Near Miss

“Hey, take a look at this,” a guy in his mid-thirties calls out as I’m coming out of my office.

This guy looks like he was rode hard and put away wet. He actually resembles the image of what most people think us mechanics look like all the time: grease up to our armpits, and grease smeared face and clothing. I confess I’ve gone home some days thinking I’d have to have my wife hose me off before I walked in the house; but thankfully, it’s not an everyday occurrence. I have sympathy for this guy right off the bat. He’s holding a water pump from a mid-eighties Ford Truck. It still has the clutch fan and blades connected to the front of the pump, which incorporates one of those screw on fan clutches, that over the years becomes welded with corrosion to the old water pump. Oh yea, this guy had fun getting it out like that.

“You couldn’t separate the screw on clutch fan, right?” I ask politely.

“Yea, the water pump’s leakin’, and I had to take the damn thing off like this. Can you separate it for me?”

“No…” I begin, just as the most humongous woman I have ever seen, still able to walk on two legs, waddled into the shop; and starts shouting at this guy, while he back pedals trying to calm her down. I won’t try and relate that particular conversation. After she abuses this guy for five minutes, she turns her attention to me.

“I want you to fix my truck!” She shouts. “This %*(#@&!#%& messed up my truck.”

“He was just about to help me out,” the guy pleads.

“First, Ma’am,” I add firmly, “I don’t work on anything anymore after someone else has been into it. I will give this gentleman some good advice, and he’ll be able to finish the job he started.”

“I…I need to sit down,” she says, slouching into my office, with me seriously praying I have a chair that’ll hold up.

I run in after her. I roll my desk chair over to her; which is leveled out high, and doesn’t have arms on it.

“Sit here, Ma’am, it’s more comfortable, and a bit higher for getting out of.”

She nods, and groans into it.

I prop the door open, and walk outside the office to give the guy some direction.

“You’ve already taken it off, so the real bad part’s done,” I explain. “My advice, if you don’t have a torch or an air chisel, is to simply hacksaw it at this smallest spot.”

I point to the place where he’d have the least amount of work.

“You can see the fan clutch has been leaking,” I continue. “Just unbolt the fan blades after you hacksaw the pump free, and transfer them to the new pump and fan clutch. You…”

“What do you mean I need a new pump and fan clutch?!!” The woman barks from the office. “Did he wreck my…”

“No, Ma’am, he didn’t wreck anything,” I cut her off in return. “This water pump job has to have a new fan clutch whenever the pump is replaced, and the most reliable way is to buy a Ford dealer pump and fan clutch.”

“I’m not paying a damn fortune to get...”

“You don’t have a choice,” I interject, already glad I’m not doing the job. “If you don’t buy a new pump and fan clutch, you won’t have a truck.”

“Why can’t he put the old fan clutch on?” She asks, ignoring what I said about the fan clutch leaking, and the difficulty in getting the thing off when it’s been on for twenty years.

“I understand,” the guy jumps in to save me.

“Good,” I reply. “Don’t screw on the fan clutch until you put the pump in place, and remember the thing tightens counter-clockwise instead of clockwise. It would be good to put a drop of…”

“I don’t want him doing it,” the woman calls out, shaking her head. “I’ll have it towed over here.”

“No, Ma’am, you won’t,” I state in no uncertain terms. “If you want someone else to do it, call around until you find a place who’ll take you.”

“How dare…” she begins to bluster.

“Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’ve told your friend here all I can. This isn’t my job, and I’m not working on it.”

“Put a drop of thread sealer on the threads,” I tell the guy quickly, and he nods. “Good luck.”

“Please,” I say, standing at the door, gesturing for the woman to move out.

“C’mon,” the guy gestures to her too. “I’ll get the pump and clutch, and get it together. Thanks man.”

“No problem,” I reply, as the woman finally teeters out, muttering unintelligibly, gracing me with a final dark look before following the back yard Bob mechanic out.

Twenty minutes of unpaid for time, a little costly.

Not having to work on that lady’s truck: Priceless! :)

The Borrowers

I have to relate Friday afternoon’s short interlude with another nemesis of the independent auto shop: the borrowers. My drunken stop-in on Tuesday, Mr. Foul Mouth, already covered a few auto shop drawbacks all at once: drunken, surly, repair misunderstanding, and the liability of allowing someone in an inebriated state to drive away after being inside the shop. The borrowers represent a different breed in three categories: folks genuinely in need of something small like jumper cables or a funnel, folks in need who have no intention of returning what they borrow, and folks looking to borrow and get free repairs. I only loan out three things: funnel, jumper cables, or empty gas can. Although I don’t charge for the lend out, I do require the person leave a driver’s license or a twenty dollar bill. When I get my stuff back, they get theirs.

