There’s no good time to have a belt explode. The sudden unhinging of my tightly-hitched pants could initiate rapid decompression, hurtling leather, zippers and buckle components into my gut, and endangering innocent passersby.
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Similarly, no excuse exists for the current automotive scandal—malfunctioning, exploding safety airbags. The near-universal Takata airbag safety recall is the latest water cooler topic. “Have you had yours done yet?” as if the subject were fingernail polish or hair colorizing.
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Today was my airbag replacement day. My red-inked “Urgent Safety Recall” notice noted threats of metal fragments injuring the car’s occupants, in exploding pants-belt style. Today’s service chore was aggravated by my previous encounter with this dealership, when I still grieved the loss of our beloved RAV4. When its transmission, transfer case and differentials simultaneously went to Glory, there was no choice.
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A perky, used 4Runner on the dealership lot had beckoned me. Soon enough, the sales vultures gathered, bedecked in logo-embroidered shirts. Their task was to avoid the subject of price and corral me into the dealership showroom, the inner sanctum—the Holy Place. The Showroom Bishop awaited me, white pressed dress shirt distinguishing him above the common sales priestly rabble, kindness and sympathy oozing.
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“How much for the car?” I inquired, forgetting that this question was the unpardonable sin. The Bishop started his slow “monthly payment” waltz: 48 months, 60 months, 72 months. He could work out my redemption.
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I would have none of it. The waltz devolved to a bitter note, me with extended index finger, performing the out-the-showroom-door shuffle. Incensed, the Bishop’s face reddened as he followed, to ensure I didn’t “key” any vehicles on my way out.
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Now, three of us stare at the TV in the dealership service waiting room, anticipating our rides home. We sip the complimentary coffee and price the tires displayed on the wall.
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And I’ll dodge the Showroom Bishop on the way out.
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