Although I came of age in the Glory Days of Gearheads, I wasn’t one, myself.

To those guys, a car represented freedom, power, and style. To me, it was internal-combustion-powered servitude.

First, you had to buy it. You had only two choices: One was a Real Junker; the other was a Pseudo Junker. The RJ cost almost nothing to buy, but a small fortune to maintain. The PJ cost bigger bucks to buy, and a smaller fortune to maintain it — but a fortune nonetheless. Plus, no matter what you started with, you had to insure it, which to a single guy under 27 was more than the cost of the car itself.

So, no thanks, said I. I got by just fine sans car. In a pinch, I could borrow my mother’s or brother’s wheels; the rest of the time I got around by thumb or shanks’ mare.

Finally, at the grand old age of 25, I bought my first car — an ancient but sound VW Beetle with more mileage on it than Keith Richards. It was the first of a long line, since I drove Beetles for the next 30 years. Then, for the next 20 years, my weapon of choice was two Honda Accords. I still have the second one, a 2010, and while it runs OK, it’s like me — having rounded the final turn we’re now lumbering down the home stretch.

Its need to be replaced was as obvious as when a monarch is about to give up the ghost. Unfortunately, the car’s replacement would be the exact opposite of the royal’s, since there’s no line of succession. So I did what I always try to do, shop locally. And so I ended up at Evergreen Auto, rappin’ with ace hustler Kevin Bartel.

Since I’d had great luck with my Accords, I decided to see if they had one on the lot. They didn’t. But they did have a 2014 Civic with 14,000 miles. I kicked the tires, peeked under the hood (having no idea what I was looking at, other than a Rube Goldberg mass of wires, belts, tubes, hoses, and underneath it all, an engine, I think).

Kevin handed me the keys and I took it for spin. It bore no resemblance to my Accords. It was more cramped and tinnier. The steering was responsive … but too much so for my comfort. Giving the devil its due, its power and acceleration were fine, as was its gas consumption. But overall, I didn’t like it. Then there was the price. I don’t know if you’ve checked the used car market lately, but if you’re about to and you’re under a doctor’s care for bad nerves or a bad heart, don’t!

They had some other cars there — Toyotas and Subarus, as I recall — all of which held no appeal to me. I was silently debating saying to hell with any kind of car and instead buy in a camel, when Kevin brought me out of my musings.

“You see the Lincoln Town Car?” he said.

“Lincoln Town Car?” I said. “What Lincoln Town Car?”

“The one there, at the end of the lot,” he said, pointing. “It’s not one of ours, but it’s here on consignment.”

A Lincoln Town Car? For me, a guy who’s spent the last half-century driving only compacts and sub-compacts? It seemed as out of character as me shaving off my beard, getting a nose job and running for public office. But I figured, What the hey, I could at least give it a look-see, couldn’t I? So I did.

And I liked what I saw. The car was a real beaut — a 2002 ragtop, Florida car, in beautiful shape. It’d had one owner, had never been in a wreck or a flood, and had only 66,000 miles on it. Still, the thing was so big, I could’ve put one of my Beetles in the front seat … and one of the Accords in the back.

“You wanna take it for a drive?” said Kevin.

“Why not?” I said. “Got nothing to lose.”

But I was wrong, cuz what I lost was my cool.

The Lincoln wasn’t a car — it was Paradise on Wheels. It had it all — leather seats and steering wheel, power up the waz, and a ride so smooth it was the vehicular equivalent of a full Brazilian. As soon as I pulled into the lot, I was sold … and the car was bought.

–

A flood — of water and emotions

–

That was in May. My game plan was to drive it only in summer and garage it for the winter. Then I’d have my Honda for my winter beater.

Summer came and went; fall arrived, and last week I took it to the car wash for a final cleaning before I put it in mothballs. But when I went to vacuum the front seat passenger mat, I got a shock to my nervous system: The mat and floor were soaked.

The hell!

That’s the irony about water: It’s vital to our existence and thus it’s our friend … as long as does what it’s supposed to do. But when, for example, it either appears or disappears when it shouldn’t, you gots problems. Or in this case I had a problem.

What to do? The only thing that made sense — take it to the experts, which in this case was Wayne Darrah Auto Body.

Here’s the thing about Darrah’s: They are the most fun peeps to talk with. Nicole is always a delight, and Wayne loves to talk Old Time My Home Town, so a visit with them is the best combination of business with pleasure. Except when I screeched into their shop, my BQ (Business Quotient) was about 200 and my PQ (Pleasure Quotient) was about minus 200.

After initial greetings, I got right down to the issue at hand.

“Help!” I cried to Nicole, reaching for my cigarettes while forgetting I haven’t smoked since they were 50 cents a pack.

She asked me what was wrong; I told her.

Their shop is booked till April ’24, but she got my car in right away, for two reasons. One, my problem looked like a small, easily-solved one. And two, no one likes to see an old man cry.

The car was turned over to Al, the Bey of Body and Fenders. Upon first glance, he thought it was a plugged drain — an easy fix. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and went back in the office to shmooze with Wayne about our Gilded Youth.

A half-hour or so passed and Nicole came back in the office from the garage. Her face, almost always decked out with a bright smile, was the Picture of Gloom.

“Bad news,” she said.

“How bad?” I said.

“Better ask Al,” she said.

When I went into the garage, Al was standing by my car. Its hood was open, looking like I felt — that it was about to start wailing piteously.

The good news was there was no problem with the drains. The bad news was Al had no idea what the problem lay. But he thought he knew where it lay, namely under a whole bunch of hardware that had to first be removed in order to find it.

They say When in Rome, do what the Romans do. And I say When Around the Experts, let them do what they need to do, and get outta their hair. Which is exactly what I did, sitting in Nori’s, drowning my sorrows in coffee and croissants. Finally, stuffed to the brim and wired to the eyeballs, I walked back to Darrah’s.

When I went in the office, Nicole was once again all smiles. I took it as a sign that the Fates were likewise smiling down on me. And it turned out they were.

Al had found the problem: Some opening somewhere, which should’ve been sealed before the car left the factory, hadn’t been sealed. And not only had Al solved the problem, but he’d cured it, literally, with a very liberal application of some kind of sealant. After that, he’d hosed the bejammers out of the car, then checked and rechecked to see if any water came in the cabin. When he’d satisfied himself it hadn’t, he pronounced the patient cured.

Or in this case, both patients were cured — my car of its leak, and me of my meltdown.

The big difference is the car’s cure is permanent. Mine, however — given my record of meltdowns — is only temporary.