MR. MECHANIC, I NEED SOME BODY WORK! The mechanic spoke over the phone in a calm voice—the kind of voice you’re supposed to use on an hysterical person. My car had gone into the shop for a routine physical, but the mechanic had found the auto equivalent of heart failure. “We can fix the problems, Ms. Redford, but. . . .” “But what?” Was I supposed to fill in the blank? I wasn’t normally so snippy—at least, not openly— but I had a bad feeling about this conversation. “But you have an old car, and there’s a lot that needs fixing.” He sounded unwavering. I rolled my eyes and tapped my toe. Boy, this guy is sharp. Next, he’s going to tell me it has four wheels and a missing hood ornament. “So, what’s wrong with it?” A pin-sized headache started behind my eyes. He proceeded to give me a detailed diagnosis of my car’s current diseased state. He used words like damaged head, leaky valve, and terminal. I wondered if I’d taken the car to a hospital instead of a garage. As he spoke, my hearing vanished, my vision blurred. I could see only dollar signs. “You see, once the gasket starts to fail, the oil leaks through. . . .” “Did I hear you say, costly?” I interrupted. He’d sneaked that word in somewhere. “Well, yes, I’m afraid so.” He sounded so sorry for me that I wanted to smack him. “As in hundreds?” No immediate answer. I did, however, hear a long, slow exhalation of breath. “More than hundreds?” I crossed my fingers, hoping he’d lie to me. “Umm, a lot more, ma’am.” I felt sick. I sat down hard in the metal chair by the pay phone in the break room. I yanked off my nylon hair net. What a rotten day.
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