I’m writing in the back room late Friday afternoon when my motion detector heralds the arrival of someone without a vehicle (usually a bad sign). When it took me more than three seconds to get out of the back room, my new arrival began demanding recognition in the annoying way perpetuated over the last decade or so, by shouting:

“Excuse me! Excuse me…!”

The lady at my front door shouted over and over, even as I approached, until I thought perhaps I’d have to do a jumping jack with waving arms in front of her. Rail thin, with pasty white complexion and a bad case of acne, the woman wore a simple light colored blouse and blue-jeans. She took a moment to suck deeply on the cigarette in her right hand as I drew near, exhaling it in a cloud.

“Hi, can I help you?” I asked.

“I need your jumper cables,” Rail Thin stated. “I’m just across the street.”

I don’t react well to people who assume I owe them a service; but hey, it’s Friday.

“Sure, leave me your driver’s license, and I’ll get you the jumper cables.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license with me,” Rail tells me with some annoyance, pointing back the way she had come in. “I’m just across the street.”

“Driver’s license or twenty dollar bill,” I reply reasonably. “You get them back when I get the same jumper cables back in the same shape I lent them.”

“I’m just across…” Ms. Thin begins to repeat.

“Driver’s license or twenty dollar bill,” I cut in.

Rail looks at me in disgust for a moment, and then heads out the door without another word. I go back to my new YA novel attempt, and five minutes later, Ms. Thin is back, clutching money. I met her before she could announce her arrival with the familiar refrain.

“I’ve got eight dollars,” Rail tells me, waving the money.

“Driver’s license or twenty dollar bill,” I reply.

Her face twists up, and I’m wondering what the hell this could be about other than trying to get a good set of jumper cables. Someone at her vehicle must have a driver’s license. Maybe it’s Candid Camera, or a Reality Show. Off she goes again. This time I just wait in the office, because I smell Blog subject, so I start jotting down notes. Sure enough, my sixth sense is right on the money. Before I go any further, the reference I’m about to make concerns a blaxploitation film from the seventies, called ‘Superfly’. I really enjoyed Ron O’Neal in it; but later, I heard about how detrimental his terrific portrayal was. It may have been a B movie; but O’Neal did the character so well, he unintentionally gained a legion of real life imitators, cocaine and all. Anyway, into my shop walks the spitting image of Ron O’Neal’s Superfly, Panama hat, open necked fly away collar, sharp jacket, the works. I’m impressed as I go out to meet and greet the seventies Icon.

“Hi, can I…”

“Listen man,” Superfly says, waving his hand at the door, and edging toward me, “I need your jumper cables.”

Super is a few inches over six feet tall, and he ain’t happy. I don’t know why, since he could have easily had the jumper cables if he’d provided his surrogate with collateral.

“Driver’s license or twenty dollar bill, and you get them back when I get my jumper cables back,” I repeat again, marveling at the resemblance this guy has achieved to Ron O’Neal’s movie character.

Superfly looks me over with pretty much the same irritation his surrogate had. After a moment of eyeballing me, he takes his wallet out. He hands me a twenty dollar bill, and I go get him the jumper cables. Super heads out at a brisk pace, and I finally take a look outside and up the street where a beat up delivery van was parked near the corner market with the hood up. I remember Ron O’Neal’s character had a more Superfly like ride, but times have changed. I return to the office, and ten minutes later, Super’s surrogate arrives with my cables, and I return the twenty. She trots back out without a word.

“You’re welcome,” I call out, hurrying back into the office to get a few more notes down for the Blog. :)

Fresh Story From The Naked City :)

“Hey… you screwed up my car!” The man didn’t say screwed, but I doubt we need another blog full of colorful language not vital to the story. This semantic gentleman I will dub Foul Mouth had just driven a 1998 Cad into my shop, and he was not happy. He was about sixty, and since I’m pretty close to that I figured those veins popping out on his face were not a healthy sign. Mr. Mouth’s hair was mostly gray, and wildly wound around his head in no particular form. It could have been a rug; but I would think if a guy wants to put one of those on his head, he’d make it neater looking. Slightly taller than I am, maybe around six feet one, he outweighed me by about fifty pounds. I noticed right off he was puffing hard on a cigarette which never left his mouth, so he talked, or yelled out of the side opposite the cigarette. The eye on the side of his mouth, clamping on his habit, squinted in the leering way chain smokers have when the cigarette they’re working on never leaves their mouth until only the useless filter’s left. He was wearing gray slacks with burn marks, white T-shirt, and red-print short sleeved shirt over the undershirt, but left unbuttoned. I had a problem here right off: I’d never seen the guy or his car before in my life. Some folks send their relatives over to leave off cars, so maybe this was a surrogate customer.

“Hi, can I help you,” I ask, walking through the shop toward him. Foul stays with his car door open, and one foot still inside. As I near the Cad front bumper, the smell of bourbon drifts to my sensitive nose. I am considering changing his name to Noxious Fumes. This is a definite second problem since it’s only 11:00 AM. I stop.

