The tale I’m about to relate is a lengthy one, I fear, but I just have to get it off my chest.
Last Saturday, while I was out doing a bit of Christmas shopping, the “service engine” light came on. It was still early, so I stopped by the service department at the dealership where I bought the car to make an appointment to have it checked over and to make sure it was okay to drive until I could get the car serviced.
So, bright and early Monday morning, I dropped the car off at the dealership – the service engine light was still glowing bright yellow. They were going to change the oil, rotate the tires, do a “general maintenance” check and see if they could determine the reason for the glowing yellow light. Anything related to the engine would be covered under the warranty.
I feel compelled to explain that this is the week before the audit…the big fat freakin’ audit…that SBA will be conducting next week, so I have been waist deep in files all week long and putting in twelve hour days trying to get ready for the auditors. Suffice to say, I did not need the added exasperation of dealing with a malfunctioning car and…more to the point…car mechanics.
Now, there are few times over the course of my life when I have lamented the fact that I am on my own with no man to rely on. Call me old fashioned, sexist, stereotypical, or what have you, but in a “perfect world” there are some things for which the man should always be responsible; i.e., take out the trash, squash the bugs, rid the house of rodents, and deal with car problems. But in my world…reality world…I get to do it all. Sigh.
There’s not a woman in the land who is unfamiliar with what I’m about to describe. The feeling washes over you the instant you step tremulously inside the door of the car repair shop…that nauseatingly sick feeling that begins to churn in the pit of your stomach and bubbles upward to constrict your throat. You see the mechanic’s eyes light up with huge neon flashing $$$$$ signs as he rubs his hands together gleefully...metaphorically if not actually...and he crooks his finger at you and says, "Don't be afraid. Step into my parlor..." And that is when you “just know” that...before it’s all over...you’re going to be screwed six ways to Sunday, and it is not going to be a pleasant experience. You may as well open up your wallet and say, “Here, take it all. Just leave me a bit for food and gas money.” This is when the sadistic mechanic -- aka -- Simon Legree, gives that black mustache an evil twist, laughs maniacally, and snarls, "No, it's mine...all mine."
Anyway, about three o’clock, the mechanic called. Now, I had been buried in files all day…no lunch break…reviewing legal documents, tax returns, financial statements, etc., so I am more than a bit bleary-eyed and a trifle brain dead when I picked up the phone. The guy was pleasant enough as he patiently explained that he was unable to rotate the tires because, according to him, the previous owner had never had the car properly aligned and the tires…though they looked good on the outside…on the inside…they were completely bald. Cutting to the chase…they will align the car for free…if I purchase the tires from them. To top it off, they could not get the tires until the next morning, so I had to leave the car there overnight. They did, however, generously provide me with a loaner car…a loaner car, mind you, that had about two drops of gas in the tank. Yep, I was on the hook for gas for the crappy loaner car.
Here’s my grievance. I bought the car on August 24th. Since it was a “pre-owned” car and I purchased an extended warranty, the dealership had to “certify” that the car passed GM’s inspection before I could take ownership. Plus, I’m thinking, would they not have done some sort of basic maintenance like…oh, I don’t know…an alignment or at least "kick" the tires before selling it to some unsuspecting dupe. (That would be...well...me.) I mean, I haven’t put 3,000 miles on the car since I bought it. To my way of thinking, either they did not do their due diligence before the sale, or they were trying to sell me four tires I did not truly need. Either way…I'm screwed.
Tuesday morning, I went into the office at 6:00a.m. I thought about the situation overnight and decided…if I truly needed new tires...and since this was not a warranty-related issue…I’d go fetch my car and take it to the auto shop that has taken care of me ever since I moved to Cincinnati. So, a little after 7:00a.m., I called the dealership, and that is when I first had the "pleasure" of speaking with Jack. Jack was a slow talker, and that is the nicest thing I have to say about him.
When I explained what I intended to do, Jack informed me that, since they had already ordered the tires, I had to buy them. Okay, this is when I went into a full-fledged rant. I never used to do this sort of thing, but ever since I came full into my 50’s, I finally realized that no one else was going to speak up for me, so it was up to me to stand up for myself. So, I calmly -- but firmly -- told Jack that if that was the case, then FINE, I guess I was stuck. I then told him that I wouldn’t be bringing my car back to their crummy dealership and, furthermore, I would be telling anyone and everyone I know to never, ever buy a car from Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick and I hung up the phone. Jack called me back a few minutes later and told me that the service manager said, since they hadn’t installed the tires, I didn’t have to buy them. Okay, one teensy-weensy victory for me. I told Jack I would call him back and let him know my decision.
