Most people will tell you that machines, such as typewriters, automobiles and Al Gore, don't have souls. They don't think; they don't have motivations. These people will tell you that machines are inanimate objects, built by man, without personalities.
I am here to tell you these people are full of crap.
I make this bold assertion based on the actions of my car, which has undeniably demonstrated that it hates me. This innocent looking 1990 Chevrolet Corsica is really not innocent. Deep down in its soul -- which I believe is located somewhere in the glove box -- it just doesn't like me. I know this because it chooses to break down at some of the worst times possible
Before last weekend, the last time it broke down, I was driving over the Sierra Nevada mountains to the Rose Bowl when my car's water pump started making a noise like a cow with a cold trying unsuccessfully to cough up a turnip stuck in its throat. Fortunately, my car's evil plans were foiled when I was able to make it to a friend's house in Sacramento.
This weekend, it chose another extremely bad time to break down. I was in Palo Alto, Calif. for the wedding of two of my closest friends, Laura and Jeremy.
For their nuptials, they asked me to do them a favor, and I was more than willing to oblige. They proclaimed me ICEMAN. This meant it was my job to hustle to the store right after the wedding in order to buy ice for the reception. I was also to deliver various containers full of soda and beer to the ceremony.
No problem. I could this. For I was ICEMAN. But I forgot one thing: My car is evil.
The day of the wedding, I hopped into my cooler-filled Corsica, and headed to the church. On the way, however, something alarmed me: the undeniable smell of plastic burning. I made it to the church, leapt from the car, and proceeded to sniff my car from top to bottom for the odor's source. The looks I received from befuddled passers-by were interesting; I realize looked like a major nutjob sniffing my car -- while dressed formally -- like a crazed rabbit with a Chevy fetish.
Unable to locate the source of the odor, I shrugged and headed the wedding. There, I told several friends not to be surprised if my car burst into flame as I drove to get the ice. (This was a problem because car fires are known to melt wedding reception ice.)
The wedding, in all seriousness, was beautiful. I don't cry at weddings, but I was one tiny step away from sniveling like a baby.
After the nuptials, I stopped my sniveling and headed for the car to perform my duties as ICEMAN. I made it about a block before the odor returned. Concerned. but with an important job to do -- after all, friends were depending on me -- I kept driving.
That is, until the smoke started wafting from the spot where the steering wheel connects to the steering column.
I pulled into a nearby shopping center and cussed at my car for a while. Seeing as all my friends were in transit from the wedding to the reception, and the only person whose cell-phone number I knew had left it in his hotel room (I am not making this up), I had no choice to walk to the 10 blocks or so to reception -- in the midday heat, in one helluva hurry, while wearing slacks that are not designed for walking long distances because they have a tendency to chafe in horrible places.
I got there and grabbed the first friend I could find, Jaime. I explained the situation (although I left out the chafing part) and asked for help. He drove me back to the evil cretin Corsica, where we retrieved all the coolers and drinks. We then hauled major ass to Safeway, bought the ice, and hauled even more major ass back to the reception.
It was a bit late, but the reception had drinks and ice. ICEMAN had done his job.
I then had to deal with my car. I resisted my first idea -- to push it over a large cliff -- only because large cliffs are hard to find in Palo Alto. I went with idea No. 2, to have it towed to a mechanic.
My friend Robin was kind enough to drive me back to the smoking Corsica, where I met the tow truck. By the grace of God, AAA helped me find a mechanic open on Saturday. After dropping off the car, I called Robin to pick me up, and we returned to the reception. I started calming down, and even got up to give a toast to Laura and Jeremy, during which -- you guessed it -- my cellular phone rang. (I was told by some people I had the line of the day at that point: "Excuse me, my pants are going off.")
It was the mechanic -- calling to say that they couldn't find anything wrong with my car.
Another trip to the mechanic and $150 later, I had my car back, allegedly unfixed. But it didn't smoke any more that day, and I made it back to Reno without further problems.
And I am sure the car will be fine for a while. At least until the next highly inconvenient moment arises, when something will go wrong.
But now that I am home, the car had better watch out. After all, there ARE lots of cliffs around Reno ...
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan. His column appears here Tuesdays, except for last week when it took a mysterious vacation to Sunday. But it's back now. Jimmy can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.