I think I have graduated into adulthood.

I have just found a mechanic, and not only do I love her (yes, I said “her”), but I trust her and I know she’s not trying to rip me off!

Let me begin with a brief automotive history.

’89 Mercedes Benz 300CE: This was my dad’s car, which I inherited at 19, and used to drive up and down the 405 as I commuted to UCLA. A swank car with pinstripe detailing, I always felt way too young to drive it. Our relationship was over when, in Lot 32 of UCLA’s many parking structures, visible smoke was coming from the engine. Who did I take it to? The mechanic across from the Wat Thai in North Hollywood. Because my mom trusts him. Now Mas is a good guy, and he fixes things...he just sometimes doesn’t fix things right the first time. Although my mom still uses the automotive services of Mas, when I was into my second job, earning a decent salary, I decided to buy my own car.

’99 Acura Integra: This car, chosen by me, had the reliability I longed for in a nice Japanese engine. Brand spankin’ new, it came with a rear and underbody spoiler. This was my first major grown up purchase. I had researched online, day and night, on how to make sure I didn’t get swindled. Jeff’s car buying tips website was my bible as I learned all the sneaky ways dealers try to get more money out of you. I went to the Keyes Acura in Van Nuys, where I was approached by the most car-salesman-y car salesman ever. Since I was a young female, this guy thought I was an easy target - until I busted out my spreadsheet of calculated costs to the dealer and the 5% profit I was going to give him, and with a sigh he said, “Okay, come inside.” After I worked out my sweet deal, he said meekly, “You got that information on the Internet, didn’t you?”

I had sworn to my new car that I would take great care of it. But after a year of making car payments, multiple visits to the dealership, and inhaling the smell of new leather interior each morning, my little coche was stolen.

The LAPD evtntually located the car and informed me that it was “stripped”. I had to go down to the junkyard to retrieve any personal belongings that might have remained.

I went alone, which I’m not sure was a good idea, because when I saw my car - my first grown-up purchase - it was like someone had clawed out my insides. When the LAPD say “stripped,” they mean “stripped.” The leather interior had been peeled from dash to trunk. The seats had been removed, the CD player and cassette player taken. The airbag had been ripped out of the steering wheel, leaving scattered wire tendrils like veins still pulsating blood. Only certain CDs were still left...The Sundays, Beth Orton. The thief clearly had crap taste in music since he didn’t take those.

Mom said I could keep using the Mercedes, and that I didn’t need to buy another car. But I still longed for a car that was mine...one that I picked out and felt like I wasn’t too old or too young to drive.

Enter the ’91 Toyota MR2.

My friend James understood that there’s a difference between being materialistic and wanting your possessions to have style. In Los Angeles, we live in a car culture. With the traffic so bad, our cars are our second homes, our changing rooms, our personal office. So when I was ready to buy another car, I wanted one that could be paid for, in full, by the insurance money, but still had the style I was seeking.

James likes to tell me what’s good for me, and that pisses me off. When he told me that the MR2 was the car for me: “Meg, it’s like a mini-Ferrari”, I didn’t believe him. I was looking at old Alfa Romeos with no air conditioning (style, right price range, but I would be risking death by heat exhaustion in the summer).

He set up an appointment for me to see one. I test drove. And it was…the perfect car for me. Compact, light, swift, unique with it’s mid-engine, and style to boot. James was right, and I bought it on the spot.

The MR2’s first major repair—a new timing belt, was installed by someone James new…a bassist for a band who worked as a mechanic. I was prepared to pay big bucks, as this is no little job, but I thought using this guy in a little shop, recommended by a friend, would be a little less than I imagined. Still, it cost me the 400+ big ones that the dealerships were charging too. After that, I used the convenient oil change places, like Jiffy Lube and EZ Lube, only to be given the usual “your radiator should be flushed too” or “we also can inspect your car for an additional fee”.

James is no mechanic, but he thought the suspension might need to be fixed. The back left side of the underbody cover came undone from going over a speed bump, which left a hard plastic edge scraping the cement. So at home, I got down on the ground and had a look. There’s a hole that’s supposed to be hooked over a bolt, but it didn’t meet. So in my McGyver-like way, I got some florist wire I had in the house and reattached it myself. I was moving to Europe in a month, and decided not to worry about the fixes ‘til I returned a year later. My car was safely stored in my best friend’s garage, and started up on a weekly basis. I was glad to let my car have a vacation, and for me to be free of car woes.

