Since buying the 2009 VW Passat in late February, it’s been in the shop six times — Blutooth radio installation, cracked-windshield replacement, a noisy wheel-strut problem, repairing the coolant circulation system, sealing up a serious oil leak, replacing a faulty radiator — and right now it’s in the shop for a seventh time. This time it might be some kind of oil pump malfunction. The night before last an oil-can icon appeared — the online manual said this indicated a low oil level. I’ve since been told this actually indicates low oil pressure, but that’s not what the icon indicated.
The idea was to drive back east and then use the Passat as a train-station and grocery-shopping car — very sparingly, no regular commuting. That’ll never happen. I should have bought a Toyota or a Honda, I realize, but I couldn’t find one that was (a) less than eight years old, (b) had less than 150K miles and (c) didn’t cost an arm and a leg. So I opted for a $4K purchase of the Passat, knowing there would be issues down the road but expecting that I could at least drive it across the country with my suitcases, some boxes, my grandmother’s oriental rug, my red bicycle and the cats.
God to HE: You have wounded your life with a foolish purchase, but now I’m going to double-down and make it even worse than you feared. Did you say seven visits to your mechanic’s garage? That’s chicken feed. Let’s see if we can’t push that number up to ten.
Driving across the country is officially out. I can’t drive this car more than ten blocks without something new going wrong with it. At least in its present condition.
Now I have to fly back east before flying to Nice. Then I’ll have to return to LA and try to re-sell the car for the original $4K I shelled out, especially with my ability to show recent receipts for $4K worth of serious repairs. It’s a handsome black car with good tires and a lot of creature comforts, and with all the pricey parts replacements I’m sure it’ll be fine to just drive around as a neighborhood car.
Last night I was so profoundly upset by my catastrophic decision to buy this shithole lemon that I was unable to sleep. A fresh ambien script is waiting at my local CVS, but I had none at home. I finally crashed about 5 am. This has easily been the most financially calamitous purchase of my adult life. It’s on the same level as spending thousands of dollars on cocaine in the ‘80s. A monumental disaster.
Around 3 am I started watching Lee Tamahori‘s The Edge, the 1997 psychological action drama about Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin crash-landing in the Alaskan wilderness and being stalked by a killer Kodiak bear. There’s a line that Hopkins’ character, a cuckold billionaire, says at least three times — that many people who get lost in the wild and are suddenly struggling to survive wind up “dying of shame,” as in “how did I let this happen?…how could I be so stupid and short-sighted?”
Hence the title of this post.
