Okay, so I bought a car because I'm too much of a pussy to tough out 90 minutes a day in blistering hot weather in a car with no AC on a highway that's louder than a suicide bombing at a Black Sabbath reunion.
I got this car checked out, thoroughly. Mechanical inspection, including compression. I asked the mechanic about the AC, and they did a vac & fill on it, because that was the best way they had of being sure it was a sound system.
Do you see where this is going? You do, don't you?
Two weeks after I buy the car, after three trips to Lawrence, only making an offer after getting my mechanic questions answered, and a round of negotiations that involved walking away, thinking it was probably no deal after all, the air conditioning craps out.
My first impulse was to drive to Lawrence and beat the curry out of one Indian grad student. There is a better chance that Rosie will turn straight than this guy didn't know he was selling a bum air conditioner that had just been charged up.
Or report him to Homeland Security. The feds won't know the difference: he's a small, brown man with an accent. If I say he's a terrorist, next thing you know he's deported to Pakistan, where I'm pretty sure they'll be able to tell he's not Pakistani, not Muslim, and not impossible to frame for the atrocities of Kashmir.
But instead, I called my mechanic. The guy I'd have taken it to if the car had been for sale in my sleepy little town.
But only I, nobody else could go to such lengths to buy an air conditioner with a Honda Accord attached to it and find himself back at square one in a fortnight.
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