When Free Is Not Enough

“Bernie, this is Connie Goodcustomer.”

“It’s nice to hear from you. Did your trip go okay?”

“We had a problem with the Crown Vic. Not anything you worked on,” Ms. Goodcustomer said with a sigh. “The AC went out just as I hit the all nineties, all the time climate on the way back, and I had the dogs in the car.”

“That is bad,” I commiserated. I’d found loosened bolts on their driver’s side upper control arm, causing the Crown Vic to make a metallic thud noise when braking, before they left on the trip. “Weren’t you and your husband going to only make one more trip in the Crown Vic, and then get rid of it for a new vehicle?”

“Oh, we already bought the new one, and it’s beautiful,” Connie told me excitedly. “I just wondered how much it would be to fix the Air Conditioner on the Crown Vic. It started making noise, and quit cooling. Do you work on that?”

“Yea, but when they start making noise, the cost can be astronomical,” I replied, and told her about a similar vehicle I had done a week ago which ended up costing over a thousand dollars.

“Wow,” Connie gasped, “that much?”

“Why don’t you get rid of the Crown Vic now, and forget about it? With over two hundred thousand miles on the original engine and trans, coupled with the age, it’s going to turn into a Black Hole.”

“We know,” Connie sighed again with regret, “but my husband was going to give it to a co-worker.”

“Great, what’s the problem then?” I reasoned. “Give it away now. It runs, and it just passed smog. Dump it.”

“Uh… but… she’s a single mom, and kind of needy.”

“Well, boo hoo,” I reply without hesitation. “You and your husband are doing the mom a favor giving a running vehicle to her at no cost. We don’t need AC around here most of the time anyway.”

“She lives in Concord,” Ms. Goodcustomer adds, naming a known Northern CA hi temp area.

“What has she been driving?”

“A…a borrowed old pickup truck,” Connie answers reluctantly, seeing where I was headed.

“There you go. She’s used to no AC. If she whines about the AC, throw in a little cheese with the deal,” I counter coldly. Some days I feel like I’ve heard every one of the million stories in the naked city. “What happens when you pour in a small fortune fixing the AC and the transmission gives up the ghost? If she complains about the AC, she’ll sure want you to make good on the trans and engine. Maybe you should just cut to the chase and buy her a new car now.”

By this time, Connie was laughing.

“Okay… okay, I get your point,” Ms. Goodcustomer is still chuckling. “My husband thought it would be nice to give her a car with AC.”

“You two have worked your butts off, saving and driving old cars till you could afford to buy a new one. It’s working out just in the nick of time before the old Crown Vic goes to the happy hunting ground with all your hard earned money inside. Don’t crab your good luck, Connie. You’re getting out from under the Vic at the right moment, and it’s not like you’re charging anything for it.”

“I think we’ll take your advice. Thanks Bernie.”

“Hey, enjoy that new vehicle.”

Sometimes being generous can progress past the good deed category into self-flagellation. :)

Shadow and Substance

“Look at this,” a medium height, dark haired woman in her forties ordered, as I greeted her at the big shop door when she walked in off the street.

I took the advertisement postcard from her, and quickly read through the ad for oil, filter, and lube. It listed the total as $19.99. I smiled, thinking maybe I ought to start taking my car over to them for service, since I can barely pay for the oil and filter at that price.

“Well?” She urges, seeing me grin in appreciation. She folds her arms across her chest expectantly.

I admit I’m not the greatest expert on body language, but I’ve been around the block a few times. This lady’s attitude seemed a little too much of a rebuke, considering I’d never laid eyes on her before. I handed her back the card, if for no other reason than to get her out of the Nurse Ratchet posture.

“Great price,” I comment agreeably.

“Can you match it?” Ms. Ratchet asks pointedly. “I only live six blocks from your shop, and it would be nice to get my car serviced here, but I don’t want to be ripped off.”

I suppressed the laughter; and other annoying, haughty, mechanic type mannerisms, my time in this business has made me susceptible to.

“The simple answer to your question is no,” I answer with the truth in a proper subservient tone, “not even close.”

“Why not?”

