My neighbor has fled town with his two young sons for a 7-week vacation in the States. My neighbor is an American--but has been living in Oaxaca for the last 5 years with his family. In fact, this is the first time his sons have returned to the U.S. in the last two years. I agreed to "house sit" in their absence. The work is pretty minimal; I really shouldn't even call it work. I basically just look in every-so-often to make sure the cat is still alive (he's being fed by someone else), and that the furniture is still there. In exchange, my neighbor has generously offered to loan me his car for the 7-week period.
I balk, at first. I remember the last time I borrowed a friend's car, having to return it with a not-so-slight scrape along the side. I vowed, then, not to borrow a car again until I could afford to properly repair any damage I might inflict. I explain this to my neighbor--but he insists, "No, no, don't worry. It's a junker of a car anyways. And here, it's really just so cheap to fix things."
Obviously, this ends in disaster. I wouldn't be telling this if it was a beautiful story of my driving prowess. So I won't pretend like you don't know where this is going. But in my defense, I should explain this car to you. It is described by my landlord as a monstruo (monster). But I would better describe it as the maroon version of the A-Team van. The inside comes equipped with mood lighting (the car's actual label for it, not mine), and a TV with DVD player. Yo.My first trip is simple--the movies. Normally I spring for a taxi, or take a 45-minute bus out to the "mall" to catch a flick. But I feel it's a good, sensible field trip to take the van out with two friends to see a film. I arrange mirrors. I navigate the giant thing down my narrow driveway. I negotiate Mexican traffic (which is a beast all in its own right). We make it back unscathed. I feel triumphant. But oh, oh, how the mighty fall.
The next trip is a longer journey. My good friend Suzanne has a visitor in town from Montreal. She's interested in getting a look at a village market. So we plan to trek out one Friday to Tlacolula for their tianguis. Two-thirds of the way out there (it's about a 45-minute drive outside the city), we pull over at a gas station to fill the tank.
Once full, and paid for, suddenly the car won't start. We try several times, until finally we put the car in neutral and roll it to a parking space nearby. Flash to two hours later, five "helpers," two jumps and two mechanics later--and the thing still won't start. Mind you, nothing odd has happened to the car thus far. No bumps, no run-ins with other cars, no weird jostling--but the engine doesn't turn over at all. It just doesn't want to start. The two mechanics (who just happen to have driven by and offered to take a look) both agree that I need to tow it to a mechanic's shop; it's an electrical problem, they say. I try my neighbor in the States from my cell phone--just to see if there's something odd about his car that I'm not aware of. He doesn't answer. So what to do?
I can't leave it there. It'll get stolen, or be ticketed. There seems no hope at this point that it will just start. So I call a tow truck, and we make the long and tricky trip back to my place to leave the car. As I've mentioned this car is huge. So the truck--it must be huge, as well. It's a flatbed truck--and the whole process of hoisting onto the "bed," weaving in and out of traffic in the city, and then nudging the thing onto the muddy, hilly terrain of my house--was a nail biting experience. And expensive.This house sitting deal is putting me in the hole, it turns out.
Want to know the sick, funny end to the story? When we finally nose the car into a parking place back at my house, the son of my landlords asks if he can fiddle with the key to give the engine a listen. And instantly, I mean instantly, it starts. Turns out, an alarm was engaged that disconnects the engine from the battery. Probably something good to know about a car--but not in the "car tour" I received a week ago from my neighbor. Later, that same neighbor sends me an email to respond to my nervous voicemail, checking in about the car. I explain the alarm, the tow, etc. He explains he's never heard of the alarm, nor had that happened to him.
Fate would have it when you are finally feeling a bit comfortable again, you get slapped down. Last night I took the beast out for the first time in a week to get some groceries. It's been raining like crazy. So having a car to do a few errands is helpful. As I pull into the drive, the main gate that leads to my house is closed. It's nighttime--so this is pretty standard. I jump down to open the doors and encounter my landlord's son departing with his lady. And as I'm heading back to the car to get in, the driver-side door starts to shut. No. Oh, god. No. No. No.
I reach for it as it's closing, all this in slow motion. My hands grasping, reaching. This is like an action movie, in which a key, which defuses the bomb, starts sliding down the roof, and everyone makes a move to rescue it from the eventual fall. But as the tips of my fingers reach the handle and try to hook around the latch, the whole handle breaks off into my hand. No. Oh, god. No. No. No.
You see, this car does not open on the driver's side. When you unlock it, you have to enter from the shotgun door. The car also, when running, automatically locks all the doors of the car. So while the driver side door is unlocked--it is impossible to open. And every other door is locked. The car is running. The lights are on. And this monster is sitting there--blocking the entire drive, my neighbor unable to leave. Shit.
We try screwdrivers, hangers, attempting to push the window down, pushing and pulling at every door. Nothing works. My landlord calls their friend who is a locksmith. He'll come over--but it'll be $70. God! Could "borrowing" this car cost me more money, please??!!! I run up to ask the sub-letters in my neighbor's place to see if they have his number and can let me borrow their phone (my cell is locked in the car with my purse and all of my groceries). And in the midst of dialing the States, my landlord's son gets the driver-side door open. Thank, God.
I'm done here. I'm done with this borrowing-car-business. It's bunk--especially when the car is somewhat dysfunctional. Who knows if my neighbor will return and demand payment for the broken door handle (which is totally useless anyways, since he enters from the shotgun side door anyways), or the bits of pant chip scrapings around the door where the son attempted to open the door.
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