The Curious Case of the Missing Pickup

We have a hybrid pickup.

We love this little truck.

It’s practical, gets excellent gas mileage, has enough room in the back seat for actual adults instead of folding them into compact travel shapes, and the bed is just large enough to make one feel virtuous about hauling things while rarely actually hauling things.

Like many modern marvels, however, it comes with a catch. We can no longer fix anything ourselves. Gone are the days when one could peer thoughtfully beneath a hood, jiggle something mechanical, replace a reasonably accessible part, and declare victory.

No. Modern vehicles require computers. Our pickup appears to require not merely diagnostics but what I suspect is a ceremonial connection to The Machine. Something goes wrong and the vehicle must be introduced to its Handler. Preferably by someone carrying expensive equipment and speaking softly in acronyms.

A short time ago, my husband took the dogs for their usual walk. This is their routine. The dogs walk. The dogs sniff. The dogs conduct what appears to be an ongoing neighborhood census. Eventually, everyone returns home.

Only this time, when my husband turned the key, the pickup had… thoughts.

Every warning light came on. Not politely. Not one sensible warning light indicating a problem. No. Every light. Flashing. Blinking. Flickering enthusiastically.

It looked less like a dashboard and more like either the truck’s birthday celebration or the moment one pulls the lever on a slot machine and unexpectedly wins a mid-sized appliance.

There was energy. There was excitement. There was absolutely no useful information.

My husband did what most people do when technology becomes unsettling. He turned it off and tried again.

This time there were no flashing lights. No excitement. No festive display. Nothing. Not even disappointment.

The truck had apparently shuffled off this mortal coil and departed for the Great Parking Lot in the Sky.

A tow truck arrived and transported our dearly departed vehicle to the dealership where we purchased it and have faithfully had all servicing performed.

This was Wednesday.

Thursday came the diagnosis.

“It’s the battery.”

Ah. Excellent. Not the terrifying giant hybrid battery that powers the electric side of things. Not some catastrophic computer failure requiring engineers flown in from undisclosed locations. Just the ordinary little 12-volt battery under the hood. The same battery type possessed by approximately every car on Earth.

Wonderful. Problem solved.

Except…They did not have one.

I’m sorry?

A dealership and service center. For automobiles. Did not have…a battery.

I blinked several times.

“Isn’t there an automotive store in town?” I asked my husband.

“There are a couple.”

“Hmmm.”

Because this seemed solvable.

One imagines a technician climbing into literally any available vehicle, driving ten minutes, purchasing a battery, and returning triumphant like some modest suburban hero.

Later that day, the service supervisor called again. Good news. They had located a battery. Bad news. It wasn’t charged. They would charge it overnight. Fair enough, I suppose.

Though I confess this struck me as slightly odd because batteries and chargers are hardly rare mythical artifacts.

Still.

Thursday became Friday.

Friday brought silence.

My husband called. Unfortunately, the one and only person in the entire establishment capable of discussing the truck was unavailable.

No call back arrived.

Then came the weekend.

Monday repeated Friday.

At this point, my imagination became involved. This is never useful. How long, exactly, does it take to charge a battery? Surely not four days. They could have driven to a battery distributor and back several times. At minimum. Even if every auto parts store in town had somehow been ravaged by a mysterious battery shortage.

So naturally, my brain began offering theories. Our pickup had been trafficked to another country. Our pickup had been adopted by a childless couple who finally had something practical to love. Perhaps it had grown weary of responsibility and embarked upon a personal journey of self-discovery. Maybe it had held up a bank and was now on the run, changing identities and avoiding toll roads.

Meanwhile, somewhere in a service department, one mysterious man guarded all information like the Keeper of the Sacred Automotive Knowledge. The Oracle of Scheduling. The Sultan of Service Updates. The one individual through whom all truck-related wisdom must pass.

Finally, on Tuesday morning, Mr. Important returned our call.

The truck, it turned out, was alive. Healthy. Ready to come home. And so we retrieved it.

After nearly a week of drama, silence, and increasingly improbable conspiracy theories, our technologically advanced hybrid pickup had been brought low by the automotive equivalent of forgetting to eat lunch.

A dead battery.

Frankly, I found this comforting.

Because if obtaining and charging a battery took nearly a week, I prefer not to speculate about how long something genuinely complicated might take.