“You screwed up my car!” Mr. Mouth repeats, and now I can see his one fully open eye is alternating between half mast and open. It goes to half mast each time Foul rocks forward with his hand on the car door for support.

“Are you sure you have the right garage, Sir?”

“Damn right… I have the invoice here…” Foul dives inside his car. It takes him five minutes to get his invoice off the passenger seat and flop around until he’s able to get back out of the car. “Here…”

I dip inside the fumes, take the invoice, and back away. Mr. Mouth had his right rear quarter panel fixed, and a paint job done at Nelson’s Auto Body. Oh boy, this is going to be fun. Foul is only a city off. Nelson’s Auto Body is in San Leandro, not Oakland.

“You’ve made a mistake, Sir. This is Nilson Brothers Garage not Nelson’s Auto Body,” I inform him politely as his face goes to lava red. “Let me show you one of my invoices so you can see for yourself.”

“#@@##$$%^*()**##!! You…you’re trying to rip me off!” Foul states plainly. His fists are clenching and unclenching as he does the slight side to side dance of the enraged and inebriated nitwit.

“Look, calm down,” I urge him quietly, walking around the Cad. It looked great. “You’ve come to the wrong shop, but it looks like Nelson’s Auto Body did a nice job on your quarter panel and paint job. What kind of problem…”

“Not the… paint job… you idiot!” Foul is a couple seconds from a coronary; and I’m only a few feet away from one of my planted 900,000 volt stun guns, but I doubt he’d survive the attitude adjustment. “It stalls… every damn time… I come to a stop.”

“Maybe, but I doubt the body work and paint job’s causing it,” I reason with him firmly. “You do know you have the wrong place now, right?”

“Yea…” Foul’s color starts to fade a little. “I…I spent a lot of money…”

“True, but you received your money’s worth on the paint and body job. It looks great. Do you have a shop you go to for regular repairs?” He better.

“Yea… I got one…”

“Good,” I remark, jotting down his license plate number. “Now, there’s a parking space right out in front of the shop. I think you’re okay to park it there if I watch for traffic. Park it, and I’ll call you a cab, or if you live around here, you can walk home. It’ll do you good.”

“I’m not… leaving my damn car here… I…”

“You’ll leave it here, or the moment you drive anywhere, I’m calling the police.”

“Why you…” Foul’s color is coming back as he lurches angrily around the Cad.

“Don’t kid yourself,” I give him the halt sign. “Although you’re probably out there driving drunk every day for all I know, today ain’t going to be one of them.”

“Don’t lecture me… asshole… I…” Foul notices he’s sucked the life out of the cigarette between his lips, and replaces it nervously with another. His hand shakes as he lights it.

“You’re going to have to leave. You can park your car, or drive it away, and get picked up for DUI. Your choice,” I inform him calmly. “I think you have enough problems without adding an arrest. I’m betting if I called the police with your name, they probably already know you all too well.”

Yep, they do, I see as his cigarette droops down on his lip. He realizes I have his name and address from the Nelson Auto Body invoice I’m still holding.

“Want me to call you a cab?”

“No… I’ll park it... and walk,” Foul answers quietly, getting back into the Cad.

“I’ll guide you out,” I reply, handing him back his invoice after jotting down the information while he watched. His street is only three blocks down 38^th Avenue, so he’ll be okay. It’s a cool California day with an East Bay breeze, so he’ll even smell better by the time he gets home.

Minutes later, I’m watching Foul walk awkwardly down 38^th, smoke billowing out of him as if he were a walking steam engine. I look up at my clock, and I’ve only lost a half hour. Wooo…hooo…

:)

Ohio

I flew back to Ohio last Sunday (I did not see a single firefly, Raine) :) to be with my brothers and sisters for the first time as a group in thirty-five years. Because we spread out into five states as the six of us aged, our reunions have been in twos and threes for decades. Distance never altered the depth with which we cared about each other. It was simply a matter of survival. I will avoid the ‘too much information’ syndrome, and launch into the story of how I arrived in Ohio.

Failing to achieve my first goal on both legs of my flight journey on US Airways; which was an aisle seat, I endured the middle seat on a two hour flight into Phoenix. Jubilant I had attained an aisle seat for the four hour flight from Phoenix to Cleveland, my cup was well over half full. Adding to my upbeat outlook, I noticed the nearness of my aisle seat to the front. I strode eagerly through the loading tunnel with notebook computer, ready to bang out four hours of fiction on it with the added room. Arriving at my assigned aisle seat, I found it decorated with a bag of Whopper candies, three tiny dinosaurs, and some assorted garbage. In the window and middle seat what looked to be six and eight year old boys were exchanging blows over who would gain control over a larger plastic figurine. I looked around at the already seated people, wondering who the hell leaves their two young kids sitting by themselves during a flight. As no one revealed their secret identity, I started thinking maybe the kids were on the flight by themselves. I quickly grabbed the junk off my seat, and set it on top of the garbage pile the kids had made on the center tray. The youngest boy twirled around, gawking at me with some distaste as he occupied the middle seat. I sat down fast, trying to avoid getting in the way of quite a few still to be seated flyers.

