The Jaguar

It was probably shortly after 11:00 AM on a brisk and clear Sunday morning, back when I was a much younger man.  I wheeled my old LTD into the rear entrance of the highway diner parking lot.  I was in good company and looking forward to a well-deserved brunch.  It had been a good week and so far the weekend had not been a disappointment.  Overall, I was in pretty good cheer.  1

As is my custom, I parked a little bit further out in the lot. I suppose I would rather walk a few feet further than have to wrestle a full size two-door car into a downsized parking space and then have to crawl out the window.   We began to walk the hundred fifty or so feet to the door continuing the conversation that we had begun in the car. When we came across a well dressed couple; he, a dark haired gentleman in his late thirties or early forties wearing a stylish suit and overcoat and she, bottle blond, some years younger, also wearing an elegant overcoat, hers with fur collar, slightly open to reveal a fashionable if slightly wrinkled evening dress and a shapely frame supported by long sleek legs and matching heels, standing in front of the Jaguar with New York tags.  I remember thinking to myself that they were probably on a road trip and had stayed over at one of the nearby highway motels for the night, breakfasted at the diner and were on their way home.  2

The look of exasperation on his face as he pecked at his cell phone combined with the expression of enamored concern on hers was an uncomfortably familiar scene.  It was that slightly desperate look that a feller gets when his car really does break down on a hot date.  Well to be entirely honest, the guy looked just a little bit more than just a little bit desperate, maybe just a touch frenzied would be more appropriate.  But there was no mistaking her demeanor.  It was that supportive, understanding and compassionate look women cultivate for just such occasions.  Instinctively, they know that if they remain supportive, pleasant and reassuring during a crisis, especially in the earlier stages of relationships, they are much more likely to endear themselves to their gentlemen, than if they clubbed them with their purses for being incapable of properly maintaining their cars, or at the very least being able to arrange alternate transportation.  I suppose I’ve always wondered what happens to this skill set once their in committed relationships.3

In any event, I knew how he felt, out of state, on a Sunday morning, no mechanics to be found and a very expensive tow home looming on the not too distant horizon.  Although I carry a pretty-much complete mechanics tool box in my trunk and very rarely encounter repairs that I can’t do quickly on the road, a similar experience had happened to me when the front wheel of my car snapped off a few years earlier while taking my date to see a romantic sunrise on the mountain, but that’s another story for another day. Suffice it to say, I really felt sorry for the guy with the Jag.  4

The young lady accompanying me must have picked up on my body language, or maybe she felt the same kind of compassion for the overdressed date and nudged me to go over to see if I could help.  So we vectored from our path to the diner door and approached the couple.  When we reached them, I nodded a greeting, as was a custom I picked up from old timers that would come over to try and be helpful in the rural area where I grew up.  And true to the tradition, I began with the standard inquiry, “Problem?”5

“It won’t start, I can’t find a mechanic or even a tow truck that can be here within a couple hours.” he replied with desperation straining his voice.  6

“Mind if I help?” I inquired politely, being we were both in the presence of our respective dates.  It would be wrong to shame a man who has the situation under control, or at least would prefer his date thought so.7

“Are you a mechanic?’ Do you know Jaguars?” he asked. 8

“I am pretty much as close as you are likely to find on a Sunday around these parts.” I reassured him.  “Unless of course you’d prefer to tow your car back to New York? And a flatbed home’s gonna cost big.”9

He looked to his date for guidance.  And she gave him another one of those unmistakable looks that clearly conveyed her unspoken mindset.  It was that “just do it stupid” look men would recognize as the one they usually get when they try to tell their ladies that they aren’t lost and don’t need to stop for directions.10

“OK” he hesitantly replied.11

So, I asked him to try to start the car. He got in and turned the key. Absolutely nothing happened. “Tap the horn.” I instructed. He did, and it blew. “Open the hood.” I said. And he looked about the passenger compartment with a look of confusion.12

Finally he responded as quietly, as was likely possible near a major highway , “ I don’t know where the latch is.”13

