Volkswagen saga

Several of my coworkers have been subjected to bits and pieces (or more) of this over the past two weeks, so if any of them happen to be reading this, ever, I apologize. Sincerely.

Sunday a week ago - April 6, this would have been - I was driving home from church, trying to avoid the semi in the other lane, when I noticed a new orange indicator on my dashboard. "CHECK ENGINE," it announced, and added a not-so-happy picture of what I assume is some portion of my engine, just in case I happened to be an illiterate Beetle owner with more than remedial knowledge of car repair.

Given that my knowledge of "car repair" extends roughly to filling the tank and washing bird poop off the windows, CHECK ENGINE gave me a nice cold shot of stomach-clenching dread. As I had been to my local dealership four months before to have a valve replaced, I knew that CHECK ENGINE didn't necessarily mean imminent flames, but I also knew it wasn't good. I called my parents and told them I was heading to the dealership, at which point they reminded me that it was Sunday afternoon, and that the dealership wasn't open.

One point to the parents.

On Monday morning, bright and early, I drove my car to the dealership and explained that the ominous orange light had flicked on. The service representative ran his diagnostics, then told me I had a bad turbo valve. My car wasn't about to explode, but I would have poor fuel economy until I had the thing fixed. The valve would be $40. Oh, and they were going to tack on another $30 for the time spent that morning, and it would cost me roughly $170 to have the valve installed, say in three or four days, after they ordered the part.

I told the man I had replaced a valve four months ago, and asked whether this would be a common thing. He assured me it would not be so.

Great, I thought, and tried to drive as little as possible until Friday, when I dropped the car off at 7, crossed my fingers, and hitched a ride to work on the courtesy shuttle. My driver, an old man from Michigan who sounded like a deep-bayou Louisianan, encouraged us to go see a redneck comedian that night - the bad rain, he had heard, was going to come through that morning.

Later Friday morning, the tech called and told me my car was ready for pickup (a call that, incidentally, pulled me out of the last five minutes of Java. Oy). The shuttle couldn't come to get me until 2, however, so I worked and stewed until the crusty Michigander returned to ferry me back to the dealership. We discussed why all the auto manufacturers are moving south, he ascertained that I'm not, in fact, British, and we slipped back to the ever-popular topic of weather. He had missed his prediction, and I planned to hang out with the weather radio back at the office for the rest of the day.

$170 and a conversation with a not-entirely-there tech later, I headed back to work, making sure to park under the deck. What followed wasn't pretty; long story short, I tried to leave, saw the rain coming behind me, started getting hailed upon, and turned back to the parking deck until it all blew over, because let's face it, no one likes frozen projectiles, especially not those of baseball size. On the way home, heading down Columbiana into Hoover, I was almost involved in a wreck when the car in front of me lost control, and then, in the midst of praying and attempting to make my adrenaline level subside, I noticed something new on my dashboard.

CHECK ENGINE.

The rant that followed wasn't pretty.

I coasted back to the dealership, rolled down my windows, and gave a couple of techs my best sarcastic smile as I pointed out that the problem I had waited five days to be fixed was botched again ten miles later. They told me to come back the next morning. "We don't take appointments," Not-Entirely-There Tech told me. "If you're late, you're at the bottom of the list."

Fearing that I was being fleeced, my mother accompanied me to the dealership the next morning when they opened - I was still fourth in line, as Not-Entirely-There Tech helpfully pointed out - and she expressed her displeasure with the service to that point. Nothing to worry about, we were informed. They'd take a look at the engine and give us a call.

Well, my mother had to make the calls, and we got my car back just as the dealership was closing for the day. It turned out that the new turbo valve had caused a hose to crack, and that was messing up the engine. Oh, and I had eight valves, so any of the remaining six could set off the indicator at any time. All I needed to remember was that unless the indicator started flashing, I was in no immediate danger of engine failure. Fair enough, I thought, and put it behind me.

Monday evening, I climbed back into the car to go to choir practice. When I was halfway to Briarwood, guess what dashboard indicator lit?

The rant that followed is best left to the imagination.

Two hours of Porgy and Bess practice with a tension headache will put anyone in a foul mood, and I was less than charming when I drove into the dealership on Tuesday morning. "I'd like to go more than three days without visiting you," I told the tech who signed me in. "Look, I travel for my job. I need a functional car, alright?" He assured me they'd fix it, and once again, I caught the shuttle to work. The driver, another older man, asked whether I'd need a ride back, then told me to call and schedule a pickup when I heard from the dealership.

Once 1:30 rolled around, I began calling them. Voicemail. Messages. Mumbled assurances that my car was being examined. At 4, the tech asked if they could keep the car overnight. Sure, I told him, and my dad drove me home from work.

Wednesday morning, I waited for word from Volkswagen, but nothing came. I began calling at 11, when the flustered receptionist gave me one of the techs' answering machine. When I had yet to receive a call at 1:30, my mother phoned the dealership and, in true parental fashion, let the tech have it.

The car was ready on my way home. As it turned out, a small hose that's virtually inaccessible unless you disassemble the engine had cracked. To figure that out, the techs had replaced nearly all of my $40 valves.

My grand total was $33, for the new hose. Volkswagen, apparently, is heartily sorry.

It would have been nice if they'd called me as well as my mother, but hey, at least I get to drive to work tomorrow.