Many, many years ago, more years than I care to remember, I took my relatively-new 1986 Plymouth Voyager to one of those cheap oil-change establishments because the terms of my house rental did not allow car repairs in the driveway. And I did not want to get in trouble with my landlady.
The name of the establishment escapes me; perhaps it is best left to the fog of history. The operation was performed, the patient was blessed, the bill was paid, and I was on my merry way, cruising across Seattle along the Alaskan Way Viaduct enroute to my home in Ballard.
At some point on that journey -- my memory is unable to recall exactly when, but it was someplace along the viaduct -- a sudden sharp metallic noise like a rock smacking against the underside of the car occurred -- an idiot light came on -- panic arose in my throat -- but the car gamely drove on, wounded but not mortally so. I managed to make it home. I turned off the car. Whereupon the remainder of what oil remained in the engine poured out onto the ground, on the driveway of my rented house.
My landlady was not going to be happy about this.
Investigation of the underside of the car revealed that the oil plug at the bottom of the oil pan had simply disappeared. The obvious reason was that the morons at the oil-change establishment had failed to properly torque the bolt and it had come loose on the way home. As a consequence, the engine came within a hair's-breadth of being damaged beyond repair.
A short walk to the auto parts store brought me a new plug and crush-ring, along with five quarts of oil. And a resolution never to darken the door of one of those oil-change establishments again.
One would think after such an experience, the lesson would be learned. But I was weak. And lazy. And busy with other priorities. So when Cheryl's car needed an oil change, against my better judgement and in the face of historical evidence, I suggested that she take it to one of those oil-change places. (It also has a car wash attached so one can purchase a combination oil-change/car-wash at one time.)
I should've known.
She brought the car home and parked it in the garage, and all was well until the next day, when she pulled out to run an errand and we discovered a pool of fresh oil under her car. Not the entire contents of the engine, but enough to warrant immediate action. I took a look underneath and discovered that the morons had forgotten to put in the washer/crush-ring/gasket that goes along with the plug. (At this point, I hadn't researched the Hyundai Sonata to find out which one it used.) So oil was dripping slowly through the threads and onto the garage floor.
I thought about redoing the whole operation myself but anger took over, anger at having paid for something which was done poorly -- and at the risk of damaging a car which is not yet paid for - so I decided to take it back to the shop and make them do it over. Cheryl called the shop to make sure they were open -- and they were, but for only another forty-five minutes -- so I rushed over there and explained to them (in a tone that left no doubt of my restrained anger) what had occurred. Luckily, they believed that old adage about taking care of the customer, and they did the entire oil change anew, even throwing in an additional car wash to take car of any oil which might have gotten splattered onto the underside of the car.
My anger was somewhat mollified. But the moment I got home, the car went up on the ramps so their work could be double-checked.
And there it was: the brightly polished oil plug, embraced by a ring of bright steel, clinging tightly to the bottom of the oil pan with nary a hint of oil or visible thread.
I lay underneath the car for quite some time, staring up at the engine with all kinds of memories wafting through my brain, memories of Ballard and Voyager mini-vans and pools of oil on rental driveways, memories of panic and fear and anger and frustration, thoughts of the lingering fear that continues to shape our actions when once our trust in the work of others has been betrayed.
A thousand successful jobs can be overshadowed by one near-disaster. Memories of failure are long and deep, while those of "ordinary" success are forgotten almost as soon as they are experienced.
The name of the establishment escapes me; perhaps it is best left to the fog of history. The operation was performed, the patient was blessed, the bill was paid, and I was on my merry way, cruising across Seattle along the Alaskan Way Viaduct enroute to my home in Ballard.
At some point on that journey -- my memory is unable to recall exactly when, but it was someplace along the viaduct -- a sudden sharp metallic noise like a rock smacking against the underside of the car occurred -- an idiot light came on -- panic arose in my throat -- but the car gamely drove on, wounded but not mortally so. I managed to make it home. I turned off the car. Whereupon the remainder of what oil remained in the engine poured out onto the ground, on the driveway of my rented house.
