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Posted by on Jul 24, 2014 in Blog, Personal, Rants and Raves, Travel | 3 comments

Rental Car Hell

 

2012-Toyota-Prius-Dashboard

 

 

Each time I cut corners, something really bad seems to happen which makes me blow a fuse and I end up writing and ranting about it.

So, here I am.  My story begins two hot and sticky summer nights ago when I arrived in humidity-drenched Dallas at way past midnight, long after the rental car location was supposed to close.

 

Of course, my flight was late.  This always seems to happen when you have somewhere to go and important people to meet.

Fortunately, Hertz Rent-a-Car did the right thing.  They left the light on for me.  Making a reservation does offer some guarantees.

Once in front of the terminal, I spotted a black and yellow shuttle bus waiting for me at the curbside.  As Hertz’s final customer of the night, I felt like the problem school child who’d miserably failed his test and had to take it over again — keeping the impatient teacher much longer than she ever wanted to be there.  The first question the obviously annoyed driver asked me was — “Are you a Gold Member.”  There’s a wickedly funny dirty joke in there somewhere.  But I wasn’t prepared to chance it with a driver that seemed quite pissed at me to be working 90 minutes past her closing time.  Probably screwed up her hot date.

“No, I’m not a Gold Member,” I replied.  “I’m just plain old customer who grabbed the cheapest price at Hotwire.  And so here I am!”

Dead silence.

Well, since the driver wouldn’t humor me with the courtesy of even a fake smile, no two-dollar shuttle tip for her.  Besides, she didn’t budge an inch of her polyester-padded ass to help me haul my bag up the steps.  So, she’s getting stiffed.  Gold Member style!

Five minutes later, the humorless bus driver dumps me in front of what seems to be a very dark office.  Too dark.  She mumbles something that I can’t understand, and of course, I completely blow her off.  Who gives a fuck what she said?  I’ll never see her again.

That was a bad assumption to make.

By this time, the bus has whisked around the building and is gone and out of sight.  The lot is dark.  The lights inside are turned off.  There’s no one around.

Worse, I discover the front door is padlocked.  I mean, first, it’s locked with a deadbolt and then chained.

What the fuck!

I bang on the door and nothing happens except for a lingering reverberation of rattling glass.

Finally, there’s dead silence again.  Except for crickets.

I walk around the building and the place is completely deserted.  I notice the working hours painted on the window — which closes at 11 pm.  It’s now 12:50 am.  Just as I’m about to scream and bust a testicle, I see the dreaded woman emerge from a back parking lot heading towards me.  It’s the rude driver.

Oh shit — she’s going to be the counter agent.  Damn, I knew that I should have tipped her the two bucks.  No upgrade for me, I guess.

The woman waddles some keys out of her pocket which seems to be more cumbersome than the occasion calls for and she finally opens the door.  Then, she flips on the lights.  Next, I’m told it will be a few minutes “while the computer warms up.”

Huh?  Warms up?  Are we making fucking waffles or am I renting a car?

I go through the usual motions:  First, DECLINE THE GAS OPTION.  Second, NO INSURANCE.  I’ll fade it.  I know the real odds on tragedy and the jokers are juicing the real risk way up the charts.

The woman informs me I have a choice between the Dodge or the Toyota.  This one’s easy.  Give me the Toyota.

“It’s a Hybrid,” she says.  “Is that okay?”

Why wouldn’t that be okay with me?  Doesn’t taking the Hybrid mean I’ll get twice the gas mileage?  Who in the hell would take the Dodge over the Toyota Hybrid?  The Gold Members, I guess.  They probably know better.

I’ll admit, there were red flags on the horror story later to come.  I was just too tired and stubborn to notice the cautionary banner.

Space 135.  I get to the car and notice there are no keys inside.  There’s just a knob of black plastic tossed into the drink holder.  It takes me a moment to realize this is one of those fancy “push button” cars.  What this means is — as long as you have the key detector nearby (like, sitting in the drink holder), the car will simply start up once you hit “PUSH.”

Well, I pushed.

And I pushed again.

And I pushed and I pushed and the fucking thing did nothing but light up.  No engine.

What bullshit!

Finally, I decided to look at the dashboard like a man lost and confused.  Like your uncle the first time he uses a computer.  Something’s flashing.  That’s probably a good place to begin my casual reading in a dark parking lot in a shitty area of Dallas at what’s now past 1 am.

DEPRESS BRAKE PEDAL BEFORE STARTING ENGINE

Ah yes, of course!  I press down on the brake just as instructed and then I hit PUSH.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.  Except, some mild cursing.

Once again.

Vroooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom.  Voila!  Success!

The car starts!  I have no idea why this moment brings me so much joy, but strangely it does.  What I didn’t fully think through was that it took me multiple times to crank the motherfucker and finally get a spark.  Red flag.  Red flag.

About ten minutes later while driving, I inexplicably decide that I need some cash.  I’m not waking up with $23 in my pocket.  So, before I go off to bed I’m going to ATM myself a couple of hundred dollars from a gas station called “Racetrack.”  That way, I will be all set for the following day for whatever cash emergencies come up.

I pull into a parking lot on Mockingbird Lane that has a couple of sweaty junkies sitting out in front.  They’re drinking malt liquor.  I pass them by with a twisted mix of disgust and envy.

The ATM spits out my money and I resist the temptation to join the party by grabbing my own ice-cold tallboy can of Colt 45.

Flush with cash and ready to finally call it a night, I’m back in the front seat and hit the PUSH button.

Lights come on.  Silence.

