The Brits Like it From Behind

Speaking of difficult British people and their technicalities I have an interesting tale that involves my car, four people from school, a random redneck, and a whole lot of voltage. I swear, it's not kinky....maybe it is. I really don't know what y'all are into, however, to each their own.

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"The Brits Like it From Behind"

Many people believe that their dogs resemble their owners. I hold the belief that people drive cars that match their personalities and perhaps their looks in a way. My car, for anyone now interested, is gorgeous. She's foreign, like me. Green, I'm olive, but close enough. Gorgeous, I hate to toot my own horn. However, she's also a righteous pain in the ass.....I claim that one as well. The one thing that my car and I don't have in common is that she's a 1991 British Jaguar XJS, and I'm a 1989 American Jew. However, I swear, the similarities are there.

Now, my car, despite it's lovely exterior, has more problems under the hood than Courtney Love. So far I have replaced the battery, fixed the hood latch, got freon from over the border, and replaced the exterior lights. Two months ago I, these I's when discussing car payments are really my mother, paid $3000 to replace all of the fuel valves replaced since apparently my car had been recalled in the past due to these valves catching fire when the car ignition was activated. Apparently I had been driving a bomb for the last three years and not realizing it.

The past three weeks though I had been unable to drive my now defused bomb due to her not wanting to run. Now, most people would think that my car being unable to turn on was an electrical problem or perhaps even a fuel problem. Nope, it was Jesus. Jesus is solely responsible for the death of my car. Also, my friend Texter (from a previous story) is a witch.

One night I was quite hungry after my statistics course. I come home and find Texter sitting in my living room eating Chinese food. After wooing me with said food of Oriental persuasion I decide that I too would like some. Once I decided what I wanted, I began to beg Texter to let me drive to the restaurant. Now, I'm not a fantastic driver. However, I'm a decent enough driver when I feel like it. People here just have too high of a standard when it comes to auto safety. Prudes.

Now, I win the argument (like usual) ((Okay, I'm full of shit. I don't win arguments with Texter. She gets violent when she doesn't win.)) As we walk to my car Texter jokes about making poor decisions (which is another story in and of itself). I laugh and get behind the wheel of Jacqueline. As soon as Texter gets in I close the doors and put my key in the ignition. NOTHING. HAPPENS. Lights don't turn on. No sound comes from the engine. Nothing. The only sound I hear is the laughter of Texter. I don't exactly remember what happened next, however, I left the car, as did Texter, and heard:

Texter: "Jesus loves me!"

Yep, she had summoned Jesus to break my car. All the terrible things I have said over the years finally caused enough grief in the Heavens and caused Jesus himself to fly down and kill my car like the Angel of Death killed the first-born male of every family in Egypt back in the day.

I was pissed.

Texter was delighted. She then lived up to her alias and texted the following limerick to her roommates:

"Jesus loves me this I know for reasons I'll tell you later."

It wasn't a fun night.

----------------Three Weeks Later----------------------

Three days ago I decided to make time for myself and Jacqueline and attempt to revive her from her deity induced coma. I go to my friend Aussie and asked her and her car to give me and my own a quick jump. She agrees and drives over to the inclined space (keep this incline in mind) that I last parked my car in. To give a car a jump (since I had no clue what to do) you apparently have to have the two vehicles nose to nose. This was an accepted fact between all parties present (myself, Aussie, Alphabet, and Texter (since she caused this horrible travesty to occur in the first place). After figuring out how to put Jacqueline into neutral I carefully roll my beloved and comatose automobile into the street. We line up Jacqueline and Jeffery (Aussie's car) nose to nose and pop the hoods on both cars. Now, Jeffery has a battery, engine, and a lot of pipes and shit under his hood. Jacqueline....doesn't. She has what I can only describe as an automotive-chastity fence. There is so much shit covering her engine that I can barely see the windshield wiper fluid. However, despite all this crap, we do notice something's missing; the battery.

After a moment of discussing where the hell my car gets it power from I remember that there's always some sort of box in the trunk of my car that hinders how many groceries I can shove into it at a time. As I open the trunk I hear a collective outburst of anger, slight confusion, and a bit of distress. Apparently, British cars have their batteries in the trunk.