“You scared me,” the boy next to me stated.

Oh kid, if you only knew. I smiled back at his sullen look with an ingratiating one of my own and mumbled an unfelt apology. I’ve flown a few times with my own two children when they were these boys’ ages. My wife and I sat with them in alternating shifts; mostly me, because at the time, my Vulcan Death Stare was intimidating enough to evoke their best behavior. I noticed an odd ‘Princess and the Pea’ feeling, and discovered I was still sitting on a Whopper candy, which had spilled from the opened pack I had picked up from my seat. Not having carried on a trash bag, I deposited the candy into the airsickness bag in front of me.

“You’re the crab,” the boy next to me said, placing a plastic crab figurine over toward me on the tray with an added dinosaur next to it. “You get eaten.”

Not today, kid. I smile, wondering what the heck the flight crew will do with the mess on the tray since we are getting ready to take off. I find out quickly as the male steward stops by for a chat. He leans over, smiles at the kids, and swivels his head like the possessed girl in the Exorcist movie, so he can give me his version of the Vulcan Death Stare.

“Sir, we must have all trays up, and all loose items put away.”

Realizing I’ve just been given adoption rights for these two young renegades, I smile back at the Steward with my best Alfred E. Newman ‘What, Me Worry’ look.

“They aren’t mine,” I state simply, as his fake smile vanishes like my prior state of flight optimism.

“They aren’t?” The Steward questions uneasily, looking up and around the plane as the pilot warns of imminent take-off.”

“Nope,” I say happily.

“Okay you two,” he is forced into adoption, still glancing at me unbelievingly, “get your things cleared from the tray, get belted in, and get the tray back in the up position.”

The older boy scrambles to clear the mess off into one of the boy’s backpacks. The Steward then locks up the pull down tray, all the while frowning at me, and eyeballing the growing mess in front of the boys’ seats. He starts to walk away after the task is completed when the youngest brings him up short.

“Hey you, I’m thirsty,” he bellows loud enough for the rest of the plane to hear, most of the late entries thinking I’m still the owner of the two tots.

The Steward does a ‘Slowly I Turn, Step by Step’ mannerism, looking down at the boy with a ‘not if you were frying in hell look’.

“I’ll get you something in a minute.” He didn’t.

We took off, with the two boys holding their hands up in the air, whooping like they were on a roller coaster at Great America. After take-off, the younger one again screams he’s thirsty. The Steward brings him a cup of water; which he promptly spills on himself, thus cancelling any thoughts I had of bringing out my notebook computer. The Steward decides not to share the information with his fellow crew members, and for the remainder of the flight, I’m getting accusatory stares from the other US Airways’ cast members. I’m helping out, passing trash from the kids while denying any relation. My young companion next to me decides it’s time to let everyone know his pants are wet (from the spilled water, I hope). The Stewardess from the front section gives me a dirty look, and I let her know I’m not connected once again. When we’re twenty minutes out, some guy comes over and asks the kids if they’re alright. It’s their real Dad, and he’s been two seats back on the other side with their Mother the whole time.

Why didn’t my wife and I think of that? We just dump the kids on the other side of the plane, and pretend we don’t know them until the plane’s landing. :)

Every Detail

My phone rang while I was in the office, instead of under a car or truck, always a plus.

“Hi, Bernie, this is Every Detail (name changed in Dragnet fashion). I want to make an appointment for an oil change, and check-up."

I can do that. I recognize her as a very good customer I’ve had for over two decades. She’s an older lady, which means she’s not much older than me. Ms. Detail employs a sharp edge when dealing with service providers; and I’ve been on the receiving end of these interrogations for a long time, so I’m used to them. In the late 80’s, she needed a clutch job on an early 80’s Toyota Tercel she had. The Tercel was one of those vehicles you must remove the engine to do the clutch, so the expense is rather high. She was less than enthused, and she pulled the dealer card on me, as in ‘I could get it done for that at the dealer’. I pulled my have a nice day, and I wish you well at the dealer card in reply. Ms. Detail was angry she didn’t get her own way; because at the time, she still believed all trades-people ripped off a woman.

