Ben Dillon is an Irish humorist and freelance writer.

His stories regularly feature in the Irish Examiner with several others published in the Evening Echo, the Kerryman and the Runner’s Digest.

He has just completed his first collection of essays.

He lives in Cork City with his wife, Stef.

Engine Trouble

By Ben Dillon

Solid, sensible, subdued.

If you held a lofty view of yourself, these buttoned-up adjectives might almost be considered slanderous. But for Frank, they’re perfectly suited. In all the years I’ve known him, he has never let me down and would never intentionally do so. For a fifteen-year-old, he’s remarkably dependable.

Frank isn’t one bit showy or egotistical. He has no airs or graces and is unlike any human being I’ve ever encountered. In fact, he’s not human at all. Frank is a beat-up, wine-coloured Toyota Avensis that rattles as it moves and is covered in dents, scratches and a collection of old war wounds.

Frank has been passed down from generation to generation and now belongs to me. I’m using the phrase “generation to generation” in quite a literal sense. I find it’s a much more quaint way of saying it’s my dad’s old banger. 

I’ve never been one to obsess over cars. If ten passed me on the street, I’d struggle to identify a single one by make and model. I don’t hold any brand in particularly high regard and I can honestly say that there isn’t a single part of me that longs for a luxury model. If given the opportunity to define my dream car, I’d probably describe something a five-year-old would draw, with four wheels, rounded edges, and a big window up top. If I was really pushing the boat out, I might paint it a Ferrari red.

My brother is the opposite. He’d foam at the mouth just thinking about cars he’d like to own. I appreciate his love of cars but can’t relate in the slightest. He bought an Audi recently and brought me along for a test drive. After a comfortable journey, we got out and examined it externally. He popped the hood and we peered inside. For a few minutes, we stared at the internal intricacies. I examined it soundlessly until he broke the silence. “Well, we may as well be looking up a cow’s arse, but you get the idea.” I was glad that he shared my view.

Of course, my lack of enthusiasm for luxury cars is a remarkably convenient position for someone who couldn’t afford them in the first place. It’s similar to how I’ve no real appetite for owning a yacht, flying first class or marrying a Kardashian. One would suspect that if my financial situation changed, my tastes might also.

My stance on vehicle ownership was brought to the surface recently due to Frank’s ailing health. At 15, Frank has a self-imposed speed limit of about 90 km/hr and does the vehicle equivalent of a dry cough when driven from cold. The windows fog up when there is more than one breathing human on board and nothing much happens when you press the accelerator to the floor.

There is also the perpetual rattle that can never quite be pinpointed and the mammoth life-or-death tussle that seems to be going on under the hood. That’s not to mention the rust, the ant infestation, and the fact that every time you put the key in the ignition, there is a brief moment where you pray it will actually start. And quite often it doesn’t. 

I live in the city so my car usage is sporadic at best. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Frank to be left sitting there for weeks on end. Because of this, I’ve required more than my fair share of jump starts. I usually walk out onto the street to hail down a passerby and ask for assistance.

At first, I would gush over anyone who had the decency to stop and give a stranger a jumpstart. I would thank them at least five times and leave them in no doubt that their kindness was appreciated.

However, it’s gotten to the stage where the interactions are purely transactional. I exchange a brief hello and then try to get through the process as quickly as possible. I have the jump leads at the ready and know the exact position that the stranger needs to park to achieve maximum efficiency. I adopt the mindset of Formula One pit crew and try to shave milliseconds off my best time. I always say ‘thank you’ but it’s become robotic. Upwards of fifty jump starts will do that to you.

If passersby aren’t forthcoming, I have a reliable backup. I live next to a church and the rectory is located just around the corner. If I’m stuck, I pop my head in and tell them about my car. The priests are usually fairly obliging, as one might expect.

That said, I was recently left in the embarrassing position of needing two jump starts in as many days. The first day was fine but when I returned the following day, I could hear a priest in the background exclaim, “Will he ever get rid of that piece of shit?” This was a real eye-opener. When members of the clergy are taking pops at your meagre possessions, you know you’re in dire straits.  

Frank’s ailing condition was at an all-time low when I received a letter from the NCT centre, informing me that it was time for a test. Because of a mix-up, it had been eighteen months since his last examination and I feared the end was nigh. I decided that if it failed, I would give up on a lost cause and not even attempt resuscitation. Driving to the testing centre felt like bringing Old Yeller out back. As far as I was concerned, the €55 I paid for the test was basically a euthanasia fee.

