I stared at the invoice. $1,600?!
For a battery replacement and some vague “tests”?

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I almost roared. “All you did was swap a battery and poke around under the hood for a bit. I didn’t ask for a full-body scan of the car!”

Mr. Bill, the service manager, gave me a smile so smug it could’ve been patented. “Well, sir, the diagnosis was quite complex. We had to run several tests to determine the issue.”

“Complex?” I echoed, my voice cracking like an old radio. “The issue was a dead battery! This isn’t a medical mystery on House M.D.—it’s a car that wouldn’t start. You could’ve fixed it with jumper cables and a burrito break.”

But no. They’d billed me for three hours of “diagnostic work,” a new battery, labor, and—apparently—the manager’s vacation fund.

“It’s standard procedure,” Mr. Bill said with a shrug that made me want to launch him into outer space.

“Standard procedure?” I sputtered. “Standard procedure would be telling me upfront what this would cost, not springing it on me like a plot twist in a thriller.”

I stormed out, muttering words not publishable here, and vowed never to return. I’d been car-jacked—hoodwinked by a smiling man in a branded polo shirt. Next time? I’m going old-school: duct tape, YouTube tutorials, and a prayer. 

Never again.