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Tuesday, May 29, 2007

"But... why?"

I’m in the office updating my customer database when a late model van drives up into the shop. I go out to greet the potential customer, and see a mustachioed man in his late twenties, or early thirties, sitting in the driver’s seat. I gave him my usual professionally interested greeting.

“I’m interested in getting an estimate for doing the brakes on my old Chevy El Camino,” he replies. “It had drum brakes originally; but I had disc brakes put on the front, and now they lock up. I don’t know why.”

I do, it’s because you changed them from the original drum brakes to disc brakes.

“Sorry,” I’m not of course, “but I can’t help you out with that.”

“You do brakes here, don’t you?” He asks, with a slightly perturbed tone.

“Yes, I do brakes on all American and Asian vehicles, but I don’t work on anything with changes done to the way a vehicle comes from the factory. I fix only factory manufactured. Once someone does re-engineering on something as vital as brakes, I won’t work on them.”

“So, if I have my vehicle towed over, you won’t look at it?” He asks, a second after hearing the answer.

“No, I won’t,” I repeat my answer. “Look, who changed the El Camino drum brakes to disc brakes?”

“I did,” He answers proudly.

“Well, why don’t you stick with your re-engineering project and fix it yourself?”

“I don’t have time anymore,” he answers. “They lock up, and the pushrod (in the master cylinder) needs adjustment.”

He had time to screw up the brakes, but no time to fix them. Okay, and now I’m supposed to get them working. A professional who works on someone’s Mickey Mouse attempts at re-engineering will be held responsible for it from then on. If five years from now, the man wrecks the El Camino, it would still be my shop held responsible simply because the brakes I fixed were not OEM (original equipment manufactured).

“I can’t help you,” I inform him once again.

“Is there some reason you won’t look at my car?” He persists.

“I don’t fix anything but factory equipped,” I persist.

“So, you won’t fix my brakes?”

This is getting fun now.

“Not unless the brakes are factory equipped.”

“I can’t understand why, if you work on brakes, you can’t work on mine,” He states yet again with this award winning perplexed look on his face.

Wait, wait, I know this one. “Because they’re not factory equipped.”

“What would it take for you to work on them?” He continues as if we have not been talking about it for the last ten minutes.

“For you to have never altered them from factory equipped,” I answer. This is like playing scrabble.

“I can’t…” he begins.

“I’m all done talking about your El Camino, Sir,” I end our one sided negotiation, and head into my office. He sits in my driveway until I figure I’ll have to help him find his way out; but as I get back up, he starts his van and backs out.

I figure the guy must have sold encyclopedias or vacuum cleaners door to door at some time in his life. :)

Friday, May 25, 2007

The 'Machine'

Professional Auto/Truck repair shops have tens of thousands of dollars tied up in all manner of diagnostic machines, tooling, and computer gear. People assume anything wrong with their car can be found out quickly and easily by throwing it on the ‘Machine’. While wonderful aids for a variety of repairs, our ‘Machine’ is not an all seeing magic eye into the inner workings of everything on a vehicle.

At first when a new customer comes in, this assumption can be humorous. I’ve had people come in with noises in their brakes, who want an instant estimate. I explain an exact estimate can’t be determined until I physically check the vehicle’s brakes. The funny part comes when they get this disgusted look on their faces, and tell me I should just throw it on the ‘Machine’ for a ball park figure. This usually costs me about ten minutes lost time trying to convince them my ‘Machine’ cannot insert its tentacles into their car and amazingly spit out diagnostics on everything. Sometimes I don’t have the time to waste, and sometimes my sarcastic side rears its cement head. On occasion I tell them my ‘Machine’ and I are going through a rough period in our relationship, and it just starts reciting "Mary Had A Little Lamb" every time I try to get it to tell me about something it wasn't designed to do.

