the harrowing tale of the ford motor company and the curse of the automatic transmission

when i was about 17, i went with my family to palm desert, california. they went every year, my grandmother used to own a house there. i usually stayed home and had massive parties, thinking i was so sneaky, but mom & dad would always figure it out when they got back. this year, i decided to go - i had convinced my parents to stop at kurt cobain's house on the way back through seattle. he'd just shot himself in the head and i was devastated.

i secretly loved road trips with my family. i never let on because it wasn't grunge enough. i loved stopping at tiny roadside motels, spotting different license plates, eating road food, taking pictures, crossing that line somewhere just south of the oregon/california border where the scenery turns suddenly from a rich green to a lifeless brown.

we're driving in our 1992 ford taurus through pasadena on a sunday and, in the heat of an LA summer, on the frightening LA freeway, the transmission decides it's had enough.

i dunno if you know much about pasadena, but it's hugely hispanic, and hispanic people are hugely catholic, which means nothing is open in pasadena on sundays. trying to get the car off the freeway was trouble enough. finding a mechanic who could help us on sunday in pasadena? near impossible.

finally, in some old run worn shack, in what feels like some sort of gangland "hood" to my ignorant, white, canadian mind, three early twenties hispanic men (who were quite beautiful, i might add - but then, i was a teenaged girl, every man was beautiful to me) covered in tattoos, sporting wife beaters and mechanic jumpsuits with the top half off, hanging around their hips, emerge from under a sign that says "mecánico", they nod at us and strut over and one says "can i help ju?". we nervously explain our problem and the man closest to us turns to the man farthest from us and yells, "juan, dice a papa!". this was prior to my understanding spanish and i was trying to guess what this man had so angrily just shouted when an old mexican man came sauntering out, juan following him, mean looking and slowly approached us, flicking his fingers by his side, looking down each direction of the street, toothpick hanging out of his mouth. he reaches us and stops. the moment is filled with so much tension, i'm about to run. and suddenly, this man's mouth turns up in a massive smile and says in almost perfect english "i don't do automatic transmissions but i would love to tow you to where you need to go and help you find a mechanic who does. you are very lucky today, normally we attend church on sundays"

i'm cursing the american news media for making me afraid of these helpful, harmless men. i'm angry that the collective opinion of everyone, everywhere, is that this is what dangerous gang members look like. blah. we get past it. they drive us to palm desert and they're nothing less than spectacular human beings.

after losing the number to the mechanic alfonso had suggested, my mother picked her own out of the yellow pages. two mechanics later, we're speeding north on the I5, trying to get to canada fast enough, so that the first mechanic, who fucked up huge, doesn't realize my mom put a stop payment on the check and put a lien on the car.

we're informed when we get home that ford taurus', particularly the '92 are notorious for transmission failures, and our model of taurus specifically had had it's transmission recently recalled. my folks sold it.

quite a few years later, my parents decided it was time to give the ford taurus another try, they bought brand new one, right off the lot, ruby red. within months, MONTHS, the transmission was showing signs of utter failure. they sold it.

i was driving my 1982 buick skylark around this time, and one day someone decided to drive out of his driveway into the side of my car. since it was an '82 and in barely driveable shape to begin with, there was no point in repair and i lost my beautiful buick. while searching for a new car, my uncle told me he had a ford taurus in excellent shape. i laughed. not a chance.

time went by and i still hadn't found a car. mostly because i had no time between working and fucking off. my mom kept mentioning the taurus my uncle had. finally, after a huge discussion, my mom talked me into buying it, as it had "belonged to only one owner and she was an old lady", you know, the classic line. i bought it. hook, line and sinker.

not too long after i had started driving my new gold 1991 ford taurus which was nicknamed the golden lunch buffet, my friend carrie, my boyfriend john and i decided to take a drive down to san francisco for my birthday. we were going to stay with some bed and breakfast clients of ours and camp along the way. the first few days were amazing, dry lightning storms in oregon while we camped, a visit to the oregon vortex, which blew our minds and lots and lots of beers by pools in the summer heat.

then my birthday hits. we get up that morning, i'm so excited i get to go to san jose to see the winchester mystery house, something i've wanted to see for so long. i'm in such a good mood, driving down that freeway to san jose on a sunday and, in the heat of a californian summer, on the frightening san jose freeway, the transmission decides it's had enough.

the rest of the trip went something like this: $3000 USD quote to fix, calls to mom and dad, tears, more tears, checking into a motel full of hookers, bartering with a very friendly afghani taxi driver for a trip to san francisco, 3 excellent days in san francisco, then 2 days straight of the american greyhound system, bag searches, pat downs, the heat accidentally being on in a bus through the dry, scorched redding, california in the middle of the night, boxes, cardboard boxes filled with our camping gear, trying to move them around at bus depot after bus depot after bus depot, a massive fit courtesy of yours truly in the middle of the seattle bus depot screaming about how unhelpful the staff were as they wouldn't let us use a luggage cart and i spouted a rather nasty comment, "maybe i should ask for it the american way, with a gun!!!", a sobbing collapse, and finally we change to a canadian greyhound past the border and the air conditioning works and the chairs are massive, with leg room and it's clean.

we pulled up to the station and saw my mom. i told her that ford had now become my personal nemesis and if anyone so much as suggests that i go near another ford automobile, they will receive a swift kick to the genital area. i told her i was done with cars, too.

i went carless for about two years. then i saw my monte carlo, parked all by himself at a gas station, shiny purple, calling to me and i bought him and called him rodrigo cruz and put in some sounds and when i drove him for the first time, my soul wept. there is nothing on this earth that has ever made me feel so instantly glorious as driving a car, playing good tunes and belting out the song as loud as your vocal chords will let you.

Currently listening: Blue Screen Life By Pinback

posted by Courtney at 12:26 p.m.

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