I’m writing in the back room this morning, while waiting for my first appointment to show up, when I hear the trusty motion detector, and see the front end of a car easing into the shop. The driver beeps the horn immediately. As I’ve stated in previous blogs, there’s nothing like being summoned by a car horn to get me ready for the Prom. I approach the car with measured steps, which doesn’t sit well with the young man sitting behind the driver’s wheel. He gives me a quick second beep, and holds up his hands in a ‘today,
“Can I help you?” I ask. Hurry Up hasn’t moved from his seat.
“How much to throw some tire fix in my front tire?”
“I don’t fix tires here,” I reply, knowing even if I did, it wouldn’t be a spray goo fix. “Big O tires…”
“What?!” Hurry gasps in shock. “Man, what the hell do you do here?”
Okay, I’ll play for a couple minutes.
“I do general repair on all American and Asian vehicles, with the exception of transmission rebuilding, and alignments. I do some exhaust work, but I’m not competitive with the chains except with late model catalytic converter replacement,” I rattle off the facts politely.
“But you can’t do a tire… shit…” Hurry clucks at me disparagingly.
“I can do tire repairs. I choose not to.”
“Make an exception.”
This is getting interesting.
“No. Go down 38th, turn right on Foothill Blvd., Big O tires will be on your right,” I direct him, as his face grows more petulant. I say petulant, because if you’re a young no-it-all punk, that’s as close to menacing as you get.
Hurry Up glares at me petulantly for another fifteen seconds, and I start grinning. Hurry shakes his head in disgust.
“You ought to hire a mechanic,” Hurry prods me as he starts his car, and puts it into reverse.
“I’ll make a note.”
I hope having a beep-beep come in this morning brings me good luck. :)