Granted, this rocket usually streaks right over many of these potential customers’ heads. Once in a while I get someone in like the older lady the other day, who wanted me to give her an estimate on an air conditioning problem on her 1998 Honda Accord. It was blowing the fuse every time she changed it and turned it on. After my usual spiel about needing diagnostic time to find out what the problem was, she gave me the ‘just throw it on the ‘Machine’ line for an instant figure. I gave her my smart-Alec remark with the scene involving Dave and Hal the computer from 2001, A Space Odyssey. She paused for a moment and told me with a straight face she had done some relationship counseling, and offered to mediate with the ‘Machine’ if I'd give her a discount. I declined, but with regret. :)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Disney Decorated


A guy brought in his wife's pickup truck for servicing. Every Disney trinket you've ever seen at the Golden Arches was glued to both sides of this truck along with purple carpet liner and purple painted hubs. I couldn't even put a fender cover on it. I leaned on it, and one of the things squeaked, and another lit up. While I was under it, something started singing 'It's a Small World'.
I shot out from under, but there was only silence. Most people see something like this and laugh with delight, 'Oh, that's so cuuuuuuute'. Not me, I picture the scene from Stephen King's 'It' with the clown saying. 'We're all floating here, We're all waiting for you'. :)

Monday, May 21, 2007

Loss for Words

This happens occasionally. A new customer drove into the shop with a 2001 Nissan Sentra. Middle fifties, well dressed, the lady slipped out of her car, and wanted to shake hands without even a word. I always get a queasy feeling when people do this; because it makes me thing they’re mutes, or they’re trying to give me a false sense of security. I smile as if I know what the hell she has up her sleeve, and shake hands politely, reigning in my paranoid mini-me.

“Hi,” I break the ice, “can I help you.”

She still doesn’t speak. Instead, she walks around to the driver’s side door, and leans in to start the engine. Okay, she’s a mute, and now I’ll either have to play charades for the next few hours or read hastily written cue cards. She pops the hood, lifts it up, props it, and steps back gesturing at the engine with a smile. Good, I know this one.

“Engine?” I ask questioningly with a bright smile. If she is a mute, I am going to burn in hell.

She looks perplexed. She leans in the open maw of Mr. Nissan, and holds a hand up to her ear, glancing at me while she does it. I’m hooked. I lean in too with an intent look on my face. After a few minutes of this, the woman straightens.

“Well?”

Holy crap, she can talk. I try to cover up for whatever the hell I’m doing under the hood by getting an even more intent look on my face. Finally, after a moment more, she breaks the silence.

“What do you think that noise is?”

I straighten; but remain with my hands on the fender, and the now comfortable intent look on my face.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t hear any out of place noise,” I admit truthfully. “The engine sounds real good.”

“You can’t hear that?!” The woman gasps in astonishment.

Okay, now I’m the mute.

“Not really, can you describe it for me? Is it a squeak, a metallic noise, or…”

“That whirring sound!” She doesn’t finish her exclamation with, ‘you idiot’, but I know she’s fighting the temptation.

I lean over the engine compartment once more, inching around the outside of the car, listening for any hint of a whirring noise out of place. This little Nissan is running like a Swiss watch, with only the usual sounds an engine has to make to run on gas and compression. I tell her so.

“I can’t believe you don’t hear it,” she comments with a disbelieving shake of her head.

I decide on a different tact.

“When did this noise first start?” I ask.

“Ever since I bought it last Wednesday,” she answers. “I thought it would go away, but it’s driving me crazy.”

“It may be you’re not used to the way this car sounds normally,” I suggest. “This Nissan may sound a lot different than your last car.”

She stared at me for a moment, let the hood prop down into place, and then closed the hood. She walked around to her driver’s side door, and faced me once more.

“You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” She asks in all seriousness.

I’m game. I shrug and say, “apparently not, in this case.”

“Fine.” She gets into her Nissan and backs out of my garage.

I count my blessings. She could have been mute. :)

Friday, May 11, 2007

Can You Help Me?

“Hey man, can you help me out?” A deep voice called out from my big doorway.

“Just a second,” I call out, dragging my less than limber frame out from under the dash of an old 1978 Chevy.

I manage to make a precision six inch, scalpel like cut in my left forearm, as I inadvertently scrape it on a sharp burr on the parking brake release bracket. I hum a couple of sentences internally, made up of words I learned during a three year stint aboard the USS Ranger Aircraft Carrier long ago in a galaxy far, far away. :) So, I’m in a happy mood as I clamp a rag over my welling wound, and try to at least pretend some interest. The man does not have a car or truck with him, so I paste an attentive look on my face, and walk over to him.

“Yes Sir, what can I help you with?”

“Are you busy?” He asks.

Oh no, I’m thinking, I was taking a nap under the dash of yonder Chevy, and the 1989 Ford Truck up in the air with the trans laying on the floor, waiting for a clutch, is a new hobby I’ve taken up. I immediately put a clamp on my snappy answers to stupid questions internal dialogue, and adopt an even more concentrated look of interest.