My landlady was not going to be happy about this.
Investigation of the underside of the car revealed that the oil plug at the bottom of the oil pan had simply disappeared. The obvious reason was that the morons at the oil-change establishment had failed to properly torque the bolt and it had come loose on the way home. As a consequence, the engine came within a hair's-breadth of being damaged beyond repair.
A short walk to the auto parts store brought me a new plug and crush-ring, along with five quarts of oil. And a resolution never to darken the door of one of those oil-change establishments again.
One would think after such an experience, the lesson would be learned. But I was weak. And lazy. And busy with other priorities. So when Cheryl's car needed an oil change, against my better judgement and in the face of historical evidence, I suggested that she take it to one of those oil-change places. (It also has a car wash attached so one can purchase a combination oil-change/car-wash at one time.)
I should've known.
She brought the car home and parked it in the garage, and all was well until the next day, when she pulled out to run an errand and we discovered a pool of fresh oil under her car. Not the entire contents of the engine, but enough to warrant immediate action. I took a look underneath and discovered that the morons had forgotten to put in the washer/crush-ring/gasket that goes along with the plug. (At this point, I hadn't researched the Hyundai Sonata to find out which one it used.) So oil was dripping slowly through the threads and onto the garage floor.
I thought about redoing the whole operation myself but anger took over, anger at having paid for something which was done poorly -- and at the risk of damaging a car which is not yet paid for - so I decided to take it back to the shop and make them do it over. Cheryl called the shop to make sure they were open -- and they were, but for only another forty-five minutes -- so I rushed over there and explained to them (in a tone that left no doubt of my restrained anger) what had occurred. Luckily, they believed that old adage about taking care of the customer, and they did the entire oil change anew, even throwing in an additional car wash to take car of any oil which might have gotten splattered onto the underside of the car.
My anger was somewhat mollified. But the moment I got home, the car went up on the ramps so their work could be double-checked.
And there it was: the brightly polished oil plug, embraced by a ring of bright steel, clinging tightly to the bottom of the oil pan with nary a hint of oil or visible thread.
I lay underneath the car for quite some time, staring up at the engine with all kinds of memories wafting through my brain, memories of Ballard and Voyager mini-vans and pools of oil on rental driveways, memories of panic and fear and anger and frustration, thoughts of the lingering fear that continues to shape our actions when once our trust in the work of others has been betrayed.
A thousand successful jobs can be overshadowed by one near-disaster. Memories of failure are long and deep, while those of "ordinary" success are forgotten almost as soon as they are experienced.
2 comments:
December 2003, I burned out my '98 minivan's engine on the way home from a Wright Brother's 100th anniversary celebration at the local air museum. Thought I could make it home after the oil light came on. I vaguely recall that the oil had been recently changed; apparently it all leaked out. But 12 years later I'm still driving the van, so maybe the engine replacement was a good thing in the long run. At any rate, I learned not to have the oil changed at the cheap oil change establishment.
Then again, we took Brason's truck to a shop we normally trust for a brake repair last month and I asked them to "check it over for any other safety concerns," and somehow they missed the fact that the frame, suspension and brackets that held the truck bed to the moving part of the car was broken and rusted out. It's all fixed now, but only because he took it to another place for an oil change and specifically asked them to diagnose his tilted truck bed.
I remember someone else who drove a car with the oil light on. She didn't suffer the consequences, but her brother did on the way home from a river trip. Stuck on the side of the road thirty miles from home, waiting for Dad to come rescue me. Worked out OK, though, because Dad and I got to rebuild a VW engine. Again. Fun times.
I want to get one of those old-fashioned metal-frame cars. These unibody-frame cars are totally ridiculous. Can't straighten 'em out unless you have laser-alignment equipment. Can't swap bodies so you can drive a van for the winter and a coupe for the summer. Plus they're so lightweight they crumple on contact with a cardboard box!
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