“Ma’am, you’ve read thousands of store ads in your adult life,” I try to reason amiably. “It’s called a loss-leader service to get you and your car in the door. I don’t do advertising like that. I’ve never offered sales on anything I do here. My price for lube, oil, and filter service starts at over double that.”

“Oh, so they’re the crooks for offering a bargain,” Ratchet counters animatedly shifting on her feet and leaning forward with flyer in hand.

“I didn’t call anyone a crook. Loss-leader advertising is perfectly legal. I just don’t…”

“I’d like to talk with your manager. Is he in today?” Ratchet cuts me off.

Okay, she nailed me with that one. I’ve been working my place alone for so long, Ratchet throws me off balance with an obvious customer ploy I haven’t heard since I worked at K-Mart garage back in the early seventies. I almost told her to wait a second while I went to get him, walked in the office, and walked back out in my manager persona. Too obvious.

“This is a one-man shop, Ma’am,” I curb the anti-social behavior.

“I know how this works,” Ratchet says knowingly. “I bet your manager doesn’t know you’re turning away business.”

Well, this is getting interesting. I look at the clock. Nope, I don’t have time to cultivate this relationship. I gesture for Ratchet to wait a moment. Quickly walking into the office and grabbing a business card, I return and present it to her, pointing at my name in the upper right hand corner with proprietor next to it.

“That’s me, the proprietor,” I tell her in good humor, wondering if she’ll make me show my driver’s license. “I’ve worked here since 1976, and owned it since 1983.”

“Sorry,” Ratchet says apologetically. “I’m used to getting the shuffle at repair shops.”

“No problem, but I really don’t give discounts of any kind. On the other hand, I don’t leave oil filters loose or strip pan plugs when I do a lube, oil, and filter. I also check belts, hoses, tires, and lights with the service. If I find something, I’ll note it on your invoice with a price for fixing it, and let you know if I think it’s a safety concern.”

“So do these guys,” Ratchet points out, again waving the flyer with a smile.

“Yep, it’s very possible the only extra thing you get from me is the charge.”

“You are closer,” Ratchet laughs at my unwillingness to barter, holding up my card as she walks out. “Maybe I’ll give you a call.”

Be still my heart. Hey, I can’t curb internal sarcasm.

“Anytime Ma’am, thanks for stopping by,” I say out loud. Thanks for coming by, I’m thinking. By interacting with me so entertainingly, you’ve been entered into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into... Bernard’s Blog. I know, I know… a cheap Rod Serling rip-off. My bad. :)

Instant Gratification

“Hello…helloooooooo…” a lady called out from the front of the shop as she held a small white dog on leash.

I was in the middle of fastening a gasket onto a water pump with quick drying cement. I acknowledged her with a wave, smile, and nod.

“I’ll be right with you, Ma’am,” I called out. I was wasting my breath, because with a big sigh, she yanks her dog along toward me. We live in an instant gratification society.

“I just want to ask you a couple questions about my car. It won’t take but a minute.”

“Go on back out to the front, Ma’am, and I’ll be with you as soon as I finish setting up this gasket.”

“Can’t I just talk to you from here?” She asked, as exasperation flooded into her voice.

Sure, I’m thinking; because I’m trapped, and can’t walk your butt out to the front until I get through with my gasket task. I made sure she was standing in a safe spot, and ignored her. She talked on, but I have a gift for being able to tune out anything. If I screwed up the setup on my water pump job, I’d be spending a few hours for free redoing it later. The setup only took another forty-five seconds, a life time for the instant gratification crowd. As I finished, I heard ECC light, and 85 Nissan, so she was just now hitting the high points. I gestured for her to walk her very well mannered dog out to the front. When we were past the ‘No Customers Past This Line’ line, I turned to face her.

“So, what do you think is wrong?” She asks, sure I would know exactly what was wrong with her car.

“You have an 85’ Nissan with an ECC light, which is short for Electronic Controlled Carburetor. Anything in the computer system, feeding information to the on-board computer can cause the ECC light to come on. Even a bad diode in the alternator can trigger it. I’d have to make you an appointment to…”

“Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong, and…” she interrupts.