“How can I help you, Sir?” I persist politely.

“Do you come out?”

He loses me on that one. Out of the closet? Out of my mind? WTF?

“Out of where?” I ask simply.

“Christ! Out of the shop,” the man takes offense to my ignorance. He should get together for a chat with my wife. She could give him a clue on just how ignorant I can get. :)

“Only when I leave for home,” I reply, giving him an internal countdown to ten for reaching the point of this meeting. Besides, I can tell I’m going to need a big Band-aid soon.

“I lost a pad on my Mitsubishi”. (He means disc brake pad; which does not get lost by itself) “How much to come over and throw some pads on. I bought them already.”

Oh… about when chipmunks are ice-skating in hell, with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Christmas carols in the background.

“I don’t do house-calls, Sir, and I don’t give brake estimates until I check the vehicle out. Lastly, I don’t install other peoples’ parts.”

“You don’t do much of anything here, huh?”

“Let’s quit kidding around with each other,” I get serious; because you have to be an expert to get a rise out of me, and this guy wasn’t even a novice. “Disc pads don’t get lost. Somebody screwed up. If I’m going to take on something like that, I’d replace the calipers, pads, and possibly the rotors depending on whether I can resurface them or not. I would check the back brakes, master cylinder, and all the lines. If you’re interested in a job like I just explained, have the vehicle towed in and…”

“Why can’t you just help a man out?” He interrupts.

“Because it wouldn’t be any help to you at all if I further patched your brakes; and you went out and killed yourself, or some other innocent party, with your car. You’d be dead or maimed, and the lawyers would be in a hatchet fight to see who gets to divvy up everything I own.”

“I’ll take responsibility for my own damn self,” he retorts indignantly.

“No, you won’t, and definitely not here.”

“Fine, you just lost yourself some business, man,” he states, turning to the door.

A lawsuit, possibly. Business, I think not. :)

Saturday, May 5, 2007

Humorless

I’m using an air-gun to take lug nuts off a 91 Toyota Camry front tire in order to check the brakes when I look up, and there’s a woman standing over my right shoulder. Never mind I have a six inch wide warning line across the front inside driveway of my shop stating no customers past this line. Never mind I have a motion detector, which is supposed to ding louder than my air-gun, and I now realize must need new batteries. Never-mind I just used up all my good luck credits in heaven since the lady has not slipped, fallen, or been hit in the eye with a metal fragment. I straighten slowly from the Toyota, stripping off my mechanic’s brand latex gloves.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you, Bernie?” She asks.

No, no lady, I love being reminded of all the shortcomings inherent in one man shop operation all in one short moment, I’m thinking. Once again the addition of a vicious guard dog pops into my head, immediately to be discarded. It’s one thing to discourage bums and gang-bangers, but a completely inappropriate greeting for harmless potential customers.

“Kind of,” I admit, taking her arm; because she has walked through a minefield of potential hazards to her health, which are a necessary drawback in a busy auto shop. “Let me get you back to the front of the shop.”

She steps directly on the rubber mallet with metal pry for taking off hubcaps as she turns too quickly. I pull her back just in time to keep the lawyers chasing ambulances a while longer.

“Easy,” I caution, guiding her around my six foot high toolbox with sharp edged drawers jutted out for my easy access. “It’s a lot simpler getting over here than it is getting back. Sorry my motion detector must be out of commission.”

When we reach the front of the shop, I see she has a 1994 Honda Accord with oil dripping down in a steady line from where I know the front timing case is. I thought us Mech’s out here in the Dealer shops and Indy garages had fixed all these. The Tech bulletin and Recall had been out for many years on the balance shaft oil seal kit this one obviously needed.

“I have a problem with oil loss,” she deadpans.

I start laughing, and then shut my amusement down quickly as she looks at me like I’m Kafka’s bug-man. I have done some work for this lady in the past on a Chevy Corsica she owned, but I haven’t seen the Honda before. I also have obviously misread her humor quotient.

“Ah…sorry, Ms. T,” I’m not, but it never hurts to be polite when I know I’m wrong. “I would need to check it out for sure, but there’s been a recall and technical bulletin on this type oil leak for many years. Did you just buy this?”

“No, it’s my Mom’s car, and she doesn’t drive much anymore,” Ms. T explains, from her expression, still a little miffed at my callous reaction to her oil leak (if she only knew).

