walk, don't run

I had a day off from work and absolutely no plans. But things have a way of just... happening.

I woke up, had breakfast and was watching television. Midway through an episode of Leave It to Beaver that I had seen a zillion times, I decided to go out and visit a couple of nearby cemeteries that I have been meaning to check off of my list. (If you are new to the world of Josh Pincus, visiting cemeteries where famous people are buried has been a hobby of mine for many years.) Usually, I make a lot of preparation before a trip to a cemetery, but this time, I decided to wing it. I would just use the GPS coordinates posted on findagrave.com and hope to find the graves I was looking for.

I filled my trusty water bottle, grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and I was off. I said "goodbye" to Mrs. P as I closed the front door behind me. 

I drove through the entrance of Montefiore Cemetery, which is just a few blocks from my house. I navigated to the internet on my cellphone and clicked on the first grave on my list. I eased my car to the far end of the cemetery to Section 17. I parked, opened the door, got out and surveyed my surroundings.

And my phone rang.

I answered. It was Mrs. Pincus with an exasperated tone in her voice. I asked what was upsetting her. She told me that when she got in her car, the "flat tire" light was glowing brightly on the dashboard. I offered to take the car to a tire place the next morning (Saturday), as I already had plans for the day. She said that would okay, but she did have other errands to run later in the day. She finally agreed to my proposal and she'd make other errand-running arrangements. I continued to seek out the graves on my list. After a little frustration and little more searching, I found the first one. The second grave was closer to the cemetery entrance. After some wandering in and out of similar looking grave markers, I located the second — and final — grave of my morning quest. (A full report can be found here.)

I decided to forgo a trip to another cemetery. Instead, I went to take care of Mrs. Pincus's automotive issue. I drove over to my in-law's house where Mrs. P's office is located in a building on the property, but separate from the house. I parked my car on the street and walked up my in-law's long, steep driveway. I quickly ducked in to the office to tell my wife of the change in plans and then headed back out to her car. 

The mechanic that we've been taking our cars to for many years is located, coincidentally, just past the cemetery that I had explored earlier. I pulled my wife's car into his lot, which — to my surprise — was packed with cars. I could see through the glass of the pulled-down garage doors that each of his three bays had a car parked in it. I found a parking space, shut off the engine and went inside to the small office. When Dennis, our mechanic, saw me, he came out of the work area and took a place behind the tall office counter. I explained my dilemma about the flat tire light. I injected a little pathetic tone into my voice and boldly asked if he could take a look at it today.

"Sure," he said, then he added, "I'm kind of busy now, can you bring it back around noon?" I checked the clock on my cellphone and it read 10:40. I expressed my gratitude for squeezing me in and handed over the key fob for Mrs. P's car, explaining that I would just leave the car now and call my wife for a ride home. Then, I called Mrs. Pincus to report on the situation. She was very happy to hear and thanked me for taking care of things. She also said she'd be right over to pick me up, then she'd have to go back to work. I ended the call and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was going to come over in my father-in-law's car, but it wouldn't start. I told her that my car was there and she countered by telling me that she didn't have the key fob to start my car. I exhaled loudly.

"I'll walk.," I said. "I'll just walk home.

My house is 2.7 miles from the mechanic's shop. I take this trip often, because the garage is directly across the street from the Domino's Pizza that we order from several times a month. However, when I go to pick up a pizza, I usually drive. No. I take that back. I always drive. Always.

Now, I am 64 years old and, recently, I have found myself huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs in my house. I have had some difficulty extracting myself from the sofa after an evening of intense television watching. I've heard some strange popping and cracking when I straighten my legs or back or other body parts that seem to feel better in a bent or curved or stretched state. Plus, it has been quite sometime since I have done any sort of walking that didn't end with a visit to a restaurant. In other words, I am in no shape to walk nearly three miles. But, I am stubborn. I don't share a lot of personality traits with my father (although some people will tell you differently), but I did inherit his sense of "I'd rather do it myself." So after, dismissing my wife's suggestions of taking a bus ore calling for an Uber, I set out on my 2.7 mile journey home.

I don't know if you are aware, but 2.7 miles is far! For a good portion of my little trek, there were no paved sidewalks. In a few places, I had to walk across the edges of a few house's front lawns, lest I put myself dangerously close to the surprising amount of traffic that transverses the outer reaches of Elkins Park. Along the way, I walked through the outer reaches of a Ukrainian cemetery, one that I have passed countless times on my way to get a pizza. Now, I was able to get a close-up look at the head stones, elaborately engraved with religious iconography and Cyrillic characters. Eventually, I found a wide and welcoming paved sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of an elementary school. Soon, though, the sidewalk inexplicably ended at the driveway of a corner house.