“No,” I cut her off. “You’ll need to make an appointment to leave your car off for…”

“It runs fine. It’s just the damn light,” she interrupts again.

I give up on information, and quote her the diagnostic time to find out the problem. The Pentagon thinks they control Shock and Awe.

“The car’s not worth that!” Ms. Impatient informs me.

“If you think that’s a lot, you should think about another vehicle, because most of the repairs on that system are costly.”

“If I go ahead with the work, will you wave the diagnostic fee?” Ms. Impatient asks with a straight face.

Not a penny.

“No, the diagnostic fee will be in addition to the repairs,” I reply, as her dog looks up at me with what seems to be compassion. “Let me get you one of my business cards so…”

“Never mind,” she sighs once again, turning toward the door. “I just asked a simple question.”

I look up at the clock. Well, fifteen minutes of wasted shop time, but more ammo for my blog. :)

CAD

I saw this on the News Forum page and thought it would look good anywhere, even here. :) On to my blog subject.

The guy drove in with a 1978 Cad Seville, and I knew I was in trouble. I’m probably the only guy for a hundred miles who still works on these pieces of crap, so whenever one of my fellow automotive artists gets a call on one, they send it here. The conversation usually follows the same path as it did today after my usual ‘personable’ greeting.

“Yea, how much to check this out,” the short heavy set guy asks, leaning on his door with an irritated look.

“It all depends on what kind of problem you’re having with it,” I answer, knowing he’s probably been all over town, hence the irritation.

“It stalls constantly once it’s warmed up, and the brake pedal goes to the floor before the damn thing stops,” Unhappy Cad answers disgustedly.

“There’s a couple of ways you can go on this, Sir. The first is to dump this now before you put another dime in it, which is what I recommend, or pay me to check it out and give you an astronomical fee to fix it,” I answer truthfully.

“I’m not getting rid of it,” Mr. Cad retorts angrily. “I just spent almost two grand getting the transmission fixed. How much to do the diagnostic?”

I tell him, and he’s stunned. I’ve done more of these than I care to say, and I know the weak spots intimately. The parts are practically non-existent, but I still have a few internet resources supplying parts for the beast. It will take me at least the two hours I charge to confirm what’s wrong and get him a credible estimate. If Unhappy thinks he’s stunned now, wait till I give him the figure for fixing it.

“I’ve already had it checked out,” Mr. Cad argues, assuming I just fell off the produce truck yesterday. “It just needs a tune and rear brakes.”

“I would suggest you take it back to the shop where someone arrived at that conclusion and pay them to fix it,” I reply ‘personably’. :)

He’s stuck, and we both know it.

“Look,” I reason, after a moment’s uneasy silence, “cut your losses and dump this car. It’s a black hole for money. When I check it out, I will invariably find more than you ever wanted to know about what’s wrong with it.”

“I was offered three thousand for it,” Unhappy thinks I’ll care.

“Take it, did you save the buyer’s number?” I prompted him, because I don’t care.

“I’ll get it checked out somewhere else,” Mr. Cad states, slipping back into the driver’s seat. “You’re too expensive.”

Yea, but I was personable, I’m thinking as he backs out. If I’m good this weekend, and I say my prayers, maybe he won’t be in next week. :)

Personable

I’m sitting in my office paying bills, and a woman walks in from the street. She’s dressed in one of those ‘Little House On The Prairie’ dresses with sandals, and her graying hair is tied back in a ponytail. I figure her age for somewhere between late forties to middle fifties, medium weight and height. I’ll call her Birken Stock. Birken has one of those huge smiles that seldom leaves her face.

“Hi, can I help you?” I ask, as she looks around the office, and checks out my family pictures and certificates on the wall.

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment to have my 02’ Honda Accord serviced. I see you graduated from Cal State Hayward.”

“Yea, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away,” I reply jokingly. “What kind of service did you have in mind, just a general oil and filter change, or something more?”

“I’m coming up on 60,000 miles, and in the maintenance manual there are a lot more things to be checked at 60,000. I’d like to get some idea what the service would cost me.”