I nod my understanding, and open the driver’s side door, release the hood latch, and check the mileage with a quick glance. The odometer only reads 53,461 miles. Mystery solved as to why the fix had never been applied yet after thirteen years. I then open and prop the hood. With my handy little mag-lite beam flashlight, I can see the oil is definitely leaking out of the bottom of the front case. I show Ms. T, explaining all the bracketing, belts, front timing case, etc. have to be removed and a balance shaft oil seal kit installed. In addition, the timing belt, and water pump have to be changed while I’m in there. Unless of course I want to do the job a second time for free, with the possible valve damage a broken timing belt causes on Hondas. She listens intently while I explain I only use Honda parts, and the special balance shaft seal kit would possibly have to be special ordered because of the vehicle age. I glance at the clock during our conversation, noting it’s almost noontime, and I have fifteen minutes into this. Then she straight lines me again.

“Can I wait for it?” Ms. T intones, glancing at her watch.

My lip quivers as I’m curling my toes up in the steel toed work boots housing my feet, and biting my tongue so hard, it’s probably lacerated. Sure, I’m thinking, did you bring your sleeping bag? I don’t know you too well, Ms. T, have you ever spent the night in an auto shop before? If they can’t get the balance shaft kit for three days, will you have any special needs during your stay? Oh boy, I’m on a roll internally, and knowing if I don’t get a grip soon, I’ll be in danger of donning my Kafkaesque disguise once more.

“Ah…no,” I answer after a moment’s battle between the tiny cackling horned demon atop my left shoulder, and the angelic money guardian on my right. “You would have to leave it Ms. T, and I’ll have to call you later in the day as to when the parts will be in. I can give you a time estimate on job completion then.”

“Do you think this will cost over a hundred dollars?”

This time I narrowly avoid disaster by clenching my teeth to the point I can feel my gums begin to ache. I shake my head in the affirmative, buying time for the more powerful money angel to kick the crap out of my obnoxious demon side.

“Yes, it will, Ms. T,” I manage to say out loud, almost managing a believable tone of regret. “I’m afraid it will be much more than that. You will have the opportunity to say no, and I can even hold on to the car for a couple days while you shop the price. Let me give you a list of what will be included when I call you, and you can decide from that.”

We adjourn into the office without further incident. Willpower, it’s a beautiful thing. Too bad it doesn’t work on pizza and potato chips. :)

Thanks to December Quinn for reminding me inadvertently of this. :)


Tuesday, May 1, 2007

Graffiti

Ah, the familiar feel of East Oakland once again rears up to ruin my impromptu three day weekend. The connecting ramp between freeways gets melted by an exploding tanker truck early Sunday morning, causing an untold number of delays for all of the foreseeable future. Then, what to my wandering eyes did appear, rounding the bend toward my shop this morning? Certainly not Santa’s reindeer; but instead, the colorful ambience of graffiti covering my shop front, sprayed there by young morons with nothing better to do than destruction. I always think ‘oh man, if only I had been here to catch them’; but I know it is not always a good thing to get one’s wish granted, because then I would be in prison.

While I spent my first two and a half hours cleaning the black spray paint off my metal door and metal window cover, many of my neighbors came by to express their sympathy. We all thought we had the graffiti problem licked, which is why most of us redid our homes and storefronts. As my neighbor across the street said, there’s probably a new bunch of the old neighborhood thugs paroled recently. This usually means a new bout of break-ins and worse. I have it easy. My neighbors are still here at night when things have been getting real wild lately. A few have reported these characters hanging out in front of their houses, and the Oakland police, morale lower than their San Francisco brethren, have all but ignored them. The police don’t do themselves any favors ignoring this stuff, cause some of the neighbors are past the upset stage, and heading into wild west mode. Just thought I’d add a little local flavor to the blog today. :)

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Short

Ever hear the old phrase 'a day late and a dollar short'? I do most of the grocery shopping. No matter what kind of reminder I come up with, I always end up with a one dollar coupon in my hand, one day past the expiration date. Today, I looked through all the coupons in the drawer before heading out to the local generic, bag your own, Safeway grocery store, Pak & Save. Arriving back at the house, real proud of myself, I go into my writing room; and there, right in plain sight is a save one dollar on your next purchase coupon with today as the expiration date. I've figured out a way I can remember though. I've picked out a shopping shirt for next weekend, and I'm pinning this week's coupons on it. :)

