Denise's CVT and basic zombie strategy

 

I dreamed I was down in the valley doing some business at an auto body shop, and I ran into Denise. She was thinking of trading in her 2004 Civic for a newer model, and she wanted me to take it for a test drive. The CVT was acting up, and she figured she'd get ahead of it by dumping the car before it dumped her. She asked me if I wanted to just take the car, since she didn't anticipate getting much for it.

"That will depend on the test drive," I told her. I didn't want to wind up with a hopeless project on my hands.

I got in the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Immediately, I remembered why I never wanted to own one of these cars. CVT is an acronym for Continuously Variable Transmission. I don't have a snippy metaphor at the ready, so I'll just say "they suck." 

Rather than having distinct gears, this type of automatic transmission relies on some kind of magic ratio between two variable diameter pulleys to provide an infinite number of speeds and torque profiles. Call me old fashioned, but I like to know when a car shifts, and I want it to be directly related to what my foot does on the accelerator. A CVT feels like one long decision that never gets made, just continuous slippage as the car slowly ramps up to speed.

The car exhibited a bit of judder on takeoff, though not bad for an older car. The inertial damper, aka start clutch, usually goes out on these things, causing a bit of shaking as the car makes its initial jump to hyperspace from impulse power. I recall (no pun intended) doing a fair amount of warranty work on those stupid start clutches during my time at Honda. 

Halfway up the hill, it began to get a bit more sluggish, and I decided to peremptorily call a tow truck. If Denise could dump the car before it left her stranded, I figured I'd call a for a tow before I actually needed one, so I could cut down on my wait time on the side of the road. They could just look for the car that was limping along, and we could do a slow motion version of one of those car chase transfer maneuvers. You know, the ones where the getaway car boards a larger vehicle via a loading ramp that is usually dragging and laying down a trail of sparks. 

I met with the tow truck driver, a blonde, curly haired lady in her mid thirties dressed in the obligatory flannel shirt and construction boots, and she went over the rate schedule with me. We loaded the car the old fashioned way, via a winch and hook, while she described the various discounts for Auto Club members. Apparently, sales was a part of her job, and she was a hoping for a commission for her roadside proselytization efforts. I denied her this pleasure and stuck with the standard rates.

I was finally deposited at my destination, but I'm damned if I know where it was, exactly. I think it may have been April's trailer up in the hills, in an area of Paradise I was unfamiliar with. She was standing on a makeshift front porch, a kind of wooden platform erected next to the trailer, cooking something on a gas barbecue grill. A grey haired fellow with a beard was standing next to her. He was holding a rifle.

"I like to make sure we're safe when we're out here," he said. "Minimize the time outside, if possible."

We all knew what he was referring to. Zombies. We were living in the days when the lines between video games and life had blurred, and a lot of the game strategies were now proving to be essential survival skills. 

"I favor decapitation," said April, smiling broadly as she flipped over a steak. "I just use my sword and--ZSHING!" She made a slashing motion with the meat skewer.

 

I described my own particular protocols, which seemed dull by comparison. Keep the doors closed. Always. Have a defensible space with a view. No hiding places for lurkers to pop out of and surprise you. And yes, decapitation was fun, but I preferred a rifle with a scope. Why get all that zombie blood on you if you didn't have to?

That's all I can recall. I'm stretching the story pretty thin as it is. Perhaps, one day, I'll take this dream journalism practice into the real world and discuss some of the actual events that have transpired in my life. Maybe in my next life, when I'm recalling this one as the dream.