“Sure,” I already have my notebook computer open, so I get into my repair and estimator software. In a few moments I’m able to give her a price.

The smile disappears.

“Tha…that’s almost as much as the dealer charges,” Ms. Stock gasps.

“Actually, it’s nearly a hundred dollars less,” I correct her, because I keep up on these things; “but many times I am as expensive as the dealership, just not on this particular service, although I do everything they do.”

“Can I pay by installments?”

“No, but I take all major credit cards,” I reply, adding my little joke about offering credit, “I have a deal with the money lenders: I don’t lend money, and they don’t fix cars.”

“Do you have loaner cars?” Birken asks, and the smile is nowhere to be seen.

“No,” I answer. It’s a fair question.

“Let me guess,” Ms. Stock says caustically, “you have a deal with the car renters: you don’t rent cars, and they don’t fix them, right?”

“Yea, something like that,” I laugh appreciatively as Birken volleys my little joke back at me.

“When I drop off the car, can I get a ride home? I live in Berkeley. It’s only ten minutes away.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I’m too small time for any of the perks you can get at the dealer or larger repair garages. This is a one man shop, so when I’m out of the shop, the shop’s closed. On the other hand, I am able to offer lower prices because my overhead is lower.”

“You certainly don’t offer much in the way of personal service,” Birken sighs.

“Only on the vehicles,” I quip. “Although I have customers from all the surrounding cities, I’m mostly a neighborhood repair shop. Many of my customers can actually walk home from here. Do you still want the appointment?”

“Can I have one of your cards? I’ll call you when I decide. My neighbor recommended your shop to me. She said you were good, but not very personable.”

I laughed again, and nodded. Fair enough. In this business, it’s better to be good than personable. Besides, I’m a little personable. I hand her a card.

“Thanks,” Birken says, turning to go out the door, and then stops. “I’m curious. Why didn’t you go into teaching with your English degree?”

“I actually got the degree as a backup in case I hurt myself on the job. I like fixing cars and trucks. The technology’s constantly changing, so it’s never boring. I always figured teaching would be boring.”

“I’m a teacher,” Birken smiles, and walks out.

Oh boy, I just slid a couple more notches on the personable scale. :)

Brother Paul

My younger brother Paul and me long ago.

This will be a too much information post today, so if it bothers anyone, now’s the time to bail out. It took me a while before I could do this. My younger brother Paul died last week. I had gone to Ohio last month in order to meet up with my other brothers and sisters, and see Paul because he was dying of cancer. It ended up with us taking him to Cleveland Clinic emergency so he could get a feeding tube put in because the tumor on his neck was closing off his throat. So ends the bad part of the post.

Even lying in a hospital bed, Paul cracked us up laughing without even being able to talk well. My sisters and I were sitting around his bed as he slept the day after we browbeat the clinic into admitting him, because he was dying of starvation and dehydration rather than the cancer. A priest came in, and walked around me to Paul’s bedside saying he had come to give Paul communion. He woke Paul, and began the ceremony. We all prayed with him, and the priest left. As soon as the man was out the door, Paul pushes himself up on his right arm, cocks his eyebrows up with this hilarious look of confusion on his face only he could do and says: “I’m sleepin’, and I wake up, open my eyes, and there’s a priest. I’m thinkin’ what the hell did I do now?”

The smirking look of incredulity Paul wore through this one line had us laughing so hard tears were streaming down our cheeks. When I could talk, I added my usual smart ass line to his; which he and I could do for hours from when we were little kids only a year and a half apart in age.

“Yea, Paul, he probably looked like the conductor on a train in that black outfit. Tickets, tickets please, and brother, you didn’t have a ticket.”

“Hell,” Paul retorts, “I thought he was the Reaper.”

After me and my sisters howled for another few minutes, Paul takes his plastic spoon, and uses it to help him get the wafer of communion down. We’re watching him worriedly as he has a tough time.

“I was kind of surprised you took communion with the trouble you have swallowing,” I said as he finally gets the wafer down and sips his ice water.