Oh man, I forgot.  Remember to press the brake first.

Brake pressed.  Button pushed.

Silence.

Again.

Silence.

Fuck this!

The two junkies are now staring at me.

I exit the car.  I open the door again and go through the ritual from step one.  PUSH followed by dead silence.

This fuck parade continues for another ten minutes or so.  Each time, the car won’t start.  Yeah, I know it’s a Hybrid.  I realize it’s supposed to run on battery power.  But the gear shift is the most confusing thing I’ve ever seen for an automatic car.  We’re now way past the ridiculous phase.

Time to call someone.  But who?  The Hertz rental place is closed for the night and by now that woman who put me into this car is probably in a park somewhere getting porked.  Maybe even laughing that I took the Prius.

That leaves me just one option.

THE DREADED 1-800 NUMBER!

This is the phone number set up for losers and deadbeats.  You know — morons that get into car wrecks, have their vehicles stolen, or who rent Priuses with electrical problems.  I call HERTZ on the toll-free line on a cell phone with like 8 percent juice left in the power.  I’m starting to get nervous.

The call-in menu is extensive.  Just about every category of humanity’s cruel misfortune is listed on the automated system.  If you locked your keys in the car, press one.  If you have a dead battery or a flat tire, press two.  If you need to extend your rental contract, press three.  If you are lost and need directions to the nearest Hertz outlet, press four.  If you’re on a Safari getting chased by a giant rhino, press five.

I press the breakdown number and then wait for what I count as 13 minutes — just enough time to hear the cycle on the muzak track start repeating itself.

A nice lady finally comes on the line.  Not from India.  American.  Optimism.  Because, you know — when you break down in Dallas at 2 am, the person you really want to be talking to is somewhere off in Bangalore.

“May I help you?”

“Yeah, my Hertz rental car broke down about five miles away from Dallas Love Field,” I say nicely.  “The car won’t start.”

“Did you try to jump-start it?”

“No,” I say.  “It’s a hybrid.”

“Oh, you must have a Prius,” she says.

Bingo!  Now we are getting somewhere!

The next five minutes are probably impossible for anyone to believe.  But it actually happened.

“Yeah, those Priuses can be funny like that,” she says.  “Let’s try to figure it out.”

“Let’s?”

What am I?  Mr. Mechanic?

The next part of the exchange is surreal.  After taking down all of my basic information and making sure I am who I say, the woman on the line then starts reading sections of the OWNERS MANUAL out loud to me.  THE OWNERS MANUAL!

“If you turn to page 132, it says you need to exit the vehicle and lock it up and then come back to it as in start over,” she says.  “Get the manual out of the glove box and let’s read it together.”

Read it together?  What is this Sesame Street?  Captain Kangaroo?

Of course, I obey as I’m told.  When this is your only lifeline, you comply.  I crack open the owner’s manual to page 132.

“This page tells me how to open and close the sunroof,” I say.

“Oh, that’s not what you need (giggling).  You need to find the part of the manual on how to start the car.

Yeah, but at least if the sunroof breaks down later, I’ve got the problem covered.

I’m not fucking believing this scene.

I flip through the index and find that section.  It’s on page 182.  But I can’t decipher this technical shit about knobs and buttons and waiting ten seconds for this or that and tapping on brake pedals — even if my life depended on it.  Give me two weeks to study with a tutor and I might be able to absorb this.  But I’m not going to sit in a parking lot in bad light and no glasses at what’s now close to 2 am doing what basically amounts to an oil change.

Fuck this!

“Well Sir, I guess we will have to tow the car in,” she says.  “The tow truck can be there at 7 am.  They can get you another car in the morning.”

Where’s the malt liquor!

We basically agree that I’m going to leave this car parked, chance it that it will actually get picked up the next morning, and I will take a taxi.  And that’s precisely what happens.  By now, I’m way too tired even to be livid.

Of course, the taxi takes 45 minutes to arrive.  The next morning I decide to go with Budget.

Postscript:  Two days later, I’m scheduled to turn the car back in and fly out of Dallas (which was today).  On a lark, I go by the Hertz location just to make sure they haven’t charged me for the rental.  I enter and ask to speak to the manager.  When I tell him my sad story, he looks at me like I’m from outer space.  “Our computer shows that this is still an open contract…..where’s the car now?”  So, as of right now the lame car is still parked at Racetrack unless it’s been stolen.  Fat chance.  The motherfucker won’t even start.  For all my trouble, I finally argue enough to get the charges removed and receive a $35 courtesy award from Hertz on my next rental.  When and if that ever happens, you can be sure of one thing.  It won’t be a push-button Toyota Prius. 

READ: Payless Rent-a-Car Sucks

3 Comments

  1. (A bit of a dark sidebar to this fun story.)

    Nolan wrote: I go through the usual motions: First, DECLINE THE GAS OPTION. Second, NO INSURANCE. I’ll fade it. I know the real odds on tragedy and the jokers are juicing the real risk way up the charts.

    Very few people know the odds of tragedy from auto transport.

    The average automobile user has a 1 in 85 chance of getting killed in a traffic collision at some point in his/her lifetime.

    This 85-1 shot does not include the added risk of becoming seriously injured or turned into a lifetime vegetable needing 24 hour care.

    The number of Americans killed each month from automobiles is roughly the same number of casualties incurred on 9/11. (about 3,000 killed each month)

    • we and I bet Nolan has insurance! DUH!

  2. Did you ever step on the gas pedal after trying to start it? Many of these hybrids don’t actually turn over the gas motor until you do – they’re initially relying on electric only.

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