Since the year 1993, I have fled the Maine winter for a visit to Florida for beer, baseball and beaches, not necessarily in that order. For many years I had season tickets to the Red Sox stadium at Fort Myers. Traditionally, this extravagance has been funded by my annual federal and state tax deductions.
This year I expected a return of $1,700 from my pals at TurboTax. That would be plenty for the (driving) trip to Norton, The Smithsonian and the Newseum, Charleston, biking at Jekyll Island (my personal Eden) then a languid visit to St. Mark and St. Jane in Spring Hill. Winter isn’t over until I float (hardly paddle) down the Weeki Wachee River to the Gulf of Mexico. There is just something about a Red Sox Spring Training baseball game in March.
If you are going to drive 5,000 miles (many at illegal speeds), you must check your vehicle before leaving the Maine snow drifts. There is an eternal debate among my circle about going to the dealer (expensive) or a local garage (chancy). I had not been to the Honda dealer for 50,000 miles, the Honda mileage was 151,000 and I thought it was time this week. The estimate was $333, a whopping sum, but better than breaking down on a back road in South Carolina.
I arrived (if you can believe it) at the dealer at 7:30 a.m. I waddled into the waiting lounge and started on the dealer’s supply of honey-dipped donuts. Brought my own coffee. It is a fundamental rule at the dealer’s that the longer they come to get you, the more it is going to cost. The Man came out of the garage at 9 a.m. and called my name. I knew by the look on his face that the car was not done and ready to go. He had “that look” a doctor has when he has to use the word “malignant.”
He started talking about the rear brakes, which were shattered. He kept talking about sway bars and heat shields and manifold shields. I went into the consumer’s coma as he rattled on. Yada, yada, yada. The conversation ended with … $1,900.
While tears filled my eyes, he explained that the brake job had to be done, or they would eventually seize. With my luck that would be at 80 miles an hour on Interstate 95 right next to a South Carolina school bus.
“Do it,” I choked out.
After all, it was 50,000 miles since the last checkup. The Accord would be good for another 50,000 miles, at least. I had no choice and returned to mourn and grieve in the waiting room. There a parade of people came and went, many with no charge. “All set,” The Man would say and hand them their puny bills. Just to finish off the day he said repeatedly, “No charge.” To several he said, “We did your inspection sticker, too.” I hated them all. They probably did their inspections on time every 10,000 miles.
I was there for so long that my iPhone battery died. I didn’t think this expedition would take all day. It came time for lunch and I got a shuttle ride to Olive Garden. I thought of ordering a cyanide cocktail but settled on a less destructive chardonnay. I had plenty of time to kill, so I walked around the frozen mall with my Olive Garden leftovers in a big paper bag. I know I looked homeless. I know I felt homeless. You walk around a snow-blanketed mall for a few hours without a car and see what your mood is.
Cobb Manor finance 101 holds that “for every bill there is a check. But for every check there is a bill.” It has always worked that way, sometimes within hours. But I didn’t expect to spend my tax refund before I even got it. When I got back to the dealer after lunch, he said the bill was “only” $1,700, the exact amount of my refund. (The new wipers were $40. Labor was $839.)
Jefferson Phil has already fled town. He is sharing Manteo Island with Vermont Jon. I know they will call during every blizzard to laugh. I know I would. Now, I have to stay home and listen to Grima and his WWII reminiscences. When I ordered wood, I brought two of the three cords of wood into the barn. Hey, I was going to Florida! Now the third cord sits on the lawn under at least four feet of snow with more coming.
I shall grit what is left of my teeth for the winter, plan numerous trips to the YMCA, and maybe even swim. I shall buy numerous lottery tickets to get out of town. I shall be such a PITA that my pals will take up a collection to get me out of town. I know Blue Eyes would chip in.
Well, as every Red Sox fan always says, “Wait ’til next year.”
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.