acidic impatience everywhere, I see my car limply pull up.
The driver/mechanic runs out. “I’m just gonna add some air to the tire!”
Me: “You had over an hour to do that. And all morning.”
Mechanic: “uhhh…there’s no pump downstairs. Sorry!”
He must have seen my rage-filled eyes boring a hole through him because he ran to get the pump and hastily inflate my derpy tire.
I gunned out of this Carnia of hell and drove to my go-to tire place, Delco in Encino. They’ve always taken care of my car efficiently and cheaply.
Within 45 minutes, they had the nails removed, the tire properly inflated and patched, and came out to explain that my tires still have at least 5000 miles on them.
The damage?
25 bucks.
I drove out a happy man, my ride de-Impalaed and my wallet not relinquished to debt collectors.
And guess what? My car has been driving properly-inflated and just as fine as the day it was bought.
So kids, it pays to take no for an answer. Doing so saved me $655 today.