I crossed the street at a traffic light and decided to continue my route through a residential street. Elkins Park boasts an interesting variety of large and spacious mansions and small, compact houses. Around the late 19th century, the area was the location of the summer homes of some of Philadelphia's wealthiest citizens. Folks like Peter Widener and William Elkins retreated to huge, multiroom estates north of the bustling city Surrounding these impressive structures were smaller, more modest accommodations built specifically to house the servants of the rich. (Guess which one I live in?) I passed a few large homes, some still used as private residences, while others have been converted to apartment buildings or, in one case, a school. Nearby, on the same street, were several blocks of smaller homes that were dwarfed by the giant properties.

Boy, did my feet hurt!

Nearly an hour after I left my wife's car in the care of our mechanic, I arrived at my wife's office. I trudged up the long, steep driveway that runs the lengths of my in-law's property. I startled Mrs. P when I burst through the door and collapsed in the big swivel chair that sits by her desk.

My wife looked at me as I breathed heavily and slurped a healthy slug of rejuvenating water from her water bottle. "You're crazy.," she said.

"No," I corrected her, "'Crazy' is going to four different supermarkets in the same day." I reminded her of her activities from the previous day. She was fulfilling a long shopping list for her octogenarian parents who insist on getting specific items from specific supermarkets and will not settle for substitutions. Convenience be damned. The mini bagels must come from Giant's bakery while the salmon must be purchased from Aldi. No exceptions.

"That's 'crazy'", I clarified. "What I did was 'admirable.'" Okay, maybe it was a little crazy.

And I can guarantee, the next time I order a pizza, I am not walking over to pick it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

moneygrabber

There's an old joke. A guy calls a plumber to fix a small leak in a pipe. The plumber arrives and he's led down the basement steps to view the leak. The plumber examines the pipe from all angles, assessing the situation. Finally, he says to the homeowner, "This looks like a 'Miami job.'" The homeowner asks, "You mean you saw a similar type of leak on a job in Miami?" "No," the plumber clarifies, "I mean with the money I get from you for this repair, I'll be able to spend a month in Miami."

Before I purchased a new car this past May, I drove my trusty Toyota RAV-4 for nearly twenty years. Over the course of two decades — as you can imagine — my car required its fair share of maintenance and repairs, as well as yearly safety inspections required by the state of Pennsylvania. When my car needed service, I took it to a mechanic named Dewey whose shop is in my neighborhood. Dewey is a nice guy, I guess. He would sometimes pick my car up at my house and drop it off when the work was completed. He has a genial demeanor, often limiting the technical jargon when he was explaining the repair that my car would need after I told of the abnormalities I thought my car was experiencing. 

The repairs that my car required — at any given visit to Dewey's shop — were extensive. Always. Even for annual inspections, at times when my car was running — in my opinion — just fine, Dewey would find something within the confines of my vehicle's body that would cost me a couple hundred dollars. Always. Once I needed a new headlight. While changing the headlight, Dewey told me that discovered that the intake valve of the deferential influx capacitor was not in tip-top working order. He innocently asked if I'd like it replaced and soon, a lousy new headlight was costing me four hundred bucks. State inspections  that should cost around fifty dollars, would always require some crucial engine component. Without a replacement, my car would not pass inspection and possible lead to a more serious issue. Of course, the new part would set me back a few hundred dollars. This went on for years. I don't think Dewey was an incompetent mechanic. I think he just went out of his way to find something wrong with my car every time I brought in. He wasn't going to let me take possession of my vehicle without a payment of at least a hundred bucks. I know nothing about the innerworkings of a car, so I was at the mercy of Dewey's perceived "expertise." So, I had him make any repair he suggested and I paid whatever he told me the bill was.

... until this year when I purchased a 2024 Subaru Crosstrek for the price of my 2004 Toyota RAV-4 and an undisclosed amount of cash. Because of the delicate computer system that is standard on new cars, I purchased an extended warranty on my new vehicle, thus eliminating any future dealing with Dewey. I would be taking my new car to the Subaru dealership for state inspections, any future maintenance and eventual repairs. My wife, who drives a 2018 Toyota takes her car to a Toyota dealer for maintenance, so, as far as I can see, Dewey is out of our lives. As a matter of fact, Mrs. P ran into Dewey at the supermarket and told him that I had purchased a new car. She said he appeared happy and wished me "good luck" with the car.

One day last week, Mrs. Pincus returned from running errands to discover that her car had a flat tire. After the involuntarily voicing of a few choice words, she called AAA and waited for someone to come and change the tire. Afterwards, we discussed her options for getting the flat tire repaired... and repaired quickly. First, we considered the Toyota dealer, but without an appointment for service, who knows how long the wait would be for a "walk-in" repair. The last thing Mrs. P — or anyone — wants to do is spend countless, non-productive hours in car dealership waiting room. The next option was rather obvious — Dewey.. We were fairly sure that Dewey, who operates a one-man repair shop, — would be only too happy to fix a quick flat tire for a member of the Pincus family. After all, we were loyal customers for over twenty years. (Yep, we took our cars before my Toyota to Dewey!) 

