Make some noise

My car is making a noise. It's a new noise, one it hasn't made since I've owned it.

It's a hard to describe noise. One of those "You'll know it when you hear it..." noises.

I, of course, hear it all the time.

I couldn't tell if the noise was doing damage or not, so I took it to my mechanic to have it checked out. Here's the funny part: he couldn't get the car to make the noise.

He kept it for two or three days, but it was no go. My car was as quiet as a church mouse and purring like a kitten when he drove it. So I went back, picked it up and drove it home. And guess what? It made the noise all the way home.

I thought to myself if my independent guy can't find it, maybe someone who has a lot of experience with my model car day in and day out would have better luck. So last Thursday, I drove my car to the dealer. I picked it up today. For those of you keeping count, that's six days they had to find the noise.

They couldn't find it.

Here's my theory. I believe, much like Stephen King's Christine, that my car is alive. Somehow it's found out I've been online looking at new cars to replace it, and now it's decided to punish me for it.

With a noise no one else but me can hear, it's made me think twice about selling it. I'm afraid when I'm least expecting it, the car will let the noise rip while every prospective buyer takes it for a test drive. I could always trade it in and take the financial hit, but I'm sure just as they were pulling it into the garage it would do it again and they'd offer me even less than they normally would.

As far as I can tell, I have two choices: run it into the ground, or wait and see if the noise disappears over time (just like my high school girlfriend).

Whichever road I decide to take, I'm sure you'll hear about it. If the car wants you to.

Padding my story

 If you know me at all, you know there are some things I have absolutely no trouble stopping.

Like work, cleaning, work, reading, work, eating – okay, maybe not eating.

One thing I was having trouble stopping was that two-ton hunk o’ depreciating Japanese metal I drive everywhere (although I suppose in light of recent events, there are worse things the metal could be than depreciating). Seems my rear brake pads were worn down to almost nothing (I know the feeling). Not quite metal on metal, but nanoseconds away from it.

While I had my car at the dealer for a regular service, my service writer broke the news about the brakes. Then he told me how much it was going cost to replace the pads and turn the rotors. After I shook my head and asked if I’d heard him right, that’s when I put the brakes on.

Now, I’m all about easy. I like having a relationship with my dealership, as well as recourse should something go wrong. It’s not my first rodeo - I know I pay more for that, which up to now I’ve been willing to do. Maybe that’s because up to now it hasn’t been that much more.

But I found out on this last visit that there’s only so much I’m willing to fork over for someone to smile at me while they’re picking my pocket (not exactly the phrase I wanted to use, but it’s a family blog).

Let’s get right to it shall we? $459. That’s how much they wanted to lighten my wallet for the work. Seemed a little excessive to me, so I decided to do something I should’ve done a long time ago – take my business somewhere else. After all, my car’s out of warranty, and it’s not like other places don’t guarantee their work.

I searched Yelp for brake places near me, and much to my checkbook’s delight there was a great one only three blocks from my house. I went there, and explained the situation to Bob. I assume it was Bob. That’s what the patch on his industrial, grease-stained jumpsuit said.

Bob smiled the knowing smile of a man that lives in a very big house thanks to people who are mad as hell at their dealers and not going to take it any more. Bob checked out the rear brakes, and agreed I needed the work done. For $210.

Not that I’m counting, because I don’t want to seem petty or anything like OH GOOD LORD IT'S 54% LESS!

Bob ordered the pads that day and I brought the car in the next morning. While they worked on it I walked over to the donut shop across the street for coffee and a maple twist (I told you stopping eating wasn’t my strong suit). By the time I got back, twenty minutes later, the car was ready to go. And stop.

My neighbor always asks me, “How old do you have to be before you realize you’re getting screwed by the dealer.”

Now I know the answer. This old.