“Its probably one of those hard-to-find foreign latches.” I suggested, in light of his predicament.  So I located the latch and opened the hood for him and there, sitting right near the battery up on the wheel well was an old fashioned Ford-type starter solenoid.  14

For those of you unfamiliar with the workings of an automobile, a starter solenoid is the off and on switch for your starter motor. Or in layman’s terms, its the thing that turns on the thing that makes that cranking noise to start your engine when you want to take your car somewhere.  You see some pretty smart person figured that it might be a bad idea to run all of that electricity needed to start your engine anywhere near your little metal key and sweaty little fingers. So when you want to start your car, you turn your key, and that powers up the solenoid that makes a little clicking noise and in turn sends lots of power to your starter motor that cranks your engine.  If you hear the clicking without the cranking, your battery is dead or your starter motor is shot. Now, you see the fine people who designed this gadget, never really did perfect this devise.  Sometimes these things just get stuck and don’t make that clicking noise which means that there is no electricity going to your starter motor; therefore no cranking noise and your car stays put.  But in defense of car manufacturers, they made it cheap, usually under $10.00 and situated it where it is about the easiest thing on the car to replace.  Now, the thing they don’t tell you, is that when it gets stuck, a swift but not overly aggressive blow from a heavy object will usually get it unstuck, at least one more time, so you can drive home or wherever.  Luckily in amongst my three tool boxes I had just such a heavy object; a four pound handheld sledge hammer.  A single skillful tap was all that the situation required. “Be right back” I remarked as I wandered back towards my car.15

I extracted the implement, black from years of automotive repair service, from my trunk and began making my way back across the parking lot towards the unfortunate pair and, of course, my own very patient date.  I would have preferred it if she looked impressed, but she still only looked hungry.  But then, I really hadn’t done anything impressive yet and she would have plenty of time to be impressed later. In retrospect, maybe she did look a little impressed, but that was more than likely the influence that proximity to a Jaguar has on some women.  16

I can’t help but remark at this point, how lucky it is for the manufacturers of expensive foreign sports cars, that their cars do maintain a strange fascination for some people, even when their stone cold broken down; a not too uncommon condition for some of them. Can’t say as much for most American coupes or sedans which lose just about all of their charm when their hooked to a wrecker. Well, back to the story at hand.17

As I drew closer, all of the color flushed from the feller’s face and his eyes, transfixed on the large hammer in my hand, expanded such that one could hardly help but wonder what was holding them in.  “What are you going to do with that thing? he stammered. 18

I continued towards his car not breaking saunter. “Gonna give you car a little whack in the right place.” I casually replied, resisting the urge to explain to the feller that didn’t even know where his hood latch was, that my favorite hand sledge with a Brazilian hardwood handle was no mere thing. It was a precision instrument carefully balanced and manufactured for the bashing of stubborn things.  And the Good Lord knows he has placed many such stubborn things in each of our life’s path, well he sure has for me, anyway.  Thankfully, he has also provided sledge hammers to help us cope with his little trials and tribulations..19

“No! Wait!” pleaded the gent, completely losing his remaining composure. The ladies’ eyes now frozen on him with that ‘I can’t look away from a car wreck’ expression on their faces.  “Please don’t hit the car.” he begged. “It belongs to my father-in-law. And he’ll kill me….”20

Now, in retrospect, the thought comes to mind, and of course, I’m not entirely sure, but I gotta figure such has happened to just about everyone, you know what I mean, that peculiar distressing experience, the one where your mouth just gets that little bit out in front of your brain.  And something really stupid, maybe entirely honest, but not exactly the good kind of truthful, squishes out before you can get your teeth firmly clenched down on your tongue?  In any event his tongue petrified in mid sentence or at about the time his brain caught up with it.21