The next morning, Mrs. P took her "temporary spare tire equipped" car over to Dewey's shop. I, of course, had left for work a few hours earlier. That afternoon, I called my wife to see about the progress of — what I assumed — would be a fast repair. 

"How's your car?" my text to my wife read.

A few minutes later, I received this response...

She went to to explain that — according to Dewey's expert assessment — her car would need four new tires and rear brakes. 

Apparently, Dewey missed us.

Desperately.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

under my wheels

My next-door neighbor rear-ended my car while it was parked (parked!) in front of my house. He rang my doorbell and sheepishly admitted to the accident (details of which were revealed by his mother later*) in an awkward exchange on my front porch. I contacted a friend who owns an auto body shop and my car was soon off for repair, with the entire cost rightly footed by my neighbor.

After a week or so, my car was returned to me as good as new (or as close to new as a ten-year old car can get). I was not really inconvenienced by its absence, as I take the train to work daily and I rarely drive on weekends. Why do I have a car then? Well, I'm not going to walk to the dry cleaners and I regularly go to concerts that are not at venues located on convenient train routes. 

When my car was returned, it was pointed out that both rear tires were in pretty poor shape. "How on earth did they even pass inspection?," was the actual assessment. I promptly made an appointment with my mechanic and I dropped my car at his shop the night before, leaving my keys and instructions in a sealed envelope that I shoved under one of the locked garage doors. The next morning, he called to say that the front tires were just as bad and he recommended replacing them as well. So, eight hundred bucks later, I was back in business. I got my car back just in time. That evening, I had plans to go to one of those "off the train route" concerts, this one remotely located in South Philadelphia.

Warning! Warning! Danger! Danger!

I hopped into my newly-tired vehicle and set out for the show. Just as I took the on-ramp to Philadelphia's notorious Schuylkill Expressway, I noticed the ominous glow of the tire sensor light on my dashboard. "Yikes!," I thought, "What didn't the mechanic do?" Here I was, doing 60 miles-per-hour on what could possibly be poorly-attached tires. Or maybe I had a flat. I lowered the radio and listened carefully, trying to slow down as cars whizzed by me on either side. The angry tire light remained at a steady amber gleam. Mocking me. Warning me of impending trouble. I pictured a tire loosening from its mount and bouncing across the four lanes as I skidded to my death on a bare, spark-spewing wheel hub. With panic being to set in, I frantically anticipated the next exit. I was approaching Girard Avenue and I passed. I was in enough trouble already without having to worry about the sketchy neighborhood surrounding the Philadelphia Zoo. ("Wow! A faulty tire AND he got shot seven times and robbed. Poor guy.") I opted for the 30th Street exit instead, where I would feel safer in the vicinity of a heavily-trafficked train station and several well-lit high rises. I pulled over into a taxicab stop and jumped out of my car. I authoritatively inspected each tire with a few kicks from my boot. I encircled my car a few more times, like most mechanically-deficient guys, half-expecting and secretly hoping a flashing neon light and a cartoon arrow to pop up and scream "Here's your problem, idiot!" But, no such luck. I called Mrs. Pincus and told her I was blowing off the concert and heading back home. She suggested I take a different route, avoiding the high-speed requirements of the Expressway. I obliged. I got back in my car and carefully maneuvered my way into traffic and through the city to Broad Street, a main thoroughfare, though punctuated by traffic lights at nearly every corner. I slowly drove the thirteen miles to my house.

When I finally arrived home after the grueling, white-knuckle journey, envisioning my demise at every trolley track and pothole, I dropped my car off at the now-closed mechanic. I scribbled a note describing my ordeal and, leaving my key, shoved another envelope under the locked garage door.

I called the mechanic bright and early the next morning. He said he was working on mu car as we spoke. It was not a problem. He explained that the tire sensors work differently in older cars and he only needed to make a small adjustment or two. He assured me that at no time was I ever in danger.

I missed the concert, but better safe than splattered across the asphalt... or however that saying goes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Nice work there, Alex

* She told my wife that her son, Alex, was very upset by my reaction to the accident. I was puzzled by this, because I did not yell or even raise my voice. I slowly walked to the curb where my car was parked and evaluated the damage aided only by the illumination of a nearby streetlight. When I saw the giant crack in the spare tire cover, I muttered, "Well get it taken care of." and I walked back into my house to finish my interrupted dinner. I later found out that, near tears, Alex asked his mother, "Why doesn't Mr. Pincus like me anymore? He liked me when I was a kid?" Oh, I don't know, Alex, maybe it has something to do with you just hit my fucking car!