The toughest thing about moving to a new city isn't making friends, as much as it is about making two friends. Two good doctor friends.

One for you.

One for your car.

There is no more comforting feeling in the world than knowing you've found a great, trusted physician and mechanic. And while your body may be important, a good, fair mechanic is essential since company health-care plans will cover you and your family but, for some inexplicable reason, not your automobile.

Unfortunately, choosing these doctors is often done out of necessity (also known as emergency), as I was forced to do in the sweltering Friday heat, when it was 135 degrees in the shade, and my SUV stalled in Skaneateles. And although the Skaneateles village council - in an effort to be the most desirable place to live on the planet - plans to install outdoor air-conditioning throughout the village next summer, that wasn't helping me on Friday.

I had just pulled in to the Key Bank drive-thru when the car stalled and wouldn't restart. I cashed my check - now realizing it wasn't headed where I had intended - and pushed my SUV (Stupid Useless Vehicle) out of the lane to the edge of the lot, in full view of the passers-by on Jordan Street.

And I did what any man would do.

I popped the hood, reached in and touched a few things.

This is what all men do, regardless of whether we know a carburetor from an alternator. We do it because often there are women/children in the car who can see us standing in front of the engine, and we must look as though we know our way around in there, to reassure them they are in good hands.

But the only thing I ever deduce by touching parts under the hood is that they are usually pretty hot.

I didn't know what I was doing or what I was looking for. I never took shop in school, I took college prep courses like trigonometry, Shakespeare and other courses that are required for college admission but never required in real life emergencies (Wherefore art thou, tow truck?)

Men who can't fix cars are in awe of those who can. Those men are a man's man. My dad was one. He always had oil and grease under his nails; I only have the occasional barbecue sauce. He often told me: "Son, you better learn how to fix your own car, or get a good job so you can pay people to do it for you."

So I tried to fix my own car when I was younger and broker; being broke forces one to try many things for which they are not qualified.

Every time I tried to fix my car and put it back together, I always seemed to have parts left over. And each time, I would put the leftover pieces in the glove compartment until I finally realized my glove compartment was full and I had spent far too much money for a car that could run on 20 percent fewer engine parts. But engines today have 150 percent more parts, and therefore, beyond refilling the windshield washer fluid, I am not certified to be anywhere near a car engine.

And so I was stuck in Skaneateles. And my car had no health insurance.

I called our office and asked people for a referral for a mechanic. A number of The Citizen employees recommended one in particular.

There is a feeling of helplessness when you hand your car over to a mechanic. It's the vulnerability of ignorance, and for men, a feeling of inadequacy. So you try everything, short of sending a fruit and meat assortment, to develop a quick, close relationship with a new mechanic, one in which he wouldn't possibly take advantage of you.

When I called, I was sure to mention every single person who had referred me, hoping that maybe there was a cousin or best friend in there somewhere. The presumption is if I knew someone that was his family or close friend, then maybe I could, by some sort of warped transference, be treated just like family or a friend.

It seemed to have worked. The mechanic was very friendly and said he would look at it first thing Monday. In fact, the man from the towing service who towed my Stupid Useless Vehicle was extremely friendly, as was my local insurance agency, which covered the towing costs.

This was as good of a bad experience as I could have hoped.

Of course, I won't know how expensive an experience until Monday, when a man's man will call me and tell me what's wrong.

It probably has something to do with my full glove compartment.

Editor Mikel LeFort can be reached at 253-5311 ext. 230 or e-mail mikel.lefort@lee.net