Whew! Still with me?
Next, I called Donovan’s…where I used to take my old car for mechanical stuff and basic maintenance. The price they quoted me was about $50 less than Sweeney’s…unless…the tires were 17” instead of 16”…then the price would be…give or take…$150 more. With that info in hand, I called the dealership back. This time I got Paul. Paul was much more amenable than Jack…which is to say, Paul actually had a personality. I explained the situation, and he checked the tire size, and – of course – they are the larger size. (Did you truly expect otherwise? Have you met me?) As it turned out, they could do the work more cheaply after all. So, I told Paul to go ahead and do the alignment, install the tires and call me when the car was ready.
The plot thickens.
About 1:30, I was thinking it’s odd I hadn't heard about my car. I mean…come on…how long does it take to install four tires? (I was about to find out.) So, I called the service department again, and they connected me to Jack…again. (I've never been one who "suffers fools gladly," but this guy took the proverbial cake.) I asked if my car was ready, and he said – hand to God – they had not done anything yet because I had not called back to tell him my decision. To which, I promptly and brusquely informed him that, “Oh, yes I mostly certainly had called.” Granted, I did not speak to him specifically, but I called back – within 30 minutes of talking to him – and gave them the “go ahead.”
Then I asked him when my car would be ready, and he told me – are you ready – it would be the next afternoon…meaning Wednesday. Three days…THREE BLEEPIN’ DAYS…to install four lousy tires on a car. (God created the entire universe in six.) Now, I’m a big ol’ fat girl with a bad back and cranky knees, but I think that even I could somehow contrive to wrestle four tires onto a car in less than three days. As you might imagine, by this time, I was at my wit’s end…I was beyond frustrated. I asked Jack, who I have now dubbed, Jack the MoeRon…not moron…he’s a bona fide MoeRon…if my original tires were still on the car. (Not that it would have truly mattered. At this point, I was willing to chance driving it on the rims.) He told me they were, and I told him (translation…SCREAMED at him) to not do anything to my car; I was coming to get it.
It took me all of ten minutes to drive from my office to the dealership. I started out calm, but when Jack walked up to me, I looked him squarely in the eye and informed him that I wasn’t talking to him. While he scurried off to…I thought…fetch my car, I told the young man who had set up the appointment on Saturday that, “All evidence to the contrary, I’m not usually a bitch, but this has been the most frustrating experience over…TIRES!”
About this time, Jack skulked back inside to tell me they were – at that very moment – installing the tires on my car. And it was then that I realized what was happening; i.e., my car was being held hostage...in some sort of bizarre Pontiac GM Twi-Light Zone. Folks, this is precisely the reason I don’t own a gun. ‘Cuz I sooooo wanted to go all Rambo on this little wuss of a man. “When will my car be ready?” I asked between tightly clenched teeth. "Four-thirty," replied the Moeron. It was 2:00 then. Two and a half hours for four tires. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it. The only conceivable explanation had to be that there was a whole passel of MoeRons working – in the loosest possible sense of the word – on my poor little car. At this point, I was speechless…mainly because I was so outraged that no coherent words would form in my brain. I walked numbly back to my loaner car and went back to work to await further instructions as to when and where I should bring the ransom for my car.
Almost done.
Well, I finally managed to liberate my car around 4:30. As I was paying the $630 ransom, I noticed a statement on the invoice regarding a survey. I perked up then and asked the cashier if there was a survey attached, and she replied that GM would send me one. Trust me, that is one survey I am awaiting with great anticipation. In fact, I'm fixin' to write letters to everybody...the district GM office, the national office...anyone related to GM. (You've already got yours.)
Oh, and the reason for this whole ordeal…the check engine light…they were never able to determine the cause behind that; the light never came on when they cranked the engine. Welcome to my world, folks…my big fat freakin’ world.
One last thing before I end this long-winded tirade. When I arrived home from work this evening, there was a message on my answering machine…from Toni. Toni cheerfully informed me that she was with Mark Sweeney Pontiac GMC Buick, and she noticed I had just had my Grand Prix serviced at their dealership. She was calling to thank me and to follow-up to make sure I was “completely satisfied” with my experience. Oh, Toni...Toni, do I have a story for you?
This is my "almost" new baby. Well, I got the photo from the Internet...it isn't exactly like mine; mine has a moon roof and, as of yesterday, some really snazzy tires. It's a 2005, Pontiac Grand Prix...fully loaded, including remote start and a supercharged engine. The car is going to get me in some serious trouble and is way smarter than I...obviously.
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