My Car's Evil Twin

By TAD BARTIMUS

There's a theory that we all have a twin somewhere in the world, that one day we'll walk down a street or stare out a window, and suddenly someone who looks exactly like us will come into view.

I believe my car has a twin. It's in Argentina, or maybe Russia or Sri Lanka. And it needs parts. Lots of parts. Every few weeks this Hannibal Lecter of the auto world must have more expensive and hard-to-come-by chunks of chrome and steel. Through some telepathic mystery, this evil twin communicates its cravings to its good twin. 
The good twin is a perfectly ordinary-looking 1996 white Jeep Cherokee with fewer than 45,000 miles on its odometer. When the good twin receives the evil twin's cryptic message, it behaves like a devoted sibling sacrificing a kidney. Kerplunk! Pffwewh! Pffft! Want a transmission? Here! Take mine! Need brakes? Gone! How about a muffler? Sure!

I intuit this as I sit on the hard wooden bench in the auto dealer's service area. I'm a familiar figure here. Grease monkeys see me coming, look knowingly at one another, then wave out of pity. I'm on a first-name basis with the foreman. The cashier who stamps PAID on my many repair bills now apologizes when she takes my VISA.
Over the years I've learned to drink the garage's peculiar-tasting stale coffee and read its People magazines. I come often enough to keep up (sort of) with the soap operas always turned full-volume on the ceiling-level TV. 

I once suggested my car was a lemon. As in Lemon Law. The chief mechanic's look of utter disbelief silenced me - after all, he holds my transportation fate in his hydraulic fluid-stained hands. My car a lemon? There is no such thing, he insisted. That's just slanderous rabble-rousing some consumer advocate dreamed up to irritate car companies! 

We never spoke of it again.
 
Nor did I ask where all the faulty pieces go: the driver's door that nearly fell off when the factory weld broke, the two sets of brakes, the entire air-conditioning system, headlight wiring that failed twice, three heavy-duty batteries, rusted-out drip rails, two starter assemblies, leaking grommets, the adjustable driver's side mirror, ruptured serpentine belts, broken lug nuts, defective shock bushings, plastic trim and mud guards. Here today, gone later today. 

The only logical conclusion is the evil-twin-in-Argentina theory.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you ... ," my mechanic begins with the inevitable icebreaker. I know it's bad news because he doesn't make eye contact.

I am no longer listening. Somewhere, the evil one is calling to its twin.

My mind wanders to the story of author J. K. Rowling, who was a single mother living hand-to-mouth in Scotland and, while sitting in a cafe with her daughter to keep warm, began imagining an orphan named Harry Potter. 

Out of her daily struggle -- a usual impediment to human creativity and security - Ms. Rowling rose above her poverty (probably caused in part by auto repair bills) and allowed her imagination to soar, thereby giving "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" to the world to enchant, delight and inspire millions.

Putting down my Styrofoam cup of peculiar coffee, tossing aside my People magazine, I reach for an expired warranty form, take up my pen and begin to scribble. 
"... and so," the chief mechanic is saying, "I'm afraid we'll have to tear it all apart and replace it." 

"What?" I am irritated at the interruption.
He explains again.

"Yes," I reply impatiently, "I understand. I have to buy an entire new engine and frame, and I'll need a third set of tires. Fine. Get on with it and don't bother me."

I am writing: "Once upon a time there were twin 1996 white Jeep Cherokees, one hiding out in exotic Argentina, the other spending most of its life in a dreary auto repair shop. ..."

© 2001 The Women Syndicate

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© 2001 The Women Syndicate. The content on these pages is the property of The Women Syndicate and may not be used without express written permission. Contact friends@tadbartimus.com