Having issues with one’s car is a rite of passage that all of us get to experience at some point in our lives.
The moment you’ve got those keys in your hot little hands, it’s time to start vetting mechanics as one would lawyers. The same criteria apply: You want someone who is very knowledgeable, not too expensive, and can quickly get you out of a crappy situation.
Sure, I’ve had my share of engine and bodywork problems over the years. Sometimes it was due to just bad luck. Other times, it was because the car was overdue a service, and when I chose to ignore that fact, it broke something deliberately to get my attention. Either that, or it knew I had no money in the bank.
My problems with vehicles have been many and varied, but if there’s a god of car seats, I’m clearly in his bad books because some of my worst experiences have all revolved around upholstery.
Beyond leaky convertible roofs that soaked the seat cushions, which slowly, over time, ended up smelling like mouldy gym socks, the real fun began when I bought an old moped.
Honestly, I can’t even remember why I bought the bloody thing. Was it for me? Was it for someone else? No idea. It wasn’t in great nick and it needed a new battery, but for some unearthly reason I needed it to fill a scooter-sized hole in my life.
Keen to get it on the road as quickly as possible, I bundled its present dead battery onto the front seat of my Ford SUV so I could take it to a dealer. I wanted them to see the model so I made sure I bought the right thing.
I ended up going to three places with no luck while, unbeknownst to me, the thing was leaking acid like a xenomorph passenger. By the time I got home, there was a burnt hole in the seat that had gone through the cushion towards the springs.
I don’t recall much about that moped, except two things with absolute certainty: I never got it on the road; and a replacement chair for my SUV would have cost more than three times what I paid for the scooter. I drove round with a towel to cover the damage until the vehicle itself got switched out.
The next episode was a doozy. My parents were going on a trip, and my father wanted to make sure his prized BMW was protected from the elements. We had a garage at our house, so he asked if he could leave it there. “Sure,” I said, already imagining myself purring along Cayman’s roads in the sleek, emerald-green beauty. I was driving a Jeep at the time with only a bimini top to keep the rain at bay. When the heavens really opened, I’d get soaked, and to add insult to injury, I’d park, step out, close the door, and a waterfall would cascade down from gathered pools on the roof. Now, for three whole weeks, I had a proper car at my disposal.
Of course, I didn’t tell my Dad. I wasn’t sure he’d be terribly keen, so best to follow the ol’ ‘apologise afterwards’ ethos.
My parents’ flight was barely wheels-up before I was on the road, waving to people I knew with a newfound confidence, my body embraced – nay, coddled – by the luxurious, cream leather seats. “This was how I should be living,” I thought, as the delightfully cool air-conditioning blew my hair softly from my cheeks.
About a day or so into the enjoyment of my temporary acquisition, a friend gave me a bottle of red wine. I don’t remember why. The reason is irrelevant. They dropped it by the house, and I was already outside, so I just put it on the front seat of the car.
Later, when I got back, it seemed like a huge inconvenience to actually grab it and take it indoors, so I left it. And left it. And left it.
Fast forward to the date my parents were due back. I hadn’t driven the car for a few days and I had to pick them up from the airport. Time to remove all my personal belongings. I opened the boot and carried all the karaoke equipment to the house, then I opened the main doors, and … I was taken aback by the strong smell of red wine, not to mention the liquid all over the seat, on the carpet behind the seat, sprayed along the ceiling … The heat had uncorked the bottle and there was red wine everywhere.
I think I swallowed a lung. I couldn’t breathe. I had to be at the airport in an hour, and it looked like I’d been running a mobile bordello in my father’s pride and joy.
I drove to the West Bay Road Esso in a panic, grabbed all the guys I knew who worked there, and – sounding like a teenager in a 35-year-old woman’s body – squeaked, “I’ve ruined my Dad’s car!”
To their credit, and my relief, they went to work like ants on a Snickers bar. Soaps, sponges, sprays and shammies were employed with lightning speed and, unbelievably, the evidence began to disappear. As they cleaned, I purchased and installed cheap, industrial-grade air-freshener to try and overpower the wine smell. A cloud of concentrated, intense strawberries filled the cabin, which almost made me gag, but certainly erased any hint of fermented grapes.
Incredibly, 20 minutes later, you would never have known there had been a problem. The crew had worked miracles – I was saved!
I got to the airport with moments to spare. Mum and Dad got into the car, and I held my breath. Nothing. No suspicions, no questions, just wrinkled noses when assaulted by the overwhelming scent of faux fruit. I couldn’t believe my luck.
Just in case you’re wondering, I did eventually come clean to my father – but it was many years afterwards, when the BMW was but a distant memory. He saw the humour. I think …
The final tale revolves, again, around a family member’s car. This time it was my brother Michael’s SUV one December, and I had full permission to use it. And, once again, it had cream leather seats.
On the second day, I noticed a very faint blue tinge to the leather, and I realised that my warm bum in jeans was the culprit. Immediately, I reached for a dry-cleaning plastic bag that was in the back. I’d put that between my jeans and the seat, and all would be well.
As I pulled up to work and hopped out, the bag tried to come with me, which is when I saw that it had left a perfect imprint of its Christmas design on the seat. A chirpy red robin looked back at me from the main cushion, with the holly it held in its beak disappearing over the front. The start of ‘Merry’ ran along the side near the adjustment levers. I couldn’t have done a better job of copying it if I’d tried, down to the last feather.
“No, no, no!!” I stammered, shocked at the sight. I ran into the office, got some soap on a sponge, and came out to try and erase the picture. It absolutely would not budge.
This time, I called in the big guns: Rohelio’s. I really thought I was a goner, but Rohelio himself – cool, calm and collected, like a shopkeeper from Diagon Alley – reached into his box of tricks and brought forth an innocent-looking spray bottle with no label on it.
“This is my special formula,” he announced, and started spraying the seat. Like magic, the bird, the holly and the ‘Mer’ were wiped away effortlessly, along with the jeans bumprint. It was a miracle.
I didn’t ask how he did it, I just handed over money and extra money, and drove off, sitting on a white, plain towel.
After all of these incidents, I don’t know if I’ve completely learned my lesson, but there have been teachable moments along the way: Don’t leave bottles of wine in a car in the Caribbean. Don’t put a lead-acid battery on a seat. Don’t ever borrow a vehicle with cream leather. Buy air freshener that doesn’t make you retch.