#SaveEddie, Part VI: The Fortunes of Happenstance

This is the sixth part in a series of articles chronicling my illogical attempts to repair and restore my long-time owned Pontiac Sunfire, affectionately dubbed "Eddie." Do not anticipate expert repair advice. Trust me, an actual mechanic would have sorted this all out years ago.

Previous entries

Part I: The Coefficient of Friction
Part II: The Consequence of Inertia
Part III: The Inconvenience of Arithmetic
Part IV: The Agony of Without
Part V: The Fragility of Fasteners

Credit: NBC/Getty

It’s funny, the people you meet in a bar. I should say, it happens more frequently when you work in said bar, perhaps to the point it become unfunny, but happy coincidences happen.

So it was that I had three gentlemen from a local body shop come in for lunch, still wearing their coveralls emblazoned with the company logo. As they’re digging into their burgers washed down with locally brewed IPA, I get to talking to them and mention I’m thinking about paint for Eddie. Turns out the guy on their left is the one to talk to about that, nudge nudge.

I show them all some pictures on my phone, explaining that the still-crumpled hood and quickly-painted bumper will be replaced. That said, they tell me it would be an easy side job, taking no longer than a weekend. Phone numbers are exchanged, and they tipped well.

So now another piece is in place for Eddie’s resurrection. I just need to source the bumper cover and hood, which can be found online, as long as you’re willing to spring for freight shipping, which sometimes costs more than the parts themselves. Sure enough, it does, but it’s either this, or try my luck at junkyards, and the whole point is to make Eddie look good. But wait, they offer financing!

I normally don’t like paying thigs off over time, since the future is forever in flux, but for whatever reason the short term I’ve selected has zero interest, so that’s a purchase made a little more palatable by distributing the load. Oh, and the bumper absorber finally arrived; after I’d resolved to use the old one, at least temporarily.

With a source for these parts checked off, I call up my body shop acquaintance so he can look things over and give me an estimate. It occurs to me I should ask if he could give some attention to the left quarter panel, damaged by a support pillar (my fault) and the slightly caved-in left-rear door, damaged in a parking lot (not my fault, and I wish I knew who to blame). The quarter panel looks easy to him, but the door would be easier on his team and my wallet if I could find a new door, then the whole car could be given a fresh coat. This appeals to me, since the roof has been fading faster than any other body panel due to sun damage these past 19 years.

I thank him for his time and double-check I have his number saved. Now I need the parts, and I’ve figured that, since I’m replacing the nose anyway, could I swap it out for the 2000 design?

Research tells me that everything lines up, so in theory it’s just a matter of parts. With a glass of bourbon in hand, I scour the Internets for pictures of the 2000 nose to compare to Eddie. From what I can tell, the only things I’ll need are new side marker and turn signal lenses. The units are discreet from one another on the 2000, but are integrated on the SE trims 1999 and older. Then comes the method of installing them, which turns out to be an odd 11mm nut designed to cut into a plastic post to create its own thread pattern.

This is all a matter as easy as buying new parts online. Sure, I could troll around junkyards, but my vanity wants new parts, and the emotional part of my brain has declared that Eddie deserves it. However, I’m forced to reconsider once I meet with my paint guy with the car in person, and he sees the big dent in the rear-left door from a parking lot incident.

“We could hammer it out, but it’ll be easier on us and you if you could find a new door.”

Okay. Where’s that junkyard, again?

Credit: WikiMedia

...Drunk people.

I work in a bar. I pour alcohol down peoples' throats in exchange for money. The more distilled product they consume the more I potentially make. Sometimes I lose out on money if they consume too much. It's a delicate balance I must walk, but I must enjoy it on some deep level, else I would find a new line of work.

But my deep seated masochism aside, I inevitably find myself surrounded by drink people. It's annoying, as anyone who's ever been the sole sober person in the bar can attest, but I can tolerate them to a degree because they're paying me to get as close to alcohol poisoning as possible. I immerse myself in a world of drunken debauchery for profit.

The problem comes when I'm off work. Don't get me wrong,I like a drink at night, especially a single-malt scotch or well-balanced spiced rum in a mojito. Actually the alcohol spectrum I enjoy is much wider than that, but that's beyond the scope of this post.

The problem comes from the drunk people. I can tolerate them just fine when they pay me, but when they're just around me and I reap no monetary benefit, that's when I have a problem.

See, drunk people are annoying. They're loud, obnoxious, can't find their keys, lose their phones every five minutes, and the dance floor somehow has a greater gravitational pull on them than the earth beneath their feet.  They have a way of raising their voice to the point when the whole room knows about their new warts, and everyone’s trying desperately to forget where said warts have started appearing.  They’ll also find the least convenient place possible to expel the contents of their stomachs.

And I'm sure I could tolerate that if only I were one of them. But my finances are such that I cannot afford to spend all night getting smashed anywhere other than at home, where the booze is already paid for. Many a night I have passed out, not remembering what I watched on Netflix while falling asleep. And I’ll be honest, I don’t know that I would have watched nine consecutive episodes of Sherlock while passing out.  I want to be awake for that stuff.

But no.  I tend to arrive at the bar ten minutes before last call, only because my own bar closes fairly early.  If we closed at state-mandated last call, I can assure you I’d go straight home afterwards, because that would mean drunk people are paying me to stay late.  But instead I’m one of the few sober people in the tavern.  That list includes me, the establishment’s management and bar staff, and a few of my coworkers who’ve just ordered the maximum number of drinks legally permitted in a desperate attempt to catch up to the barflies around them (a fruitless effort, to be frank, as their bodies won’t feel it until after they’ve been ejected from the pub because it can’t legally have patrons in it at that hour).

So why am I there? Bars are supposed to be hubs of socialization, where the merits of various sports teams are discussed, bets are made on field goals, and desperate inebriated singles hope to go home with other desperate inebriated singles.  But here I am, just sitting next to a coworker or two, bitching about the shift I just worked, getting annoyed at the motley collection of people dancing to the Two Bit Shuffle.

Am I just frustrated that other people are having more fun than I am?  Perhaps. Let’s be honest: it’s a hazard of being sober at the bar near last call.  So why am I there?  Certainly, I like the bar staff at the pub, but they’re busy dealing with the drunk people I just dismissed from my own bar.  I want to unwind a bit, but like I said, the drinks are cheaper at home.  I like my coworkers… I guess.

I’m left to assume I am there by habit.  A habit I must break for monetary and sanitary reasons.  The neighborhood tavern will henceforth be relegated to my night off.  Unfortunately, on my night off, I haven’t the energy to go anywhere, having been sucked into a self-imposed marathon of Sherlock on Netflix.