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Mousetrap

In 1995, I adopted a kitten out of the rain, who took care of a rat, gave me the incentive to get rid of a crappy customer, and inspired me to write this story about him for my kids. A little girl on the street behind the shop asked me if she could adopt him a couple years after he served as Shop Cat. I'd had him fixed, and all his shots up to date, so I said sure, nobody really owns a cat anyway. I couldn't compete with the benefits she was luring him away with anyhow, but he'd come over the fence to see me for years after. The little girl is a senior in high school now, and came by yesterday to tell me my old shop cat had passed on. His name was Mousetrap, and this is the story I wrote about him as his earliest biographer. :)

The rain and wind shuffled the little gray, black stripped cat from one side of the street to another as he continued his search for shelter. Soaked and miserable, he spotted a huge open doorway and a cavernous looking darkness behind it. He crossed the avenue, narrowly avoiding death by pickup truck. Crouching outside the doorway, he peered in at what lay beyond the opening. Sharp clanging noises and whirring sounds emanated from within as the little cat crept inside out of the rain. He hustled over to the wall where he could make himself as invisible as possible. He remembered the kicks and screams he received from his past search for shelter. The memory of warmth amid his litter now only seemed a vague feeling of well being. Instead of weeks ago, it may as well have been years ago. He watched a dark haired man moving from one car to another, sometimes stopping for only a few minutes, and sometimes longer. When the gray cat heard ringing, the man walked into another room and the ringing stopped. When the man came out of the door this time he spotted the little gray cat against the wall trying to crouch into an invisible ball. The man looked for a second at the cat and then out at the storm still raging beyond his shop's door.

"Well, I guess you don't care much for the weather outside, huh?"

The man walked slowly towards the cat so as not to scare him. He held out his hand in front of him as he walked and the cat shrunk into an even smaller ball. As the man drew near, the cat finally jumped up to run for the door but stopped as a gust of wind blew through the opening. He gave up all pretense of escape and walked toward the man as he knelt down with his hand still extended. Rubbing against the man's leg and purring, the cat put on his best I want to stay inside show. The man laughed and petted the cat gently on the head and neck. After a minute the man straightened and started walking towards the back of his shop. He stopped and looked back at the now attentive kitten and said, "Come on you and I'll see if I have some can milk for you."

The cat paused a second and then followed the man into a doorway which opened into a room at the back left of the large shop. The man opened a small refrigerator door and took out a white labeled can. Pouring some of the milk into a dish he put the dish into a microwave oven and heated the milk as the cat walked around exploring. A bed with only a bare mattress took up the middle of the room with shelving on three walls. The cat heard a ding and he watched intently as the man placed the bowl down in front of him. He sniffed at the warm milk excitedly and then took an exploring lick with his tongue. He then began devouring the milk without pause, purring loudly, much to the amusement of the man watching him.

"You aren't hungry are you? I think I have a box around here somewhere and a pillow to put in it. I bet you'd like that wouldn't you." The man reached down and roughed up the cat's head playfully as the cat continued to eat and purr. Placing a box on top of the empty bed, he took an uncovered pillow and stuffed it into the box. When the cat was finished, the man picked him up gently and placed him in the pillow stuffed box. The cat curled up at once and worked his claws into the pillow as he purred contentedly.

"Hey Bernie, you working today or... hey, where did you get the little mousetrap."

Bernie laughed, "the shop won a beauty contest with the rain storm and here he is."

"You'll never get rid of the little dope now. Well, are you working today or are you cat sitting. I got a car out here looking for a mechanic."

"The only thing your car's been looking for since you owned it Steve is an owner who knows what the words preventative maintenance mean."

"Man, turn that record over will you. If I started taking care of that piece of junk you'd have to stop booking those Caribbean cruises every year."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about the cruises, and of course there's the upkeep on the mansion and the staff. I guess I can look at it but the first thing I'm going to do is pull the dip stick on it and check the oil level." Bernie laughed, as the man clutched at his heart and gasped for air.

"You are a cruel and evil man. Come on, let's get the lecture over with before I get any older."

Bernie looked back at the box on the bed and saw the little gray cat had turned on his back with all four paws in the air and a big Cheshire cat smile on his face. Bernie shook his head and followed his customer out wondering what the heck he was going to do with a cat.

The cat heard the men leave the room but did not even open an eye to watch them leave. His only thoughts at the moment concerned warmth, dryness, and food. He knew he must enjoy this while he could and hope it might continue for at least a few more hours. He fell asleep without further consideration of his predicament.

