This is the story of why you should never, ever, go to Parra's Auto Repair in Oxnard, California. The story of why, if you break down in Oxnard on a Sunday, just wait til Monday. Please, God, me, your car and your wallet are begging you.
So I leave Dani in Oxnard, right? That's where we left off. I go back to Las Vegas, because I have work, and obligations, and as much as I'd like to just dump them and stay by her side, I need to make money to pay her car bill.
I call Chris, the owner of Parra's Auto Repair, multiple times throughout the week, just asking for updates and checking on my car. He's thrilled every time, and even begins to recognize my voice.
Last Saturday night, July 10th, I called Chris to find out how much more time it'll take. It's been two weeks, I remind him. "You said two weeks max."
"Oh, of course, Jackie, I was going to call you! She'll be ready tomorrow, but at the latest, Monday."
I am absolutely thrilled, and buy a plane ticket to LAX, because my uncle and I worked out that he could pick me up from there. It's $133, but my car has a full tank of gas, so I don't need to worry about getting home. Plus I miss her so damn much. So I leave Monday, July 12th.
Monday morning, I call Chris to confirm the pick up time. Are you guys fucking ready for this? I sure as fuck was not.
He. Lost. My. Key.
Let me reiterate that. This man, whose job is literally cars, and their keys, lost my fucking key. I was already losing confidence in this man for many minor complaints that couldn't really call him incompetent, but you bet this cemented it. He said he would get a locksmith, no problem, but I absolutely didn't trust Dani in his hands. I would come back, and she'd be broken for good. I said I would bring my spare, no worries.
At the airport, I am reminded of how much I love drinking, just because I see so many restaurants selling Trulys. I can't find a single White Claw, and Trulys taste too sweet for me, so I endeavor to find a White Claw. I pass by a sign that says Airport Lounge, and am intrigued. It seems entirely too privileged, like they'd check my income before I even make it to the help desk, but I step in anyway.
The lady tells me it's $30 for a day pass, and it's open bar, buffet, chargers, massage chairs, showers-- closed due to COVID. Then she leans forward and whispers that it pays for itself if you take advantage of the open bar. I have two hours until my flight leaves. I'm in.
Do you guys know that John Mulaney bit where he's going on and on about that Home Alone 2 pizza in a limo scene? "This is the height of luxury!" That's how that airport lounge felt.
(from left to right): rum & coke, mimosa, white wine, lemon water, tomato basil soup)
me enjoying a mimosa
By the time I have to board my plane, I am feeling very good. I'm already a lightweight, so that plus the luxury plus the fact that I was going to get my best friend led to a very happy Jackie, who loves California and her uncle.
goodbye whatever hellhole this is. it's las vegas
I land, my uncle picks me up, we go to Subway and order the same sandwich. I joke that it's the youngest siblings who love California sandwich, because my uncle is the youngest and dropped everything to move to California, and lives the life I want.
The next morning, I drop my key off at Parra's Auto Repair. They tell me the road test takes four to five hours. To do what, you ask? They observe the engine in one spot for three hours-- don't ask me what the fuck they thought they were doing when my car literally sat in the same spot for a fucking day because they lost the fucking key-- and then they drive her on the freeway. For an hour? I was told I didn't understand the complexities of a road test.
I could pick her up around 5 or 6.
Okay, whatever. I want my car out of this man's hands, but I can wait. In the meantime, I call work. I expected to be back before my shift, but clearly that isn't the case anymore, and I have to call out, which I hate doing.
I call Chris at 4:30pm. He tells me that something is wrong with the intake vacuum. A used car is supposed to read a minimum of 17. Mine is reading 15. He needs my car until tomorrow night. Now this man will have had three extra days with my car, and he lost my fucking key.
I am gentle but firm. No, that will not work, I need to be in Vegas tomorrow morning for a doctor's appointment. TRUTH. He tells me I'm putting so much pressure on his guys, but he feels badly for me because he lost my key, so he'll call me in an hour so they can figure out what happened.
I feel so bereft and confused. This man speaks circles around the question and never answers it, but you're so busy trying to decipher what he said that you fucking forget the question. I decide to call the one people who know my car slightly better than I do. I call my mechanic in Vegas.
They are my best kept secret, and I love them so much. They are the first and only mechanics I've ever taken Dani to, and they know her well. They've kept me updated, always answered any and all questions, and will give me all the information I want or need. Surely they can help me.
Alex, who is the main person I work with when my car needs repairs, says the intake numbers don't make sense. He's not sure what they're testing, and the man used so many different words that are exact opposites of each other. Alex gives me three questions to ask the man: what are the compression numbers on my cylinders-- this will tell me if my engine is even worth fixing; can I road test it with them-- "you drive that car daily, and you know as much about it as we do"; and...
"If you want to be sneaky," Alex says, "ask him if you have an interference engine. I'm going to give you a hint: you don't. So if he says you do, get your car, and get out."
I call Chris, and tell him I have a couple of questions. I ask him about the compression. He tells me the technicians would know that, but they never checked it because mine is perfect, and that's not the issue. I ask him if I can road test it with them. He says, "Well, sure, pretty girl! But there is no need to worry, my guys will test it for you on the freeway, it's very complicated."
My gut is red flagging everything. I paste on my prettiest smile even though it's over the phone, sugarcoat my voice and ask, "One last thing. Do I have an interference engine?"
