My trusty Mercedes-Benz 190E 2.3, a vehicle I once cherished, had decided to stage a revolt. It refused to venture beyond the neighborhood limits, sputtering and stalling like a disgruntled mule. Portland, Oregon, boasts a plethora of Mercedes-Benz repair specialists, or so I thought. In my desperation, I towed the ailing German machine to several of these esteemed establishments, hoping for a cure. What ensued was a cascade of replaced parts and diagnostic bills that climbed to a staggering $1950, yet the 190E remained stubbornly immobile in my garage.
Just when despair began to set in, fate intervened in the unlikely form of a liquor store encounter. There, amidst bottles and spirits, I met a mechanic. We struck up a conversation, discovering a shared passion for automobiles. As it turned out, he had previously owned the very same model of Mercedes-Benz. With a knowing smile, he diagnosed the issue with confident simplicity: the fuel pressure regulator. A quick search on Amazon led us to a replacement part. Hope rekindled, I installed it, and miraculously, the 190E sprang back to life! I cautiously drove it to my newfound friend’s apartment, a mere eight blocks away, and entrusted it to his capable hands for the weekend.
Later that day, my girlfriend, residing near Troy, called with an unusual warning. “If you’re thinking of visiting, maybe hold off for a couple of hours,” she advised. My mind raced with possibilities, none of them pleasant. Was she seeing someone else? It seemed out of character. “Why?” I inquired, my voice laced with apprehension. “There are like, five trucks, ambulances, and cop cars swarming the neighborhood,” she replied, painting a picture of chaos.
The mystery deepened until, around 10 pm, my phone rang again. It was Troy, his voice choked with emotion. “Axel, I fixed your car!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking. “Then why are you crying?” I asked, bewildered. His words tumbled out in a torrent of disbelief. “After I installed the part, it ran perfectly! I drove it around the block, twice! Then I came inside for lunch, to tell my wife the good news. I walked out, and sirens were blaring. Cops and firefighters everywhere! The engine caught fire, bro! The whole front of your car is burnt to the ground! Even the tires and interior are a melted mess of plastic, rubber, and ash!”
“I see,” was all I could manage, the weight of his words sinking in. “I’m so, so sorry, bro,” he sobbed. “I can’t think of how I can possibly repay you.” “Sounds like a freak accident,” I offered, trying to process the bizarre turn of events. “I’ll give you my guitar and my bike,” he pleaded, desperate to make amends. “Okay,” I conceded, still reeling. Then came another confession, almost an afterthought. “One more thing… the shade tree I parked under? It caught fire too, because the flames from the engine were like, ten feet in the air!”
“I see,” I repeated, the absurdity escalating. “So, the apartment manager is furious and wants the smoldering remains of your car gone, ASAP. He’s talking right now!” Troy continued, his voice strained. “Okay,” I responded, numbly. “As for the fire damage to the tree, he might raise my rent, but from my point of view, you’re lucky the fire didn’t spread to the whole row of trees!” he added, attempting to find a silver lining in the charred wreckage.
In the aftermath of this automotive apocalypse, I turned to Joe at Old Car Parts Oregon. He specializes in situations like these, dealing with everything from pristine vintage components to vehicles that have seen better days, or in my case, been reduced to smoldering shells. Joe efficiently removed the remnants of my Mercedes, salvaging the rims and handing me $200 for the scrap. In a strange twist of fate, I made a small profit from the disaster.
Looking back, a part of me wishes I had invested in that fuel pressure regulator a year prior. It certainly would have saved me that initial $1950 in fruitless repairs, not to mention the fiery demise of my beloved 190E. It wasn’t exactly a win-win situation, and now, my primary mode of transportation is a bicycle. Perhaps there’s a lesson in all this: sometimes the cheapest fix can have the most explosive consequences, and when dealing with old car parts in Oregon, or anywhere else, proceed with caution and maybe keep a fire extinguisher handy. And when life gives you lemons, or in this case, a burnt-out Mercedes, at least there are places like Old Car Parts Oregon to help you pick up the pieces – and maybe even get a few dollars back.