His comment didn’t mean anything to me at the time, preoccupied, as I was by the task at hand, and the cooking smells from the diner beckoning my lady and me to breakfast.  Plus, come to think of it, you don’t get to beat on a shiny new Jaguar with a sledgehammer everyday.  But, as I had arrived at the point of impact, I figured I’d stop to take a moment to explain the procedure to the gentlemen more clearly. So as reassuringly as possible, I began “You could let me whack your car and go home as long as you don’t turn it off, until you get there, or drive strait to your local shop, if you prefer, or you could go back inside and call a flatbed for a few hundred bucks, at least, that should get here in a few hours….” But when I looked around at the three faces looking back, they bore such strange expressions that I also stopped in mid-sentence. The well-dressed feller was now frozen in place, kind of like the chick in the old horror flick about to be eaten by the giant very slow moving lobster.  My lady friend was gazing intently at his attractive date still in last evenings attire.  The fine young lady’s expression, that had looked so understanding and reassuring was transforming into something I hadn’t seen since I was a kid and my pet snapping turtle chomped the end off my mom’s broomstick.  Even though I never did figure out why my mom was poking my turtle, this young lady’s formerly soft smile, frozen in place, looked oddly grotesque sharing the same pretty face with the daggers protruding from her eyes. I, still pretty much preoccupied with whacking the Jag and oblivious to the subtext of the situation, stood in place trying to figure out what all of the fuss was about.22

A few long awkward seconds passed before the fire in the young lady’s eyes melted the smile from her lips and she pronounced in an uncharacteristically resolute voice: “I am going home.” her voice rose, “Hit the damn car, or give me the hammer and I will!”  23

I looked over at her date, his face still frozen in mid-sentence, pale, noticeably trembling, and seemingly speechless, awaiting his instructions. As she began to move towards the car her mouth beginning to form additional words, he seemed to momentarily regain his presence of mind and nodded. “Do it.”  Shifting his unblinking stare away from her and back to the hammer in my hand. 24

Well, I gave the solenoid one quick rap, as I had originally intended and instructed him to start the car with the reminder not to turn it off until he got to his destination. Naturally it started right away. As I recall, it actually sounded pretty good for a Jaguar that was undoubtedly low on oil and had been too long parted from its technician, you know the guy with the over exaggerated foreign accent that seems umbilical connected to your exotic import, the one always shaking his head over your engine compartment while thinking of ways to spend the last of your disposable income.  25

In any case, the feller never did get out of the car to thank me properly, I thought it just a little rude at the time. But his lady-friend did manage to suppress her apparent rage long enough to give me a warm smile and heartfelt thanks on behalf of the both of them, I suppose.  They drove off as I went to return the hammer to my toolbox. As they passed me, I waved.  Neither waved back.  Their eyes were transfixed across the hood and neither seemed to be talking.   One would think that they would look happier to be underway again. By the time I returned to my own date, she was chuckling under her breath. “I’m not too sure who I feel more sorry for.” she said. 26

“It wasn’t much. Anything any good mechanic would have done, and they're on their way home.” I responded, still oblivious to the real highlight of the mornings diversion.  Actually, I thought that this would have been the appropriate time for some complimentary remark on her part regarding my display of diagnostic proficiency and mechanical prowess.27

“I cant believe you're so dense. I’ll explain it to you over breakfast.” she said shaking her head in response, and adding to my apparent confusion.  We went inside and were eventually seated.  As we opened our menus she said “That was his girlfriend and the car belonged to his father-in-law.” 28

“You really think she didn’t know?” I inquired as the dim glow of the light bulb intensified above my head and I realized that my display of mechanical prowess was to go unnoticed and unrewarded.29

“What do you think?” she replied.30

“Well at least the Ford’s all mine.” I pronounced with a smile.31

“Yea” she retorted flatly, looked down at her menu for a while and changed the subject, leaving me to think that I was probably right all along.  Nothing good can ever come of crossing paths with a car named after a black cat. 32

In any event, every good story should end with a moral. And, although there may be some better ones you might think of, along with a likely reason your car wont start, that's pretty much what crossed my mind at the time.33