The little gray cat came awake with a start when he heard the sound of a rasping type sound and looked towards the end of the bed in time to watch the man Bernie pouring something into a large tan container on the floor. He purred at the man and walked over to the end of the bed to look down at the source of the noise. Bernie finished the chore of filling up the new cat box he had just purchased at the corner store and watched as the cat first hung over the edge of the bed and then fell in a heap almost dead center in the pile of litter. His frantic exit threw litter all around the box and he hid under the bed until he spotted a new cat dish full of kitty dry food. This prompted an immediate show of bravery as he charged out to attack the food with vigor. Bernie watched with much amusement as the cat wolfed down the food, purring noisily all the while. The man swept up the stray litter as the cat batted and attacked the broom whenever it came close.

"I think Steve had a good name for you, you little monkey. I'll call you Mousetrap. You cats are too stupid to answer to your names anyway and maybe you can live up to the name when you get a little bigger. I have a rat around here which has taken up residence despite the traps I've set. It will be out to eat whatever you leave tonight because I don't have any food around here and up until now it's been living on eating the bindings out of the books I have in the office."

Bernie stroked the cat as it seemed to listen intently. He knelt all the way down and the little cat climbed up on his extended knee and purred contentedly.

"Anyhow, I don't expect you to do anything right away but maybe you could get rid of it for me later before it eats the wood right off the building. For now, stay out of its way because it might be too big for you to mess with now. What do you think Mousetrap? You want a go at staying here or you want out in the storm again."

Almost in answer, Mousetrap stretched up and rubbed his head under the man's chin and rested his head on Bernie's shoulder. Bernie laughed and picked the cat up and placed him back in his pillow filled box. Mousetrap pawed the pillow a few times and curled again into a ball.

"Well, I guess I have my answer." Bernie turned on a lamp on the near by table. "Take it easy now Mousetrap, I'll see you in the morning." Bernie took a last look at the noisy coil of fur and smiled. He hoped the rat would not mess with this half-pint little cat but he really had no choice as to where to put him.

Bernie looked around on his shelves and found a white stuffed rabbit his son and daughter played with when he watched them at the shop. As he placed it next to the little cat, Mousetrap wrapped himself right around it. Bernie watched him cuddle next to the stuffed animal his kids had called " Rabbie " and then headed for the front door. His day was at an end. For Mousetrap, the night which lay ahead would outline his actions for the next few nights and bring him as close to death as he had come up to this point. For now, Mousetrap slept on.

Mousetrap became aware of a furtive sound and then a crunching noise at the corner of the room where his food dish lay. He silently uncurled as every feline has since the dawn of time and crept slowly to the end of the bed. He glanced over the side towards where the dull lamp light illuminated the room slightly. In the shadows cast by the boxes and shelving around the bed, Mousetrap could see his food dish and the dark gray shape devouring the last bits of dry cat food he had left off eating. It caught his smell or sensed the cat because it turned and rose on its hind legs. No Mickey Mouse here, but a full grown rat. Almost as large as Mousetrap, the rat stared up at him and its eyes glowed red in the dim lamp light. As it bared its teeth Mousetrap kept completely still as his hunting ancestors had done for thousands of years.

Minutes passed as the rat sniffed at the air and stared at its hereditary enemy. After a time, the hunger overcame the rat's caution and it turned again to feed. Mousetrap launched himself at the rat as the rat sensing its error turned. Mousetrap's claws caught at the rat and held but he missed the deathgrip he meant for the rat's neck. Strong and quick, the rat rolled and tore at Mousetrap's face and neck with claws and teeth, finally breaking away from the undersized cat. The rat streaked across the shop towards its hideaway at the front of the shop with Mousetrap close behind. The rat won the race, disappearing into the wall through a crack. Mousetrap crouched next to the opening but the rat moved further and further away. Mousetrap could hear the scrabbling sounds moving upwards away from him. His blood stirred with the hunt, Mousetrap left the hole and walked around the wall, searching for a way up. He found a staircase which led to a storage area above the office. Mousetrap climbed silently up the stairs and over to the corner where he could still hear the rat moving. Mousetrap positioned himself at an opening in the platform over the office. He listened as the scrabbling sound of the rat moved closer, and he quietly shifted his position accordingly.

