Gene Cranston came to that.

So in the continuing saga of Gene Cranston's road-worthiness, it turned out that the check-engine-light lighting that happened post-transmission-flush was what my Ron had feared it would be: the catalytic converter.

It also turns out that because Gene is a 1994 and not 1996 or later, there needed to be a special-order converter. The O2 sensor that would normally be somewhere on a catalytic converter is actually inside a Volvo 1994's catalytic converter. This meant that changing it cost over 150% what a normal cat would cost. I got it done at P.C.'s Ron's shop because they're exhaust experts and I was tired of my Ron rolling his eyes at Gene. (Though that had stopped when he'd had a chance to spend a little time with Gene, my Ron also simply buys dealer parts for Volvos, which are three times as expensive as they should be.)

So Gene got his converter converted last Thursday. They ran him through emissions right there at P.C.'s Ron's, and he passed in training. Then they ran him again and he failed worse than ever.

When I say "worse than ever," I mean that Gene had failed by about 200 ppm in the Nox category the first time, putting out 1700-something instead of the 1522 he should have. The second test, he got worse, putting out over 2000 ppm, and this second post-training-run run, he scored over 2500. This was after the catalytic converter was put in, and after the trips to Less-local City and Far-Away City.

Friday morning, I brought Gene in for a final retest, to have them test him cold, and he passed, with only 308 ppm. Go figure.

So Gene was roadworthy on Friday, the day I had to drive him to (and for) work.

I actually took my girl to the DMV on Friday afternoon, hoping to get a number for the line (CT DMV works like a deli counter), drop the girl off half an hour away and make it back before my number was called. Friday was the last day Gene Cranston could legally drive with the temporary registration; Friday was the day he had finally passed the emissions test to get a real registration; and Friday was the day the DMV shut early for the holiday weekend.

I don't mean early-early. I mean 20 minutes before I arrived with my girl, the DMV had shut its doors to further customers. It wasn't even closed yet at 12:53 p.m. But it was closed to me and the ten other cars that arrived and turned around in its lot while I was there.

So today, today, I'm going back, and I hope to finally end the saga (and the various payments) -- but at this point I hold out little hope that Gene, abused by previous owners and reluctant to change (gears -- the transmission is still a bit sticky), will ever be the happy-go-lucky little car-that-could that Betty has been. Or at least not legally.

But maybe I'm wrong -- maybe this is less fairy-tale and more epic, and all I have left to do is slay the hundred suitors and shoot my arrow through an axe head or something. After Circe and the cyclops, that should be a cinch.