Three days later, a tow truck showed up at the shop with Ms. Detail’s Tercel. She jumped down from the tow truck cab, and Ms. Detail was fuming. A local Toyota dealer (out of business now) pulled the old ‘we have to disassemble the clutch, and find out what exactly you need’ card, but it won’t be as much as that (My) estimate. Ms. Detail happily let them. This is a legitimate way of estimating, if done in a truthful manner; and in California, with a written estimate. The dealer called Every with an estimate for twice what I had quoted, claiming they would have to do X,Y,Z to the transmission. They of course charged her the teardown time before allowing her to tow it out. They made a slight error though, no written estimate. One call to them, reminding the Service Manager of the dim view the California Bureau of Automotive Repair takes to this bait and switch tactic, and he immediately offered to refund her ‘teardown fee’. I didn’t find any ‘transmission’ problems, and finished slightly under the estimate. After all this, my dealings with Ms. Detail go just like yesterday’s.

“Can I bring it in Tuesday morning, and wait for it?” She asks.

“I have the very first appointment open for the day, and you can wait for it if you like,” I reply, knowing she’ll hold me captive in the office for longer than the job takes.

“See you then,” she agrees and hangs up.

Every arrives right on time. I write up an estimate; which includes a couple extra things she tells me she needs: wipers, washer fluid, rear tail light bulb, and a dash piece which fell on the floor. She signs the detailed estimate, and away I go. After twenty years with her as a customer, I know the estimate was a formality. The interrogation would follow anyway. It’s her quirk. I finish, back her car out, and present the invoice to her in the office. It is identical to the one she signed, containing only the items she specifically asked me for, yet she sits down and stares at it for a few minutes as if she’s never seen it before. Every looks up at me then questioningly.

“So, what did we do to my car today?”

My teeth were clenched tightly together, expecting the usual question from Ms. Detail. Sadly, it didn’t help, I still bit my tongue. :)

Adware.Win32.ExpDwnldr Trojan

Well, I spent a couple days researching stuff for my YA novel attempt (coming along very well, and I'm watching my word count, Jordan), and wouldn't you know it, I ended up with a self-replicating Trojan virus. It would hijack my browser, going to these rip off security sites, and constantly popping up windows warning me of non-existent problems. With McAfee Total Protection, XP Repair Pro & Privacy package, Windows Malicious Software tool, and even AOL Spyware, I've never had a problem. They couldn't do a damn thing with this Adware.Win32.ExpDwnldr Trojan. The security programs I have would kill off a part of it, but the self-replicating piece of crap would reassert itself immediately. I bought a program that stated it would take care of it; but of course, it didn't. Then I entered the exact problem in Google, and I came up with only one choice, SpyNoMore. Their web site had my exact problem. As many of you know, these things will drive you crazy, so I bought their program, thinking I'd probably end up with another dead end. It killed the Trojan with one scan and remove! I'm blogging it because I love things that do what they claim to do. I linked it. I don't own stock in it. I'm not getting paid for it (so few people come here, I'm lucky I'm not getting charged for the space :) ). If you get something like I picked up, try SpyNoMore. I wish I could tell you where I picked up the Trojan, but I don't know. I was doing Latin incantations and demonology research on about twenty different sites, and I'm not in any hurry to investigate where the Trojan came from. :)

Yo!

A young man in his very early twenties came jogging into the shop, dressed in the inexplicable garb of the time: pants flopping over his shoes, tops of pants hanging down to show his underwear, inside out strapped t-shirt, ball cap on sideways. Now, you’ve probably seen these GQ role models for dress, but have you ever seen them try and run. It’s hilarious. It’s like the human version of March of the Penguins in double-time.

“Yo…yo…yo…” my visitor begins calling out the moment he gets through the door.

I meet him halfway into the shop, having thoroughly enjoyed his approach from across the street, where he and his buddies were trying to start a car.

I see it all here. Visitors from Berkeley arrive in: peasant dresses, beads, Birkenstocks, ponytails (now with completely bald top), tie-dyed shirts, raggedy beards (now gray). Yea, I know there were avant-garde goofballs in my generation, and I get reminded of it often, because the meatballs haven’t grown up yet. They’re still trying to pretend it’s the Summer of Love, including the drugs. They haven’t had a coherent thought since 1968 either.

Anyway, I meet my new-age stop-in.

“I’m right here, young man,” I wave, trying to get him to quit calling for me. It’s possible he doesn’t like who he’s attracted, but I don’t have anyone else to send out. “How can I help you?”

I immediately evoke forty-five seconds of gibberish my evolved interspecies translator can’t crack, and I hold up my hands, pleading for him to stop.

“Hold it. Hold it. I did not recognize a single thing you just said. Slow way down, and remember, I’m old.”

This draws a quick snort of laughter; and he nods, either in understanding, or derision. In any case, he begins speaking in English.

“Do… you… have… a… funnel… I… can… borrow?” He asks. Yep, it was derision.