The rat stopped as it drew near the opening and remained still as it recognized the smell of the cat. Mousetrap, sensing his presence was known, dived forward into the opening and face to face with the startled rat. Mousetrap tried to scramble towards the rat, only to find himself momentarily stuck in the crevice. The rat, sensing Mousetrap's plight, darted forward at the cat's face. Mousetrap stopped trying to free himself and taught the rat why it invites disaster to attack a cornered cat. The rat drew back, bloodied from the cat's unsheathed claws, and retreated into the wall space.

Mousetrap managed to scoot back and free himself. He resumed his original position and looked down longingly at the opening. His blood raced with the hunt as he listened for any further noise. Mousetrap sat for many hours in the dark before returning to his box in the back room. He ate up the remaining food to make sure no other uninvited visitor got to it first.

Mousetrap awakened as the lights in the outer shop began to flicker on. He heard the garage owner moving around in the shop as he turned on his diagnostic machines. Mousetrap got down and walked out to meet him.

Bernie looked down at the little cat and stooped to pick the loudly purring cat up in his arms. "Well, Mousetrap, how did it go last night?" Bernie asked as he stroked the cat. "Did that rat come out and eat your food?"

Bernie walked into the back room, carrying the cat who had shifted in his arms so his belly was exposed for petting. Bernie noted the empty food dish, wondering if Mousetrap had eaten the food or the rat. Putting Mousetrap down on the bed, Bernie refilled the food dish and freshened the water dish.

"I told my wife I thought you were a female, but that by the end of the day I knew you were a male. By this time my daughter Eva had come into the room and asked the leading question I had been waiting for: ' How did you know it was a male' I looked at her with the old dead pan face and said: because you had shown too much intelligence. I told her you were just too smart to have been a female." Bernie began laughing as again he began stroking Mousetrap, who had again flipped over on his back. "Man, did I get the Vulcan Death Stare for that along with the usual ' Oh Dad ' and ' Bernard! '. My son Jim of course laughed, he senses insults to his Mom and sister like a shark senses blood in the water, and then the feeding frenzy begins. Anyway, I have to get back to work."

Mousetrap watched him through the doorway as he opened the large garage door and greeted his first customer. For his part, Mousetrap padded through the now open back door to the shop, which opened into a closed in parking area. The sun had finally come out and Mousetrap curled up on the warm cement.

An hour later when the sun ducked behind some clouds, Mousetrap got up and stretched. He walked over to the back door and peered inside. He saw Bernie lying underneath a truck on a wheeled creeper for working under cars and trucks. Mousetrap walked into the shop and under the truck to take a closer look. He sniffed around the creeper and then climbed on top of Bernie and curled up on his stomach. Mousetrap felt the man's body stiffen as he climbed on; but then he heard the man laugh, as he looked down and spotted the cat.

"Well, Mousetrap, are you here to help?"

Mousetrap purred as the man reached back up under the truck to finish tightening the starter he was installing. After finishing, he rolled out from under the truck with the curled up cat still on his stomach. He petted him for a couple minutes before gently dislodging him and standing up.

"Maybe I better get you your own toolbox and creeper, huh?" Bernie asked the cat rubbing against his leg. He gently shoved the cat towards the back room with his foot. "Tell you what, you little runt, leave the car and truck repair to me, and you nail the rat I got around here."

Bernie grinned and went on with his work. Mousetrap watched him for a couple of minutes. He then walked back to his food dish and ate. After eating, Mousetrap walked through the shop and up the stairs he had climbed the night before. He paused over the hole leading to the rat's hideaway as he sniffed for a fresh scent. Finding none, he walked back to the stairs and started down. He saw a strange man standing near the base of the stairs watching him. Mousetrap started purring and decided to see if he could get some more attention. Mousetrap descended the stairs until he stopped at waist level to the man. Instead of a pet, a huge hand pinned him down flat to the surface of the stair. As the hand tightened around his neck, Mousetrap tried to squirm out from under but could not even move. Mousetrap began to gasp for air when he felt a jarring sensation, and a moment later he was free. He dove down to the floor before looking back up. Bernie had hold of the man's wrist in his own hand, and the man grimaced in pain as he involuntarily went down to one knee.

"You're crushing my wrist," the man rasped through clenched teeth.

"The cat belongs to me, Mr. Johnson." Bernie released the man's wrist and backed up a step to let the man rise to his feet.

"I hate cats," the man said as he rubbed his reddening wrist. "You almost broke my wrist."