But now that I’ve come home, I worried about my MR2’s condition. Does a car get worse from disuse? Maybe the suspension is worse than I remember. And maybe that florist wire came undone.

So I asked a couple of my friends if they knew a good mechanic.

Stefanie: “I take my car to the dealership, but there was that guy that my friend dated. Oh wait...he’s in Costa Mesa. That’s too far. [pause] Hey! Do you remember that car maintenance class I took at UCLA? The woman who taught it was great. Maybe you can call UCLA and get her info.”

It was worth a shot. I liked the idea of a woman mechanic, and the fact that she taught these workshops with UCLA co-eds who knew nothing about the insides of their cars…like me.

The Center for Women and Men at UCLA came through…they still had info on Rebekah. I called the number and was greeted by a warm voice:

“Jaek’s Automotive. This is Rebekah.”

She proceeded to give me directions in a calm, even tone. She sounded like your favorite aunt - pleasant, attentive, with your best interest at heart.

The next morning, the MR2 and I drove to Van Nuys and met Rebekah. She was younger than I had imagined, with soft blonde hair and eyes that smile. After we exchanged a few pleasantries, the MR2 was up on the racks having its check-up, and Rebekah and I were chitchatting on the sidelines.

“So Rebekah,” I said, “How did you get involved with cars?”

“I had just gotten out of the navy—”

“Wow! The navy.”

“And I came in to a shop to get my car fixed. The phone was ringing off the hook, and the mechanic wasn’t answering it since he was working on my car. So I started answering the phones. He asked me if I needed a job, and I said yes. So since then, I’d been teaching myself more about cars.”

“You know,” I say to Rebekah, “this is the cleanest auto shop I’ve ever been to.”

No exaggeration. Inside the shop, everything is neatly put away. There are no calendars of naked women or Snap-on Tool pin-up girls hanging around on the walls, making me uncomfortable. There’s just a few headshots from customers who are in the biz.

Talking with Rebekah is like talking to a girlfriend. No question is too dumb to ask.

“I’m missing a hubcap, so do I just go get a new one? Or will that look weird, since I’ll have one new one, and the other three look scratched up and old?”

“You know what I’d do,” she begins, and here is where a mechanic would have the potential to rip off a young, ignorant car owner.

“I’d just go to Target and buy a set of wheel covers. Your wheels are 14”, so you can buy a whole set. If you bought the one, from the Toyota dealership, it’s going to cost you a lot just for one. So if you don’t care if it has the Toyota symbol or not, just go to Target.”

Wow. She’s not trying to sell me a hubcap that they can special order and mark up the wazoo.

As Jerry and the boys continue to give my car a complete diagnostic, Rebekah tells me about her partner and their son. I ask if she has pictures, and we got back into the office where there’s a mini-album of the most photogenic baby I have ever seen. Jerry signals to us that he’s done, and we go have a look at the car.

“Okay,” Rebekah says. I am bracing myself for the list of repairs. “All you needed was a transmission flush, which Jerry already did.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, wait,” I say, taking out my list from my bag. “The suspension is okay?”

“Yep.”

“But my friend thought I might need suspension work, and that was a year ago.”

“The way you can tell if your suspension needs work is if it’s leaking fluid. Right now, it’s fine, but if you get any leaks, then bring it back in.”

“Does it need an oil change?”

“Nope, we checked the oil, and that’s fine too.”

I am blinking at her in disbelief. “Okay, well the underbody cover is held up by a piece of florist wire, which I know is probably not good.”

I was waiting for Rebekah or Jerry to smirk at me in a superior automotive kind of way, but instead she said, “What’s wrong with that? The underbody cover is really expensive, so if your florist wire is working, great!”

I had walked in to Jaek’s Automotive, expecting to pay $400+ in miscellaneous, but necessary repairs. I walked out paying $75. Unbelievable. That is the first time I have ever walked out paying less for automotive repairs than I expected to.

When I leave, Rebekah says, “If you have any questions about your car, you can always call or email.”

I say thanks, and she hugs me goodbye.

Since then, I’ve been in again to fix my car alarm, and I want to go again to get the engine cleaned. It’s like I’m addicted to an honest transaction. My car is running better than ever, and I am proud to say, “I have a mechanic.”

Rebekah
carchick.com
(818)780-4369