After handing my keys to the mechanic I sat on a grassy area outside and awaited the bad news. It was inevitable. The tester would walk up solemnly and say that it was no use and he had no option but to tie Frank up and shoot him between the headlamps.

“It was the most humane thing to do,” he’d say.  

While I awaited the verdict, I took a moment to reminisce as memories of an old friend flitted through my mind’s eye. As far as the five stages of grief were concerned, I had reached acceptance long before. The sun was shining and I was at peace. In my imagination, the Peter Gabriel song ‘Solsbury Hill’ played over a gentle montage.

I thought about my wife and I’s first date. At the time, I was living in Kerry and she was in Cork. Frank helped to bridge the geographical gap between us. On the nearly two-hour drive, I painstakingly went over potential opening exchanges and prepared backup topics in case the conversation ran dry. I remembered the mix of nerves and excitement; the sense of unknown and new possibilities.

For our second date, the car played an even bigger role as we went to a drive-in cinema, where we ignored the screen and just talked. I was nervous, but it was comforting to know that I had an old friend at close quarters.

I remembered an even more anxiety-laden trip seven years later when we set out to find a hidden beach. The beach was located at the end of my brother-in-law’s farm, which in turn was positioned at the edge of a cliff. To reach it, you had to walk through a vast field and down a rocky trail. For this reason, he referred to it as “the secret beach” and said that no one even knew about it, let alone ventured down there. It seemed like the perfect place to pop a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.

This heartfelt slideshow lasted an embarrassingly short length of time before less pleasant experiences came to mind. Although I tried to block it out, my thoughts inevitably turned to road rage.

Some people are at their worst in airports or after whiskey. I can safely say that my worst form is the short-fused monster I become when behind the wheel. In my road rage, my vernacular is significantly more explicit and insults are always at the ready. I become much less tolerant and remarkably more ageist. If a driver is even fractionally older than me, I’m never more than a missed green light away from commenting on their age or questioning their senility.

During the more anger-fuelled montage, I recalled every honk of the horn, every hurdled obscenity, every scornful glare, and every long stint stuck behind some snail-like Sunday driver. It saddened me that these were my abiding memories of Frank. It didn’t seem fitting for my dependable, old wagon.

My trance was broken when the tester called my name. He walked slowly, wearing the exact solemn expression that I had predicted. It was hard to explain it, but he had the look of someone who had just discharged a weapon. He looked over his sheet of paper before sharing the bad news.

“So, yeah. Your tyres need to be changed. It’s not urgent but I would change them sooner rather than later, ” he said while handing me my keys and certificate.

“Wait,” I said, the penny wobbling but not quite dropping. “What are you saying? That it passed? Just like that, no questions asked?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking me up and down. “Is there some reason why it shouldn’t?”

It was only then that I realised that a drastic change in demeanour was needed. When you’ve just gotten away with daylight robbery, an expression of utter shock is enough to give the game away. “Oh no, no. I expected it to pass. Not surprised at all. It was just very quick is all.”

Though my instinct was to question his sanity and laugh in his face, I resisted the urge to do either. Instead, I made my way back to the car, eager to get out of sight before he came to his senses. The fumes from the car’s broken exhaust pipe had muddled his brain. It was the only explanation.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I clutched the steering wheel and felt an incredible sense of warmth and relief. After getting a second chance at life, I promised to only create happy memories from there on out. When the time came to finally say goodbye, I didn’t want that beautiful montage to be ruined by road rage.

I smiled as I exited the car park and made my way out of the industrial estate. I turned on the radio and rhythmically tapped my fingers against the steering wheel. A car pulled out of another car park and I caught eyes with the driver. I let her out with a wave and a chirpy smile. The lady, who was probably about ten years older than me, then proceeded to crawl along. She hesitated at every intersection and came to a roundabout where she froze completely. Slowly my bubbly, Barney-the-Dinosaur-demeanour began to fade. 

After what felt like thirty minutes, I couldn’t help myself from giving a disgruntled beep. The woman looked into her rearview mirror and scowled at me. My blood now boiling, I had to restrain myself from going ballistic on the horn and sticking up my middle finger.

But, like, it wasn’t my fault.

Sure the old bag was practically setting up camp.

-End-