Day 17: Lord Won't You Fix Me My Mercedes Benz
I had left Idaho Falls later than expected the night before and rolled into Boise sometime after midnight. One of the benefits of having a turtle-mobile is that your car is your house. Sleep where you want, when you want. (Mostly). So rolling up in the wee hours to cousin Mike and Lindsay’s was not a problem. Just had to park, pee, and climb into bed.
Bright and early (7ish?) I rolled over to German Star Automotive, left my rig, and then wandered on foot in search of food.
On the way into the office park where German Star lives I passed this opulent swan speckled campus for something that, I assumed, was important like Biotech or Defense.
Nope, candles.
Not even candles, it was dumber than that- it was these little melting pots that you put a scented wax cube into and it releases the smell. The front desk guy at German Star explained all this to me. Hell, they had one. Scentsy, that’s what they’re called.
Apparently, these scent moguls own everything in the whole office park, including the building German Star was in. All that construction you saw coming in? That’s them too. And their only thing are these scented wax cubes? That’s it? Yep, that’s it.
What the fuck.
So, of course, I had to go see up close. Maybe I could even get inside one of the buildings, and just maybe I’d see something that would convince me of the brilliance of their business.
Closed for Covid.
I was left to speculate. I phoned a friend, Kyle, maybe he would know. Ha, that makes it sound like I called him for that reason, which would be hilarious and thus tempting to leave you with that impression, but that wasn’t the cause for the call, it just happened to come up. He wasn’t at all surprised based on his experience of the Yankee Candle factory town of Whately, MA. He mentioned that in the town, and nearby Deerfield, Yankee owns everything just like Scentsy. Apparently, there’s an obscene amount of money to be made in smelly wax- in 2013 Yankee’s revenue was nearly $1,000,000,000. As in billion, with a B. Again, let me reiterate: what the fuck. Also, according to Kyle, in Whately there are signs at businesses everywhere stating that employees of the Yankee factory have to shower before they can enter. The candle smells are that strong. Now I want to go there. You know, to smell the candle-scented people. I wonder if it’s like the cloud of scent that accompanies a certain over-cologned variety of Bro, but instead of Axe body spray, it’s Grandma’s Christmas Cookies.
The expanding Scentsy empire…
And it’s main HQ:
Christ, maybe I should have gone into the nose entertainment industry.
Anyhoo. After a sufficient exploration of this strange local behemoth I made my way toward food. The options, out here in the office park/strip mall sprawling edges of the greater BMA (Boise Metro Area) were… limited. Starbucks, Carl’s Jr., or Staples. While Starbucks would be closest to a milleu I’d prefer (Staples anyone?), a 10 dollar half-sandwich hastily microwaved and thrown into a bag was also exactly what I would be getting at Carl’s Jr., but for $9 less. Plus, there’s something freeing about the bottom of the barrel. Different rules of social decorum apply: they don’t give a fuck, so you don’t have to either. The visually obnoxious recharging of my laptop while I squat for hours from a single purchase and bang out a blog post or two?
No problem.
I’ve always wondered about the name Carl’s Jr., not enough to actually bother to look it up, but enough to think “huh, that’s weird” every time I see it. Is it like Attorneys General? Is it a dick reference? Is there somewhere, in a forgotten midwestern town, a 1950’s era Carl’s Sr. that spawned a nation of Jr.’s? Again, I don’t actually care enough to google it. And frankly, it’s funnier to speculate.
I wrote until the call came. I think it was a little over an hour, but I don’t actually know since I failed to back my shit up. Had they fixed my van that fast? No. They hadn’t even looked at it, and they weren’t going to look at it. It was too heavy for their lift.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.
I headed straight back to see if I could successfully plead with them to reconsider. The guy at the front desk seemed unprepared to handle my request and quickly capitulated, allowing me entrance into the shop. The proprietor didn’t seem prepared for my appearance either but handled it more deftly. I explained that I was under a lot of pressure to get east, and that I needed it to drive more than my current max speed of 25 mph. The owner was reluctant, the lift was shaking, he said. It was rated for 9000 lbs. and mine was weighing in at just under 10K. What if I removed 1,000 lbs? Took everything out and then came back? Could you do it then? He sighed, yeah, that would work. But then, wisely, he asked what’s actually wrong with it? See, all he’d been told was that the DPF (diesel particulate filter) needed to be removed and then sent off to DPF Solutions for a “bake and blast” cleaning. He didn’t have the whole story, so I told him about every symptom, every mechanic visit, about the cowboys, the Muffler Man who wanted to cut it out with a torch, and the assholes who backed it into their fence, and, more importantly about the “manual regen” they performed. His ears perked up. He asked a couple clarifying questions and said give me five minutes.
