Last summer my 1997 Lexus ES300 began to drip. I got on my knees, craned my neck to peer up under the old girl the way car owners do, hoping to find. What?
I took the car to a repair shop here in Castle Rock, Aspen Goodyear at the intersection of Founders and Front Street. Techies there quickly determined the origin of the drippage lay in the power steering fluid pump. They said they could replace it for hundreds of dollars, and they did.
Three weeks ago, the old girl began to leak again. Same spot. Same stuff, apparently. I returned to Aspen Goodyear. I recognized some of my homies from the power steering fluid pump replacement last summer.
The first technician said the power steering fluid pump was leaking again.
The second technician said the power steering pump was not leaking. The leak was oil from valves needing new covers.
I got nervous and decided to take my faithful auto friend to Kuni Lexus for a second opinion. Besides, a variety of other cosmetic repairs were due and I thought I'd see if their technicians would mention the leak and name the source.
The technician from Kuni Lexus called me later that same day.
"Did you know you have a leak?"
"Really? What do you think it is?"
"It's the power steering fluid pump. We can order one and replace it for hundreds of dollars."
"Oh, no thanks."
I fetched my car from Kuni (who, by the way, had loaned me a brand new Lexus RX350 which is all part of a plot to tempt me, they freely admit) and drove it straight to Aspen Goodyear back here in Castle Rock.
"Kuni Lexus says the power steering fluid pump is leaking. The one you guys put on in July is still under warranty."
"Your power steering pump is not leaking. If they would have looked a little harder at Kuni they would have seen oil oozing from the valves, running down the firewall and dripping off the lowest point under there, the power steering fluid pump. We can replace your valve covers for hundreds of dollars."
My husband drove my soon-to-be-classic Lexus home from Aspen Goodyear after the valve cover replacements.
"It whistles."
"What whistles?"
"Your car whistles when you accelerate. Has it ever done that before?"
Back to Aspen Goodyear this morning, the place I have spent so much time lately technicians know me by name; all except one.
This morning they called
Scotty from the bull pen.
"Scotty," they boomed through the mike at the cash register to speakers in the garage. "We need you to take a drive with a customer."
Scotty is probably early twenties, looks eighteen, and surely could not know much. I figured they were pawning me off on Scotty as some sort of punishment or initiation (for Scotty, not me).
Sixty seconds into the excursion with Scotty, Ol' Lexi whistling like one of those doggie squeeze toys all the while, he looked at me and said, "Bad grommet."
Apparently a grommet is a clamp of some sort and I had a bad one. Scotty did away with the bad grommet, provided a perfectly good grommet, ended the incessant whistle and I was on my way toot-sweet.
I like Scotty. He's a good grommet. And, if Aspen Goodyear was testing him, he passed.