I grin and go get a long plastic funnel for him. I usually require they leave their driver’s license until they bring back what they borrow; but he’s just across the street, and he ain’t going anywhere. I only loan out three items: jumper cables, gas can, or funnel. Besides, watching the March of the Penguins in double-time back across the street was going to be a treat. He does not disappoint, and nearly takes a header in the middle of the street as he stepped on his pants. He glances back toward the shop to see if I noticed. I waved of course. I had to get back to work on a Chevy starter job, so I didn’t think about it for half an hour, until when lowering the car I was working on, I saw him walking across the street with my funnel. Damn, it was still the March of the Penguins… but it just wasn’t the same. He handed me the funnel.

“Do… you… repair… cars… here?” He’s still pissed I saw him trip.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I asked with straight face. I like this kid. I’ll play for a while. “Was it the big sign on the building, saying I repair Domestic and Asian cars and light trucks? I’m just asking cause I don’t want to waste my advertising budget on something that doesn’t work.”

He stares at me blankly for a moment.

“Yea…yea… okay…” he manages to get out. “My car still won’t start. Do you charge to check it out?”

“Oh…yes,” and I told him how much. He was not pleased. Oh no!

“Just to look at it?!” He asks with incredulity.

“No, I can look it from here. That price is to actually find out what’s wrong with it inside my repair shop.

He shakes his head in anger, and turns around. The young man forgets himself, and gives me one last double-time March of the Penguins. I almost call him back to deduct his entertainment value from the diagnostic charge; but I remind myself of the fact no price would be acceptable to him, other than free. :)

Full Circle

So many blogs have had tattoos and piercings as subjects, I thought I'd share this futuristic short story I wrote for my Daughter one Christmas just to rag her about the tattoos she had acquired. Using my grandson, as a grown-up foil for my story, it zinged my Daughter pretty good. The real funny part is my grandson is now five in actuality, and he's already started questioning her about the two tattoos she has. I can't wait till he's all grown up and reads this story. :)

“Get the door, would you Colin?” The young man’s Mother called out from the back bedroom.

“Sure, Mom,” Colin answered, as he put down his video game controller, and pushed his almost six foot frame up quickly from the couch. He ran a hand through his close-cropped brown hair, hesitating momentarily as he considered whether to shut off the video game controller or leave it running. Believing he would have to hear about it from his Mom if he left it on, he sighed and turned it off. Vaulting over the back of the couch to make up for his lost moment of video game internal debate, he jogged over to the door and pulled it open. He smiled in surprise. On the doorstep stood his Grandparents, arms filled with brightly covered presents.

“Merry Christmas, Honey,” the elderly, heavy set gray haired woman said, her face crinkling into a familiar smile. “Are we too early?”

“Mom’s only been getting ready for the last hour, so she won’t be out for at least another two hours,” Colin answered quickly, taking the packages from his Grandmother, “but I suppose I can let you in.”

The elderly woman clucked disapprovingly, as the young man’s Grandfather laughed loudly in appreciation of his Grandson’s dig. “Don’t encourage him, Bernard,” she scolded. “He only says things like that, because he knows you’ll laugh.”

Colin stepped aside to allow his Grandparents to get by, grinning as his Grandfather stepped into him, jolting him back a couple of feet.

“Merry Christmas GP,” the young man said as he snapped to attention, shifting his Grandmother’s packages to his left arm, and saluting smartly with his right.

Colin held the position while his Grandfather quickly threw the packages he had in his arms on the couch. Returning to the still saluting young man, the slightly taller older man clasped his hands behind his back and circled the youth with a critical frown on his face. The old man’s iron gray hair, cut to a stubble around the sides, and about an inch in height on top, gave the Grandfather’s lean lined face an impressive scowl. After a moment’s impromptu inspection, Colin’s Grandmother, Joyce, walked over and pushed on the old man, who looked at her, but did not move.

“Leave him be, you old goat,” Joyce told her husband, squeezing in between the young and old men to hug her Grandson, who finished his salute with a laugh. “I don’t know why you two have to play this game. Your Grandpa’s going to turn you into an old sarcastic goat, just like him.”

“Stay out of this, woman,” Bernard retorted, using a gruff accent reminiscent of a Mexican bandit.

Colin laughed and hugged his Grandmother. “You two never let up, do you?”

The young man’s Grandfather broke into a grin, which completely transformed his countenance. He stuck out his scarred, work worn right hand, which Colin gripped in his. “Merry Christmas Cole. You going to come back with us and work at the shop for a few days?”

“You mean I have to work at “Bernie’s Bored Shop” again?” Colin asked, letting his last words rise into a whining toned ending.

Both of his Grandparents broke into raucous laughter at their Grandson’s quip, as their daughter Eva joined them in the living room. Her dark blue dress highlighted her long dark brown hair. Although she wore black shoes with a slight heel, she was still slightly shorter than her Mother. She hugged both of her parents, and then helped Joyce off with her coat.