"You almost killed my cat," Bernie said grimly. "You don’t look like a man who likes to hurt animals, Mr. Johnson. I guess looks can be deceiving. Please leave."

"What about my car?" the man whined. "You said you would take a quick look at it."

"I think it would be better if you found a new mechanic, Mr. Johnson."

"I'll report you to the Better Business Bureau." the man threatened as he backed towards the door.

Bernie smiled, "the greatest thing about being an American citizen is having the right to do anything you like within the law. God Bless America, Now remove yourself from my shop."

After the man left, Bernie walked over to Mousetrap and picked him up. As he petted him he looked over the little cat for any obvious injury. "You lost me a customer you little runt," Bernie said chuckling, "lucky for you he was what we call in the auto repair business: a bottom dweller. That is someone looking to make me spend a lot of time on his car and pay me nothing."

Walking into the back room, Bernie set Mousetrap down on his pillow and refilled his food dish. As Bernie began scooping out the litter box, Mousetrap hung over the bed batting at the scoop and purring. Bernie stopped scooping and began giving the cat noogies.

"Take that you little dirtball," Bernie said as he turned back to cleaning the litter box. A few seconds later as he shifted the scoop to the waste basket, a paw darted out and knocked the scoop out of his hand. Bernie looked up at the cat who had turned over on his back purring away.

"Well," Bernie sighed, I guess this means I clean up in here... after I put you out."

The End.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Mr. Lucky

It happened again for the second time in thirty years, so I thought I’d capture the essence of it in words. I’m sitting at the office desk completing the billing for people due in to pick up their cars. A far off sound of a nonstop horn perks up my ears. It then gets louder, and louder, and louder, as the cursed vehicle owner approaches my neighborhood. I’m already mouthing the ‘please Lord, don’t let it stop here’ mantra, with hands clasped earnestly in front of me. I don’t deserve to have my prayers answered, and the next few minutes provide proof of my suspicion, as the blaring horns pull up into my shop. For those of you not familiar with the dual blasts of vehicle horns when the horn relay jams, it can wipe out conscious thought, as the sound swallows the world.

I stood up from my desk, willing my body to walk out the office door, in the face of gale force sound waves. The owner of the decibel monster launched out of her driver’s seat as if she were a Cruise missile. I could tell immediately the woman had assumed she would escape the sound by getting out of the car. The reality nearly dropped her, as having driven into the shop, the noise multiplied inside my sound chamber repair garage. The woman, dressed in blue sweat-suit, stood near the driver’s side fender, her fists clasped tightly at her chest, elbows in, and vibrating in harmony to the horns. She looked like the guy in the original horror movie, The Fly, where at the end of the movie the detective sees the head of a man and body of a fly trapped in spider webbing, screaming in tiny voice: ‘hep me! hep me!’

Every successful professional mechanic is a yoga expert, although probably very few of us practice the art anywhere but at work. I walked by the woman, frozen now except for the vibrations, and opened her door, reaching in and popping the hood. The car is a 1985 Chevy Caprice. My yoga training, which stabbed through the noise, kept me from running to the front of the car, and searching in vain for an external hood release. Moving again around the woman in a now universe of sound, complete with exploding planets, I felt and found the catch for releasing the hood to the up position. Here, the sound caressed me, and I stood at the precipice of sound, the Lord of sound, the… my training kicked in once again. I reached down to the right and plucked the electrical connector to the horn on my right, and half a universe died at my hand. The other horn begged in my head like Hal the computer in 2001 Space Odyssey. I was relentless. With another grasp and pull, the universe of sound ruptured, transforming instantly into the sounds of silence. The woman and I smiled at each other, fellow survivors of a cataclysmic event, not wanting to ruin the deafening silence with vocal words. After a few moments of soundless euphoria, the reality of East Oakland chimed in gently around us. I closed the hood.

“Thank you doesn’t seem enough,” the woman said breathlessly, breathless from her horn experience, not me; which was just as well, because she was at least my age, and I already have one of those at home. :)

You could give me a hundred dollars, I considered silently, but instead I told her:

“If you decide to fix the horns, give me a call,” I said, handing her a card. “Just out of curiosity, what brought you here to my shop?”

“Pure luck,” she sighed, getting into the driver’s seat. “The sound was driving me insane.”

Pure luck, huh? I thought watching her back out of the shop. Yea, that’s me, Mr. Lucky. :)