So, now what? My car is now in the middle of the street, revealing it's open trunk for the world to see, and stopping traffic. There's only one thing to do: Push her back up the incline!

Now, pushing a car isn't as easy as people may thing from the movies. It's a bitch and a half and required, in the end, five people, one of which jumped out of a blocked car, to help get mine out of the way. Nobody was happy (aside from me since I couldn't stop laughing for God knows what reason. I assure you, it was hilarious at the time.)

Before we hauled my car's fat-ass back up the incline we decided we might as well jump her while she's in the way.

JUMP ONE:

Time Taken: Five minutes
Success: Minimal
Result: Not enough power to operate.

We are able to get the car back into the inclined space only to discover that I was out of gas. NOBODY was happy at this point. Even I felt a slight twinge of disappointment. Today was not shaping up to be successful.

After an hour of formalities that involved getting a gas can from my roommate Marvel, some gas with the help of Alphabet and Aussie, and a second jump from the campus police:

JUMP TWO

Time Taken: Two and a half minutes
Success: Successful enough
Result: Car can now run but needs gas

Thinking this was the end of this terrible ordeal I drive myself to the gas station in hopes of filling up. As soon as I fill up at the station I get back into my car and put my key in the ignition. As if Jesus wasn't done with me yet, I get a second blow to my battery. Now all I hear is this incessant whining as if my car swallowed a baby moray eel and was now using it as the fan belt. My car has battery power, but not enough to alternate between battery and gas.

Well fuck.

I now look at my options:

1) Push the car on my own and leave it in a shady parking lot full of drug dealers, alcoholics, illegal immigrants, and Mormons.

2) Call Alphabet for help (since Texter fled the scene to go to work).

3) Cry

I opted for option two with a small side of silent weeping from three.

I call Alphabet and within ten minutes or so she and Marvel are at the gas station. Alphabet was smirking. I was quietly weeping into my Sonic cup. The people in the parking lot were staring. It was hot. Overall, I was not amused.

We then proceeded to jump my car for the third time.

JUMP THREE

Time Taken: Ten to fifteen minutes
Success: My car now screeches weakly at me when I try to turn the ignition
Result: She's weaker than Bill Clinton's heart

We decided that it was a lost cause and to push it to the side of the gas station. While pushing, this lovely toothless man with a belly the size of a watermelon, and a couple of baked hams, decided to lend us helping hand. He apparently had MANLY jumper cables. (I guess Alphabet's were for girls). The jump took nearly half an hour. It was hot. I also had to sit outside and talk to Papa Stomach about why I need an American car. He thought mine was Japanese. He also looked under my car's hood while chain smoking and came up as if he had no clue what he was looking at. Yeah, she's in great hands here.

After we jump my car, for the third time that day, I was instructed by Papa Stomach and Marvel to haul my car's ass to Auto Zone (or whatever the fuck that store's called). I do as I'm told since I'm beyond tired, and late to work on a project due the following morning.

I make it to Auto Zone without incident. I park. I turn off my car. She dies. I weep and enter the store. They crack jokes at my expense. I am not amused. We test the car. The battery's fine. It's an alternator problem. They can't fix foreign cars. I was told I should get an American car. I think about punching the guy in the crotch and then saying I couldn't fix that. I shrug it off and decide to keep that in my head. He says he can jump my car for me. I say yes and try not to hook up the testing machine to his chest and turning it on high. I get the jump (number four).

JUMP FOUR

Time Take: Five to ten minutes
Success: Successful enough to flee what could have been a crime scene
Result: I have enough power to get her back to campus

By now I just want to get home. Nobody likes my car. She's dying. It's hot. I'm hungry. There's homework to be done.

I don't make it back to campus.

According to Marvel, I really shouldn't park my car on campus if she needs to go to the mechanic. Why? Well, apparently the unsupervised parking lot behind the big church near school is safer than our college campus that has its own private police department and well lit areas. At this point in the day I am to tired to argue. I park, kick my car, and then get in with Alphabet and Marvel. Driving away I shoot a fleeting glance at Jacqueline and ponder flicking her off. I bet if she could, she'd do the same to me.