“You certainly look good, Honey,” Joyce said admiringly.

“Yea, you don’t look forty at all,” her Dad marveled, drawing another appreciative snort from Colin.

“I’m only thirty-seven, you…” Eva stammered, as both her Son and Father broke into open laughter. “Shit… I mean…”

“He got you again, Mom,” Colin chided her.

“Pay no attention,” Joyce sighed. “They’ve been at it since before we even walked in the door.”

“I heard Dad out here, chortling in his annoying little way from back in the bedroom,” Eva replied, shaking a finger at her Father. “What’s so funny?”

“Has Jim been by to see you, or something?” Bernard asked his Daughter. “Cole was remarking about ‘Bernie’s Bored Shop’, and I figured my second born had been visiting.”

Eva nodded, chuckling at the phrase, which she and her younger brother Jim had used to describe her Father’s auto repair shop. He had watched them many times during the day, as they were growing up, at the shop he owned in Oakland. Unless they were destitute for spending money, neither she nor her brother ever went back to his shop for work after escaping from what they kidded their Father was bondage.

“He came by on Thursday. Cole… Colin… damn it, Dad, now you’ve got me saying it. Colin told him about planning on working for you as much as he could over Christmas vacation, and he received the usual lecture from Jim, about the old horrors of working in the Nilson Brothers Garage dungeon.”

“I like working at his shop,” Colin protested. “He’s training me, right GP.”

“You bet, Cole,” Bernard agreed, receiving another icy look from both his Daughter and Wife for shortening his Grandson’s name again. “Someone has to take over looking out for the family’s cars and trucks. By next year, you’ll be fixing whatever new gadget mobile your Uncle Jim dives into debt over.”

“We’ve sold a mess of comics too,” Colin continued. “GP showed me how to do inventory, and introduced me to the supplier the last time I worked at the shop.”

“Oh great, another comic book grease monkey,” Eva exclaimed, holding her hands up as if in supplication to a higher being.

Bernard nudged his Grandson knowingly. “Just wait till she blows up another engine, Cole. You’ll hear a whole different story then.”

“You are never going to let me live down that old Chevy Camaro, are you?” Eva asked, shaking her head.

“Not in this lifetime, little one,” Bernard promised.

“Come on in and sit down,” Eva gestured to the couch. “I’ll get some tea made.”

As they were sitting in the living room, admiring the new artificial Christmas tree, newly decorated, Eva turned to her Son. “Tell your Grandfather what you want to spend your money on, Colin.”

The teenager hesitated, as if being forced down a path he did not want to take.

“Go on,” Eva urged. “Tell him.”

Colin looked at his Grandfather, who sipped his tea with his ever present amused look. “I want to get one of those chain tattoos around the upper part of my right arm.”

Joyce, who had been sipping her tea as Colin made his announcement, almost brought the mixture back up through her nose. Bernard, who had quickly patted his wife on her back, trying to ease her choking, turned a knowing look on his Daughter.

“Well, well, well,” Bernard intoned, as Eva recognized the familiar evil, dawning on her Father’s face like a sunrise in hell. “Oh baby, the circle has finally closed on yet another little gem of history. So, what did you say, my Dear?”

Colin, intrigued by his Grandfather’s reaction, looked questioningly at his Mother, who had immediately leaned back in her seat, and rested her head tiredly on the back of the couch. “See Mom, GP doesn’t mind. What did…”

Eva sat up in horror, enough of her Father in her to recognize his whole script for this scenario was about to be played out. “Shut up Colin, we’ll talk about this later.”

“No, no, no,” Bernard said, with a grin that caused an icy, clammy shudder to race from the bottom of Eva’s spine to the nape of her neck. “Go ahead Cole, what were you going to ask?”

“I was just wondering what you said when Mom asked you if she could get her tattoos,” Colin asked earnestly.

“Why I…”

“Don’t you do it, Dad,” Eva pleaded, as Joyce tried to hold back laughter unsuccessfully.

“It’s like this, Cole,” Bernard said, leaning forward, warming to the subject. “Your Mom never asked me if she could get a tattoo. First, she showed up with one at seventeen on her ankle. She lied and told us it was a decal. Then, she went out in the first year after she turned eighteen to acquire that work of art extending down to the crack in her ass, she calls a unicorn.”

“Oh,” Colin said, suddenly realizing his Grandfather was not on his side in the tattoo controversy, but asked nevertheless. “So, what would you have said, Sir?”

“Well, I can tell you what I told her about tattoos from the time she was old enough to notice them,” Bernard replied, drinking in the resigned look on his Daughter’s face. “Your Great Uncle Jim went out and acquired a tattoo when he was sixteen. He said it was the worst thing he ever did, and regretted it his whole life.”

