I can thank our super awesome European car for helping me establish a very close relationship with Coastal. I loved on that car, I would whisper words of encouragement to it while gently rubbing it's dashboard and when I drove it I would go out of my way to park it next to expensive sports cars so it could bond with the upper class, but to no avail. Like a teenager being forced to visit its great aunt who smells like stale cigarettes and Vic's Vapor Rub, it rebelled.
The three separate problems over a couple month period first started with a problem that initially stumped the folks at Coastal because they found it wasn't the usual problems associate with the symptoms. But for a full day they kept digging, all the while calling me, offering sympathy and condolences while keeping me updated on the progress as I frantically paced the floor chewing my fingernails wondering how difficult it was to apply for food stamps after I paid the bill. Finally they got it! They talked me through the problem and gave me options, and just as I was prepared to offer them my first born - and possibly the second - as payment, they told me they'd cut the labor cost dramatically because it took them so long to find the problem. Dammit, I had to keep the kid. It still cost as much as my college education, well maybe just the textbooks, but I drove away happy and relieved.
A couple weeks later we noticed something else, I called, they listened, they determined the car would not spontaneously disintegrate in rush hour traffic on the HRBT and reassured us that we would not die James Dean style. I dropped by and was greeted like Norm on Cheers - everybody knew my name. Not good coming from your car repair place. A quick fix and I drove away that afternoon in what felt like a brand new car, except for the stale smell of a dirty sweat sock that I'm convinced is lodged into an unknown crevice in the back seat and a ground up granola bar one of the kids managed to stuff between the passenger seat and center console.
So by this point I'd spent more on the car than our quaint vacation home down by the shipyards, by no fault of Coastal by the way, we just happen to own a car whose parts are apparently made of pure gold and recycled gem stones. I gave that car all I could; I started burning incense next to it at night to protect it from evil spirits, I dusted it with the soft feathers of the last known Ivory Billed Woodpecker that I accidentally shot a few years back while drunkenly hunting with my one-armed second cousin the the bayous of Louisiana (that's a whole other story). I even played nothing but friggin Kenny G songs to keep it calm whenever I drove it (at the expense of my own sanity). But it wasn't through with me yet. In hindsight, I'd made the mistake of pampering it too much, and it wanted more.
One day my wife complained to me that it was "not sounding right", and I've been with her long enough to know the problem was serious because she was not willing to drive it for another two thousand miles before telling me. I let her take my truck again and I headed back to Coastal. I was unexpectedly presented with balloons and a repurposed golf trophy covered with glitter and googly eyes and ceremoniously initiated into their exclusive Favorite Customer club, the only other member being that idiot with the 1995 Range Rover that has its own reserved repair bay. Sure enough, they diagnosed the problem, gave me options, a not-to-exceed cost estimate and did an expert repair as usual, always mindful of my time and the fact that I had a standing lawn dart tournament I had to get to that evening.
Finally, I think the hex has been lifted because the car now runs great and has been for a while, even though my writing this review puts me at great risk of resetting the jinx. The people at Coastal are all great; really nice and easy to talk too, are super informative and don't beat around the bush when telling you what's wrong with your car. Despite the numerous problems with the car and the fact that I've sold various internal organs and am working five jobs to pay for it to remain roadworthy, I'm confident in their skill and integrity. The car now sits on a plush polar bear rug in the driveway, gets a daily spritzing of champagne and rose water and frequently has classical music softly played for it. Best of all, my wife isn't driving my truck anymore, but now the truck has a rattling noise and a big wad of half chewed Cheetos under the back seat. I hope it hasn't been talking to that damn car. read more
