Yes, we have no more voltage
As is usually not the case when buying a used car, I knew exactly how old a battery I was dealing with: it was installed the day I bought it, as a condition of sale, inasmuch as the one that had been in there proved to be deader than Lindsay Lohan’s Oscar chances at the time of the test drive.
And it lasted right up until 4:33 this afternoon, when I turned the key and was greeted with a Bronx cheer from the relay box, but no actual starting. Trini offered me a jump — her battery is in the trunk, which made for some stares from passersby — and Gwendolyn roared to life, just long enough for me to hit the heater button.
Click.
So there was a second jump, and an anxiety-ridden trip up to the dealership. The truly weird aspect of this is that I was going to the dealership anyway, to arrange for a spa day and order a part. Of course, it being Monday, things were manic, but they got me in and out in 35 minutes flat.
Mental note: Do not reset the radio presets in the dark on 122nd Street when it’s drizzling out.