“I told her about that, and then I told her how my generation looked on young women who savaged their bodies with the travesty of colored ink doodles. If we saw a woman with a tattoo, when I was young, the first impression we had of her was: cheap, low life, trailer park slut. The second impression was usually just one word: whore. Now, as your Mom can confirm, I told her just that many times before she went out and did it anyway. Does that answer your question, young Jedi?”

“Yes Sir,” Colin nodded seriously. “If I were to go out and get that tattoo, someday, Mom will be sitting where you are, happily telling this same story to my teenage kid. I think I will skip the tattoo.”

“You have chosen wisely,” his Grandfather said sagely, turning to his laughing wife. “See, I told you intelligence and common sense skips a generation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some more tea.”

Colin and his Grandmother laughed even more uproariously as Eva put her hands over her face, after watching the old man spring up, and head out to his Daughter’s kitchen, singing ‘Oh Happy Day’.

Security

I hear my motion detector go off, and I look out from around the car I’m working on. No one in sight, so I walk to my office, because I thought I heard the office door close too. Sometimes folks will walk in the office, thinking I’m in there. I open the door, and there’s a guy in a business suit swiveling around in my desk chair, looking through the papers on my desk. He’s in his thirties, with well groomed dark brown hair, and a little portly for his age. I allow the office door to shut, and stand there watching him silently. He hears the door close, and swivels toward me, leaning back in my chair as if he were greeting an outsider. He folds his arms over his chest, and gives me a big ingratiating smile. He has good teeth too. Possibly not for long.

“Bernie, sit down,” he reads the name stitched on my shirt, and points to the chair next to me he should be sitting on.

I won’t bore you with all the stuff shooting through my head. Age has mellowed me out, and given me a different perspective on life’s little annoyances, like people assuming ownership of things I’ve worked a lifetime to attain. Since this is the first time in the thirty years I’ve been here anyone has sat at my desk without my permission, I figure it’s a live and learn experience. I decide on the Terminator approach I save for occasions when I might say something that will lead me to mayhem. My kids call it The Vulcan Death Stare. Five seconds of it, and this guy jumps out of my chair, smile gone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this your chair?”

Five more seconds, and the guy I will refer to as The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit, TMITGFS for short, blathers out an introduction. He represents a security agency I will refer to as Acme.

“We are the small business solution for security needs,” TMITGFS continues his spiel. “Someone could have come into your office and escaped through your small door with an armload of valuables just now.”

“I don’t keep anything of value in the office,” I speak for the first time. “You should know that since you were going through my desk when I came in. Is that a new sales technique Acme came up with to get one of you reps killed?”

“I…I just wanted to demonstrate the weakness of your security system, and why it would be good to…”

“Want to know how much I’ve lost in seven years working here as a mechanic, and twenty-four years of owning it? Zero.” I tell him. “Want to know how much I’ve saved not paying security firms who never show up, and couldn’t do anything if they did? Eighteen thousand dollars plus installation.”

“That’s the beauty of this new system,” TMITGFS informs me excitedly. “Acme can install the system and maintain…”

“No, they can’t,” I cut him off again, realizing near death experiences have no affect on him. “Please leave the same way you came in, and don’t come back. Take a bit of advice, and adopt a new first meeting technique before someone blows your head off.”

“Uh… can I have a business card?”

I step aside, holding the door open silently. His survival instinct takes over and TMITGFS leaves without further conversation.

Civilization is not always what it’s cracked up to be. :)

D-Day

Third Armor Division Half-Track

On this anniversary of the D-Day landing at Normandy, I honor and remember my Dad, James A. DeLeo. He landed on Omaha Beach with the Third Armored Division, and was the guy who operated the mortar launcher on a half-track armored vehicle. He was wounded badly when the Third Armored fought in the Ardennes. Carrying shrapnel in his spine and leg for the rest of his life, he walked with difficulty. The days he missed of work, while helping my Mom raise six children, could be counted on one hand. I’m fifty-seven, and to this day, he is the most man I have ever known. Three of his four sons served honorably in the United States Military, two during the Vietnam War. All six grew up to be responsible and productive citizens. Although my Dad did not write fiction, he turned me on to two incredibly different authors, who were his favorites and became two of mine: Edgar Allan Poe and Ayn Rand. Quiet, unassuming, and as tough as a two bit steak, my Dad led by example.

I remember him illustrating a point to me I never forgot. He filled a sink full of water, telling me to put my hand in it, and then pull it out. After I did, he smiled and said, that’s the hole you leave when you quit something, thinking you’re indispensable. It was the only time he was ever wrong. We’ve been trying to fill the hole he left in passing for over twenty years.

My Dad would have liked this quote from Theodore Roosevelt, which fits him, and all those who landed at Normandy on D-Day:

“It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly…who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who have never known neither victory nor defeat.”