The Morning Sentinel

OPINION

February 21

A loved one survives

BY J.P. DEVINE

As I peered through the small glass panel in the door, I could see her. She seemed so alone.

She and I had not been apart since we first met. Now, it was alleged, she had an internal problem and that was why she was here, in there -- in that cold, drafty room, illuminated by buzzing fluorescent lights and surrounded by technicians and dual computers. She was hooked up to wires that ran information from her to the blank, cold computer screens. I thought perhaps I should have bathed her before bringing her here.

I asked the chief technician if I might come into the room just for a moment and stand beside her, pat her now and then, and speak soft words of comfort. She must feel alone now, disconnected from my daily touch. He said I could, and I went in and stood next to her while they connected more wires. The little blips on the screens flowed back and forth with tiny numbers.

The chief technician smiled and said not to worry. He and his assistants had done many of these this week; five today, as a matter of fact.

The chief technician smiled and said not to worry. He and his assistants had done many of these this week; five today, as a matter of fact.

"You had the first Prius, didn't you?" he asked. I put my fingers to my lips and pulled him aside. I didn't want her to hear that. Yes, I did have another, but she was the best. After all, she came with leather seats that warmed up on cold mornings at the touch of a button. She had Bluetooth capabilities that allowed me to touch a button on the steering wheel and talk on my cell phone without actually touching the phone. So cool.

Now here she was, connected to a life-support system and software that was being downloaded into her almost-human brain, software that would search and find an alleged flaw that affected her smooth brakes.

Joe Richards, the specially trained technician, who had undergone secret rigorous training at Toyota headquarters in Boston, was in control. His cool, professional manner was comforting. I knew that with him, she was in good hands. I ran my hand over her sleek, black body and wished her well.

Yes, my Prius is like a child to me, a special daughter. That's why I always refer to her as "she." Many scoff at this and probably consider me mad. Perhaps I am.

I am of the belief that when you put yourself and your loved ones in the hands of 2,932 pounds of shiny, black metal that will take you at high speed on the interstate, you had better have a solid, even familial relationship. There had better be love there, love and trust. You can't love an "it." You can love a "she."

Here I stood with my "she" and Richards, a special Toyota technician with Central Maine Toyota, so skilled that he is to Toyota what a special forces warrior is to the CIA. We were here as the result of technical forces, seemingly so cryptic as to be almost spiritual, that somehow went awry, off the rails, and caused a pandemic of fear.

The Toyota "flu" had become the cause célèbre of the decade. Pundits on all networks worldwide rushed to judgment, hurried to hurl invectives and cruel jibes at my baby. The Toyota brand had become late-night comedians' favorite punch line. As I drove through the streets, I could feel others staring at us. Pickup drivers laughed and pointed fingers. I could hear them whispering behind my back in the cafes. "There goes Mister Prius Smarty Pants, with his new 2010 darling. Let's see him brag now, now that he commands the 'lemon of the millennium.' "

Master technician Richards made an attempt to explain. He used terms such as "scanner" and "update ECUs (electronic control unit)" as he sought to uncover what might be a problem with the anti-lock brake system. Then he said something that chilled me to my floor mats. "These cables attached to the battery are important. Throughout the process, we have to carefully maintain battery levels at the correct voltage" he whispered. "If we should go too low or high, it might blow out the memory in the system."

I stood there numbed, trembling. I envisioned her sitting in my garage, a brain-dead, 2,932-pound paperweight that had forgotten the lure of the highway, forgotten my gentle touch to wheel and pedal, forgotten the feel of rain on her eyes, the swish of leaves under her tires. Oh God.

Then it was done. The agony was relieved. I was ushered into the waiting exit canal and there she was, a 2,932-pound Lazarus. As a courtesy, they even had bathed her. How touching. Yes, even a mega-giant, world-class automaker can ultimately ... be touching. Viva Toyota.