I took the opportunity to starfish in the grass.
The front desk guy poked his head out the door and said it was ready. After so many screw-ups I was reluctant to believe any good news. How does that saying go? Once burned, twice shy? If that’s the equation, I’d banked a lot of shy.
It’s working.
Really?
Yes
No! What? Really? Wait, so what was actually wrong?
He then explained that the idiots at the Dodge dealership in La Grande had only completed part of the process with the manual regen. Basically, after overriding the van’s computer system and telling it to purposefully overheat and burn out the build-up in the DPF, they failed to reset the computer settings. They just didn’t know what they weren’t doing. He wasn’t surprised, the vehicle says Dodge, but it’s a Mercedes and these guys don’t know how to work on German machines. Mercedes and Dodge split a long time ago.
He then explained that it would still probably need a bake and blast at some point, but that this should last me for a while. If you run into issues on the road, you can try disconnecting this. He shines his flashlight on an upside down part. He explains that it’s tied into the system that monitors the DPF and that removing it will trigger a different error message, but probably not throw it into limp mode.
Cowboy.
How much do I owe you?
Don’t worry about it. Let’s go up front, I’ll get you your paperwork.
Oh my god dude, you’re my hero. Seriously.
I drove the van around front and met him in the office. He printed out the paperwork, highlighted some things and then explained them. I’ve long since forgotten exactly what was on the sheets or why I needed them. But I’ll never forget his reaction when I pressed him on the durability of his solution.
Is this going to get me to Philadelphia without going back into limp mode?
Silently, without breaking eye contact, he moved his hands together as if he were holding a large object. He gently shook the imaginary object and then gave a slight shrug.
Got it. Thanks again.
I took it out on the highway, the check engine light finally off, I could feel the difference immediately. I had the full power of the vehicle. But I’d been fooled once before, so I wasn’t going to celebrate just yet. I was still two weeks overdue and had 2465 miles left to cover. I’d get on the road again soon, but first I needed to go jump in some water. And drink some coffee. And smoke a cigarette. Oh yeah, I had started smoking again. After almost 8 years of being cigarette-free, the stress, the sleeplessness, and spending a lot of time around someone who was smoking during the conestoga construction all set me up for a full relapse into cigarette addiction. I’ll be honest, I missed it, the smoking. The theater of it, the rituals, feeling like a dragon, and the solitude (or socializing) it affords. Thankfully, this didn’t last more than a few weeks, basically the duration of the trip, but even now almost a year later, looking at these photos and telling this story has rekindled the cravings.
Addiction is cunning, baffling, and powerful.
So yeah, a cautiously celebratory cigarette, a tall cup of coffee from Lindsay’s favorite coffee shop, and then some much-needed water. Don’t let the elevation fool you, Idaho gets hot.
I was very tempted to pull my hot pink inner tube out of the van and do just like the coffee shop mural. But I didn’t have the kinds of hours that such a wonderfully lazy pursuit truly warrants. Instead, I opted for getting blabbed at by a local bing bong.
I had parked my van on the side of the coffee shop, where I could take up lots of room without offending the business. How about in front of this dump? I bet no one will care.
Wrong.
I hadn’t even turned off my engine before a slight man, highly strung and vaguely reminiscent of Mark Twain, appeared to tell me to back up. He needed his driveway accessible. Wherever that was. Okay, now he’s pointing. Here? Got it.
And, unsurprisingly, he had a million questions. My ongoing experience of being highly visible was a bit like Bland’s, minus the enthralled coeds. My self-selected demographic, apparently, is the walmart and this guy. Don’t remember his name, but let’s call him Mark.
Mark stood at my window and rapid fired the usual questions: did you build this? How long did it take you? How much did it cost? Is there a kitchen and bathroom in there? Yadda yadda. And then he asked me if Jesus was my personal lord and savior. Because, of course. But the aggressively devout don’t rub me the wrong way like they used to. There’s actually something kind of endearing and admirable about their faith. So I gave him an honest answer. To Christ, I conceded a great man, whose example we could all benefit from, but don’t believe it necessary with whom to enter into a blood oath for the sake of my soul (my soul is just fine, thank you). He pressed me on whether I had faith, and again I was honest, that I do, that it’s informed by a combination of my Quaker upbringing and some powerful spiritual experiences that I’ve had both in and outside of organized religion. I told him that I’m part of a men’s group, that I pray and meditate every day, and that I regularly seek to align my will with that of a higher power. He was very curious and had a lot more questions. Probably not too many new-agey types give him the time of day. I don’t mind characters, especially if they’re quirky and even better if they’re humorous. In keeping with his namesake, Mr. Twain had plenty of jokes and anecdotes. He was weird and great.
