I lost a car, boss

 

I dreamed I was workin' on cars...again. Yuba City Honda...again. I would say that I ought to be getting paid for all my time spent there while dreaming, however, the quality of my work in these dreams would say otherwise. At least fire me, so I can stop living in that nether world of "I worked here so long that I don't know what else to do with my life."

In my dream, I had a car that needed to have its lane assist steering system re-initialized, re-calibrated or whatever, something that has to be done any time you replace a component. I don't remember what part I'd replaced, or if it was a new car, and it needed to have the procedure done for the first time. 

Houa was helping me, since I'd been away from work for a while. He showed me where to find the auxiliary battery. It was located in a special compartment behind an access panel under the passenger seat. I made note of it for future reference and proceeded to hook up my scan tool.

I got my wires and alligator clips out and tried to find a source of power and ground for my scanner. I found a decent connector under the driver's seat, and stuck a paperclip in it, then hooked up the alligator clip to it. It sparked a couple of times, but finally I got it secure. For the ground, I used the bolt that holds the seat rail to the chassis. Can't get any more grounded than that.

After a few prompts from the scanner, I had to perform the part of the calibration procedure that requires one to push the car in a straight line along a flat surface for 200 feet.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" I grumbled. The car was parked in the parking lot and on a hill, no less.

"No," said Houa. "That's how we do it now."

There wasn't enough room to do it there in the parking lot, but since I'd already started, I went ahead and tried to complete the process. I only got about twenty feet before I ran out of driveway.

"OK, guys," I said to Houa and a couple of lube techs who were standing around watching. "Let's get this car back into the shop."

We pushed the car into the shop, but once again, there was scant space to do the required operation. A black female tech offered to help and jumped in the car with me. I took the car out of calibration mode, and we drove it out to the end of a long cul-de-sac in the neighborhood. 

Once there, however, I realized that I'd forgotten my scan tool. For whatever reason, the two of us decided to walk back to the dealership, leaving the new car in the middle of the street. I kept turning around as we walked to make sure the car was still there, and it was. 

Until it wasn't. Someone had decided that a new car with the keys in it was too tempting to be ignored, and with the pretext of "moving it for safety," jumped in and drove off. I was going to have a hard time explaining to the boss how I'd let that happen.

Fortunately, I never did. I woke up. End of story. Another consequence-free dream where I fuck something up and am not called to account for it. 

Reminds me of the time when I was working on some guy's older Accord. It was a 90-93, something in that generation. This guy loved that car, and he'd spent thousands keeping it on the road, despite the many miles and years on the car. I mean it, hoses, trim pieces, routine maintenance--the guy always took it to the dealership for everything because he trusted us.

Until that one day when he or I drew the short straw, and I wound up working on the car. It had an electrical problem (no doubt introduced at some point when repairs were being done). The cigarette lighter wasn't working, and he wanted it to work. No matter that he didn't smoke. Most people use the outlet as an auxiliary power source. 

The car kept blowing a fuse every time you'd use the lighter. I don't know what went on in my head at the time, but I decided to put a put a 20A fuse in place of the 7.5 that was in the lighter slot in the fuse box. I used the lighter and, voila, the fuse didn't pop. Instead, smoke started seeping out from under the dash.

"Fuuuu----," I sank down into the driver's seat and cursed. Of course right about then Bill, the service manager, walked up. 

"How's it going with the Accord?" he asked, noting the sweat on my forehead and the dismal look on my face.

"Umm. Not good. It's going to need a whole wire harness. Maybe a couple of them." I didn't mention that it was because I had just melted the original one. I didn't have to. It was kind of implied.

This was nothing new. Mechanics routinely fuck shit up, and the service writer is left with the task of covering it up and making up a story to tell the customer, who is then left with the option of paying for the necessary repairs or taking their crippled car away with a tow truck. We informed the customer that his car would not be repairable for a reasonable amount of money and suggested that he make the decision to end its life. 

Maybe this is why I'm cursed to have work related dreams for the rest of my life.