Now, the demise of the Beloved Corona happened in the following way. I was driving down Route 2 toward Boston. A path the Beloved Corona had traversed so many times that the car seemed to know the route by heart. All of a sudden, the engine just died. One minute I was traveling along happily at 60 mph, the next minute the engine was dead and I had a sickening feeling as the car slowed and I coasted off to the breakdown lane of Route 2.
The dash lights and headlights were still on. I tried starting the car with the handy switch. The engine cranked and cranked but never caught. I popped the hood and looked into the engine compartment. The voltage regulator seemed fine. The patch in the fuel line seemed fine. The starter switch was obviously working, even the doorbell horn was still working. My vast car repair knowledge thus exhausted, I locked up the car, walked to the next exit, and called a tow truck.
The tow truck met me at the car. The mechanic and I popped the hood. He asked me to crank the engine, which I did. He listened, fidgeted with a few parts I couldn’t name, scratched his head, and said, “You know, It’s probably the timing chain.”
“You think?” I asked.
“Yeah, the mechanic replied. With a car this age, the chain that connects the cam shaft with the crank shaft gets stretched out and can finally slip.”
“Ahh…” I said having absolutely no idea what the repercussions of such a catastrophic event might be.
“Yeah, then the timing of when the fuel goes into the cylinders, and when the compression happens, and when the spark comes… it all gets screwed up and you end up getting no combustion at all.” He said this kindly, but it was clear he was trying to let me down easy.
“So, what does it cost to fix something like that?” I asked trying to muster all my remaining hope. I felt kind of like the young child of divorce asking, “Yeah, but you and dad might get back together again someday, right?!?”
“Well…” began the mechanic, sounding a little too much like my mother, “you could try that, but it’s expensive. Basically, it’s like rebuilding the engine. And given the age of the car, I’m just not sure it would be worth it.”
He could tell I was trying to come to grips with the news. And demonstrating remarkable emotional intelligence, the mechanic turned away and lit a cigarette, giving me a private moment to come to grips with the news.
“So what do you think are my options,” I finally asked.
“Well, I hate to say it, but I think this is the end of the road, so to speak.” There was a pit in my stomach, or perhaps in my throat. “My company owns a junk yard, and I’m pretty sure we’d pay you for this car in the condition it’s in. If you want, we can tow it back there right now and check it out.”
It was hard to argue with that. The car was dead. It was already hooked up to the tow truck. “Sure,” I said, “that sounds like the best option.”
I climbed into the cab of the tow truck, and off we went. I don’t remember exactly what he said during that 20-minute ride, but that gentle mechanic ministered to me like a skilled grief counselor. By the time we arrived I trusted him, and I was pretty much convinced that the Beloved Corona was at the end of its generous life. The owner of the junk yard took a look at the blue beauty as it came off the truck. “Don’t see many of these around anymore,” he said.
“Most likely a slipped timing chain,” said the mechanic gently.
“Ahhh.” replied the junkyard owner. “That’s a tough break.” And for a moment, we all stood observing a moment of silence.
“What can you give me for it?” I finally asked, breaking the silence.
He stepped into his office and shuffled through some catalogs. He came out a few minutes later.
“We don’t pay to take many cars these days,” he said. “Usually, it’s the other way around.”
There was a pregnant pause as we all gazed back at the Beloved Corona. Finally the junkyard owner said, “I can give you forty bucks for this car.”
My mind reeled backward over the last two years and more. I had misty visions of uncle my Charlie, a voltage regulator, a sledge hammer, a doorbell, an engine fire, pirouettes, and thousands of miles. All these thoughts flashed before my mind’s eye in a single instant. The way I figured it, the Beloved Corona didn’t owe me one dollar, much less five of them.
“I’ll take $35 if you can go that low,” I said with a resigned smile on my face.
“Deal,” said the junk yard owner. “Can we give you a ride anywhere?”
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