Chris sounds annoyed. "Of course you do. Only Toyotas don't."
I agree with him, and hang up. Alex calls me. He tells me he was thinking about it, and realized the numbers they're reading has to do with what they're fixing. Especially since my car has never had readings like that before. He doesn't say she's perfect for a 19 year old with 240k+ miles on her, but he basically does. At this point, I just want my fucking car back.
An hour later, I call Chris to ask if they found the problem. Miracle of miracles, in the middle of me telling him I would prefer to take it back to Vegas to get it tested, his techs find the problem, they're already fixing it, no worries pretty girl.
"No," I say angrily. "I want to take my car back."
Chris is silent. "You can have your car back if you pay me in full. I feel like you don't trust me, Jackie, and you're angry, and I don't believe you'll pay me back if you're so angry at me, and you're asking me all these questions and putting so much stress on me and my guys."
I am fucking furious. I asked him THREE questions. Fine. He wants his money? I want my fucking car. I mentally tabulate: max out my credit cards, transfer some savings, free my car. I'll figure the rest out later.
Then Chris continues, "You'd understand, but I talk to my guys and you don't speak Spanish."
He didn't know what my angry was like until then. See, I know I don't speak Spanish. But I understand it. I understand it, and I understand my car. So how. fucking. dare. he.
I explode. I tell him that was absolutely unnecessary, and I do understand, and that I need my car back. He keeps saying he wouldn't feel safe letting me drive it.
"Fine," I say. "I'll get a tow truck, and long haul it to Vegas."
"No, no, pretty girl. My technician is already looking to fix your exhaust."
My head hurts. "I want to know one thing, Chris. If I get a tow truck, and get my car, will every piece be inside her?"
"No, no, we are already fixing it--"
"I'm asking a yes. or no. question. If I get a tow truck, will every piece of my car's engine be inside her." I enunciate every word.
"Yes," he snaps at me. Then, to his technicians in the back, in Spanish: this fucking bitch wants her car back, she doesn't care, she doesn't give a shit, this fucking little asshole, stop all the fucking work on this bitch's car.
Yeah, Chris. I understand Spanish.
When he tells them I don't care about my car, I start crying. Not loudly, and not to him, but I'm crying. I'm upset, and tired, and angry, and I can't believe anyone would say I don't care about my car. She's a shitbox but she is MY shitbox, and I put so much time and money into her because I love her.
Chris speaks to me again. "Since you don't care about your car, we'll have it ready for you in an hour. But your engine will be broken down in six months, and you're going to come yelling at me, and I don't want that."
"Six months? So she will be fine for tonight."
"No no, she will not survive the drive. You don't care about her, and you're going to break her, but you can pick her up in an hour."
I hang up, and call my mechanic, sobbing. Tell me I don't care about her. I tell Alex the situation, and I beg him to give it to me straight: will driving Dani back to Vegas kill her?
Without looking at it, Alex says he can't give me a firm answer, but I should be okay if I follow two rules: start late at night, so it's easier for the engine to maintain temp, and to reduce the need for AC; don't go over 70 mph.
The drive will take roughly six hours. But I can do it, I assure him. I can do it for Dani.
I pick her up, and the vacuum issue they fixed was her rough idle in the beginning sometimes. An issue Alex and I had discussed and agreed that it wasn't urgent, and to just keep an eye on it. I can't deny that she has a smoother idle now, but. Seriously? And, at around 11pm, I start the drive home.
me starting the drive back
It is grueling. It is exhausting. It is the worst road trip, and I am exhausted beyond belief around 150+ miles left in the trip. Every time I try to stop for coffee, there are different reasons why it's not available. To keep myself awake, I alternate between slapping myself, pinching myself, and eating lemons my uncle gave me.
I am drooping in my seat when I'm on surface streets home. I am so tired I wonder how my eyes stay open, and can only assume it's the sheer force of will and dedication I have to my car. I make it home, and promptly pass out on my bed with an alarm set for as soon as my mechanics open.
I sleep two hours. As soon as they're open, I bring Dani there, and they inspect her while I go to my doctor's appointment. Also a lowkey shitshow, but this is a car beach blog, not an epilepsy blog.
When I drop Dani off, I bring a written copy of what the mechanic told me they did-- which is illegal, in California, Alex tells me. I ask him to double check it. Was all of it necessary?
No.
How long does a timing belt fix normally take?
Four days. The worst case, everything went wrong, everything was late? A week. Two weeks, Alex informs me, seemed a little too long, to him. And $2600, for a 2002 Mazda? Too much. He tells me to haul it back next time. They'd have done it for $1500.
Later, I get a call. Alex's exact words are, "this is a not bad job. it's decent. we were all really worried they fucked it up, but it's not bad. something hit your AC though, and so that other issue we didn't have to worry about is one to worry about right now. We'll need to change the control head."
I buy the part and it's only $100. Not bad, and I'll have full AC, instead of suffering via the lowest setting being the only functional one.
My car is cleared. She is mechanically sound. I fixed her seat adjustment, and she's wearing her spare key into how she likes it, and it feels like home again.
the drive after she's been mechanically cleared, I have an AC part on the way, and more than two hours of sleep.
Please avoid Parra's Auto Repair in Oxnard, California.
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