“Bern, I ain’t in a position to be refusin’ any help right now,” Paul rasped out smiling. “I got to cover all my bases.”

On the last day before I came back to California, his last line to me was the one out of the movie Ghostbusters, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

Man, he had guts.

I wrote this poem for Paul last Christmas after he told me he had the tumor, and attached the above picture to it. He told me he made the picture into his screen saver.

My brother, I remember well the days,

Together mimicking heroic ways.

We battled unseen monsters in our youth,

Minds’ imagination powering truth.

With swords of wood, slashing through brush,

Blackberry vines fell beneath fevered rush,

While journey of jungle laden plight,

Hatched within our furtive young sight.

We beat back all challengers to our crown,

Of world beaters on our neighborhood ground.

In battered, aging plight, we fight on still,

Tattered shadows facing life, cold and shrill.

We hold our precious gains in gnarled fists,

No time wasted on Don Quixote’s trysts.

We have faced life’s demons without fear,

Sometimes with regret, but with vision clear.

We lived as men do, with all their black faults,

But conquered most without religious cults.

We believed in God beyond frigid smiles,

As trudging over barren, blood soaked miles,

What lurked in dark realm of bitter sorrow,

Could only delay our grasp on tomorrow.

With Christmas inside our beleaguered souls,

We pushed away thoughts for whom the bell tolls.

Barroom lights framing Christmases long past,

Shared with a man, whose fate was cast,

To lead two small boys, one dark, one light,

To manhood, without fear of endless night.

Now, in graying mist of winter’s cold scheme,

Let us remember our shared youthful dream.

Paul and I were big Clint Eastwood fans, so I’ll end this post with a line out of the movie Outlaw Josey Wales he’d like: “He was born in the time of blood and dyin’ and never questioned a bit of it. He never went back on his folks or his kind. I rode with him. I got no complaints”.

Late

I looked up from the 1999 Plymouth Voyager I was working on, and saw a late nineties Ford Escort roll in the front door I recognized. It belonged to a guy who had made an appointment for servicing two weeks ago, but never showed up. I’ve written about the three strike program, where if the customer makes three appointments and breaks them without calling, they’re history. This guy falls into a different category: the kind who makes appointments for a specific date, and then shows up exactly a week late. I’d like to tell you this type is rare, but it’s rather common. I’m sure there are a variety of reasons for this phenomena. Unfortunately, my interest in why people do what they do died about fifteen years ago. They do something goofy, and I automatically compensate. Mr. Ima Weeklate gets out of his Escort with a big smile. Yea, good luck with that.

“Hi, Bernie, I’m a little early for my appointment, but I thought it would be good for getting the paperwork done,” Ima tells me enthusiastically.

“Actually, you’re exactly one week late,” I counter. “Your appointment was for last Friday at 10 AM.”

“No way!” Weeklate shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve made a mistake.”

“Well, let’s go look,” I reply, opening the office door.

“Are you saying you won’t take my car in today,” Ima is aghast.

“I can’t take it today,” gesturing for him to come in the office. “I already have an appointment for ten which will be coming in any minute.”

“I’ll wait then,” Weeklate states emphatically. “I made the appointment for…”

“Let me show you something,” I break in gently, pointing at his appointment date last week. “See, I know people lose track of time; and things can get confused, so I write down the date and time a person makes an appointment when I put them on the calendar.”

Ima’s whole countenance fell, when he looked at the calendar.

“Here’s a lady, who made an appointment just before you did, and she…”

“Yea… okay… maybe I made a mistake,” Weeklate laments.

“I can fit you in Monday at this time,” I offer.

“Okay, if that’s the soonest,” Ima agrees.

“Yea, it is. I have all I can handle for today, but I’ll see you Monday the 6^th,” he sees me write today’s date, and the time next to his appointment on the 6^th for his service.”

“I’ve never seen anyone date stamp an appointment before,” Ima remarks, looking over my shoulder.

“See you Monday,” I reply, getting back up out of my chair and walking Weeklate to the door. “The 6^th.”

That’s strike one, my friend, I’m thinking to myself as I watch him back out. :)

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…

:)