Unlike my drive home from work, which is really where this story begins. It's long, it's boring, and it's occasionally an exercise in patience (turns out, I don't have any). Occasionally, it's brightened by an audio book I can't wait to get back to or an interesting story on NPR. And occasionally, it's made even more frustrating by a car that is a little too smart for its own good. Which is what happened this week when, perhaps just to give me something to look at, my dashboard lit up with lights spelling out "IMA" and a picture of some unidentifiable car part. IMA? I queried my memory and came up with nothing that seemed to make sense. International Management Associates? Indianapolis Museum of Art? Independent Music Awards? And what was that picture supposed to be? I tried to get a better look at it, but every time I glanced that way, I got the sense that I was no longer driving in a straight line, and I determined that a closer study of the picture would have to wait. I would just have to hope that, whatever these lights meant, I wouldn't be studying them more closely from the side of the road.
Maybe I'd have better luck looking it up in the manual. As it happened, heavy traffic further on gave me an opportunity to slow down and pull the manual out of the glove compartment. My earlier difficulty with getting a lasting look at the lights did not dissuade me me from trying to locate the page that would enlighten me as to the origin of the IMA light. Why wasn't IMA in the index? I don't understand. Why wouldn't such an important piece of information be in the index? This was going to have to wait until I got home.
Pulling into the garage, I grabbed the manual and brought it into the house with me. Sasha, who likes to check out and approve all items coming into the house, sniffed it like she works for the TSA and gave a nod of approval. Flipping through, I quickly found the pages describing the light. Integrated Motor Assist. Of course. It was on the tip of my tongue. I read on. This refers to the battery that makes my Civic Hybrid a hybrid. It seems that, if this light comes on, it's not doing its job and saving me gas. Since I drive a minimum of 68 miles each day, I viewed this information with panic. I NEED that battery. I need the extra mileage it gives me from each gallon of gas. I need the money that it would cost to replace the IMA battery. I sighed. I looked at Sasha, who still doesn't have a job. Maybe I'd get lucky, and it just got wet in the rain. Perhaps, by tomorrow, it would be gone.
My life doesn't work that way. I started the car the next morning, ready to get to work more-or-less on time. The IMA light didn't come on, but the picture of the funny little cart part did. I never did find out what that was supposed to be a picture of. My life being too valuable to undertake another drive across the triangle with the dashboard lit up like Christmas, I headed for the Honda dealership.
I was greeted by Joe, my personal service adviser (this is equivalent to how flight attendants are now known as in-flight service coordinators). Joe has helped me before, and I was delighted to see him again. Most of my experiences with Honda service advisers have been excellent, but I needed someone who was going to get me in and out again quickly and for as little money as possible, and I was confident Joe was the guy to do it. I lowered the window as he approached and pointed at the dashboard. "I have a light on" I explained.
Anyone else might have found this to be an odd statement, especially considering that I've been known to have my lights OFF about 75% of the time, but not Joe. He nodded. "You have a light on," he agreed. Excellent. We're on the same page. But would he know what to do about it? And how much would it cost me to find out?
Joe smiled reassuringly. "Let's find out what's going on." He wrote down the mileage and VIN and sent me to the waiting room. I was impressed that he didn't need me to give him any of my information but was ready to find it in the system. It's good to be a regular customer.
I quickly emailed work and dug into an eBook (I love my iPhone). The people around me were quiet at this time of the morning, watching Good Morning America or reading the paper. A passing Honda employee smiled at me and said "Coffee and donuts are on the counter!" entirely too brightly for any time before lunch. I'm not generally a coffee drinker, but I could use something to drink. I wandered over and pulled a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Ooohh, Dunkin' Donuts. I opened one of the boxes and inhaled. Funny, sugar smells like sugar regardless of the form in which it comes. Even though I'm certain there was a jelly donut with my name on it, I lowered the cover of the box and went back to my seat.
I'd barely made a dent in my eBook when Joe returned. "I've already ordered a new IMA battery for you, and it should be here by tomorrow." Oh, dear. This sounded like the kind of thing that requires a lot of time and dollars.
I crossed my fingers and held my breath. "Is that covered?" I asked.
Joe waved his hand. "Oh, absolutely, don't worry about it." If he knew me at all, he would know that telling me not to worry was futile, but it did help to know that this wasn't going to hit the credit card. We agreed that I would try to come back in the next day or two, and he sent me on my way.
So the next morning, I found myself back in the waiting room, this time with my work laptop on my shoulder so I could get some work done during the expected 4 hour wait. I settled in at one of the computer stations and went through the somewhat slow process of connecting to Honda's guest network. I pulled out my snacks, got a bottle of water, and began a lengthy period of productivity. I could get used to this. Everything I needed right in this little space. Almost. At one point, I got up to stretch and throw away my trash but was stunned to find a trash can lacking in the waiting room. I saw cartons for recycling cans and plastic but nothing for trash. This was not agreeing with my overall pleasant perception of the Honda waiting room. Eventually, I found one in the ladies room. I then returned to the counter that served as home to fresh Donuts. Because I need more sugar. To my great relief (and, to some degree, disappointment), they were all gone. I returned to work.
When Joe found me a few hours later, I had already accomplished quite a few items on my list and was deep into reviewing a list of potential titles to purchase for the library. He handed me my keys and told me where my car was. Noticing the reluctance in my face, he said "Finish what you're doing. Take all the time you need." Evidently, Joe had seen this productivity phenomenon before. And why not? It was fairly quiet and there were few distractions. I couldn't help but zip through my work.
Eventually, I got hungry enough (the snacks had run out hours earlier) that I decided it was time to pack up and leave. I looked around the waiting room. A television, donuts, newspapers, and a network connection. And no charge for the work on my car. I could get used to this.
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