Humans. Are. Fascinating.
After we talked for a while he insisted on giving me a gift, which was particularly endearing. He gave me an old cooler, which I actually really needed. And he wanted to give me some reusable water bottles, which I passed on.
I wrapped up with Mark and headed over to the Boise Co-op for a late lunch with Cousin Mike. The Boise Co-op was another one of these “must sees” that, frankly, didn’t live up to the hype. It’s a hippie grocery store. And? Mind you I just spent 12 years in Eugene, Oregon, arguably one of the hippiest places in America, with not one but five full-fledged hippie grocery stores. The irony was that it was a Eugene friend who was so insistent that I go to the Boise Co-op. Regardless, grocery stores are not something I get excited about.
Anyway, I had a nice lunch with Mike in their questionably useable outdoor eating area. We said our goodbyes since he wouldn’t be home when I went back to collect any of my things that migrated into his house (I was particularly worried about the temperature extremes with my expensive electronics).
Back to Mike and Lindsay’s and then I hit the road. Up to 55 mph, full power, cruising. But I accidentally walked off with one of their keys. I don’t remember how far I’d gotten, or how long it took to loop back. But it was long enough that Mike was home from work. Another goodbye, this time with a very sweaty hug. As I climbed into the truck, I couldn’t resist, I reached out and rubbed his bald head and told him I loved him.
I’m so glad I got to spend some time with my western family. It was strange holding both anxious rage for the state of my vehicle while simultaneously feeling deeply grateful for all its fuck-ups as well. My limping land boat, while making me nuts, gave me a real road trip.
But the rig was working now, so it was time to drive.
I had no idea how far I’d make it that night, I’d already lost some time because of the house key thing. Maybe Wyoming? I drove away from the setting sun and crossed over the Utah state border. I needed gas and pulled over in Snowville. There was some big fancy refilling station, a Flying J, I think. Could I fill up there? Nope. But there was a Sinclair next door. I took the opportunity to get a shot I’d been wanting for a while. I’m sure I’m not the first.
While the van refilled, I grabbed some pretzels, candy bars, and a couple bottles of Coke. In the bathroom there was one of those dubiously stocked dispensers, you know, the kind with herbal Viagra and condoms and energy pills. I’ve never seen anyone buy anything from a bathroom vending machine. Ever. At least the ones in the ladies rooms make sense, they sell things ladies actually need. Like lady herbal Viagra.
The town of Snowville was actually kind of cute. In an off ramp kind of way. I would have liked to have seen it during the day, but all I had was twilight. Small population clusters, when they’re this remote, they always make me wonder- what does anyone actually do here? How do you survive? You can’t all work at the gas stations. To be fair, there was also Mollie’s Diner, one other restaurant, a school, a post office, and something unmarked and unlisted that looked like it had to do with chemicals.
As I slow rolled around town I came up with a movie script.
A small town is dying. They can see the writing on the wall, so they hatch a plan. They’re going to build a large public school. The local contractor will draw up the building plans, the local feed store will start ordering the materials, they’ll pilfer state funding, and create their own bank to lend themselves money they’ll never repay, they’ll hire everyone in the town. Only problem is, they barely have enough kids to justify the current school building. So in a series of charming government hoodwinks and earnest (and comedic) bumbling they manage to all come together and, against all odds, pull it off. Best part? It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Once they break ground on the school, they decide to go further, they remake the entire town. They champion it as a destination, and that’s exactly what it becomes. The community thrives.
The end.
I love a good underdog story. Especially one with a robin hood undercurrent, and some charismatic, yet well-intentioned, con artists. Who knows, maybe it’ll get made ;)
Moving on.
I left Snowville and headed south and east on the 84, which eventually turned into the 15. Passing by Brigham City I wondered if that’s where Brigham Young University is (it isn’t). I felt oddly compelled to stop and explore, but it was go time. I needed to drive as far and as long as I possibly could. Which it turns out wasn’t that much further, because… another warning light came on. MOTHER FUCKER ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
It wasn’t the engine light, thank god. It was something I hadn’t seen before. I pulled over, looked up auto supply places and figured I should overnight close to them. On the map I saw a country road that looked like it was well-positioned to several, while still being enough off the main roads that I could park there without hassle. I guessed right, there were several big rigs pulled over, presumably, doing the same thing.
Where was I?
Ogden, Utah.