Castle Keep

The stories in the Naked City are thankfully mundane for the time being. A little fantasy seemed in order since the rains arrived today. :)

Walls, with sweat drenched stones, of the dank castle keep,

Veiled figure in misty darkness, bowing her head to weep,

Long held captive within crumbling barriers, cold and gray,

Months forever lost, since winged serpent swept her away.

Ripped far from her village in talons dripping bloody gore,

Screaming uselessly, as gusty winds struck to her very core.

Alone now with only vague memories of past life’s dreams,

Escape plots dying anew, with failed, ill-conceived schemes.

Creature returned, wresting her back within bastion bleak,

Murdering hope, while trumpeting from razor sharp beak.

Dawn breaks, to light dreary forests beneath demon’s nest,

Glinting upon something bobbing at far off vision’s crest.

Grasping with eager abandon, anything the boredom to kill,

With only berries and bits of wheat, with rainwater to swill.

Her hungry eyes devouring each glimpse of sparkling light,

She followed its journey, through the still forest until night.

When rattling cry heralded the nightly return of the beast,

Gliding quietly to rest, its rasping winged wetness ceased.

Still she stood upon the keep, enthralled by dancing glitter,

In fog clouded moonscape, the lost sighting made her bitter.

She sighed deeply with loss, her small dalliance now gone,

Huddling within some filthy straw, awaiting light of dawn.

Clasping hands together, she drifted into cold uneasy sleep,

Awakening to the demon’s screeching high above the keep.

Peering up cautiously at her captor, circling warily in flight,

Booming laughter echoed upwards through now waning night.

To castle keep’s wet outer wall she ran with terrifying need.

Sitting easily upon huge armor encased black shining steed,

Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of helmeted giant.

No soft villager here, or virgin sacrifice, roped and suppliant,

The massive barbarian waved impatiently the serpent down,

Calling out for revenge, he swore upon his Father’s crown.

Dipping arrows within a smoking bag, meant only to maim,

He feathered the bleating monster with deadly accurate aim.

As the thing fluttered weakly to the ground, its captive sung.

Barbarian now heard her, as down from his steed he swung.

Shield strapped on bulging arm, and battle ax held tightly,

He stalked the flapping, snapping devil till it bled brightly.

Cursing it for his family’s death, he hacked it quickly apart.

In the soft morning rain, she called before he could depart.

Smiling gently, with blood washing down his beckoning arm,

The grim barbarian promised she would come to no harm.

She bound his wounds, using cloth from her tattered dress,

Finally in tears she shook, quieted only by calloused caress.

Upon great black steed, he carried her by his armored side,

There forever, in danger, or darkest journey, did she abide.

Thirteen Things Not To Say To Your Mechanic

Because more than half of these items were said at the shop in the last week, I decided to get together my own off the wall 'Thirteen'. :)

Thirteen Things Not To Say To Your Mechanic

1. Just patch it up, I’m going to sell it. (Yea, we’ve never heard this one before.)

2. Your estimate’s for more than my car’s worth. (Meaning we should do the thousand dollar repair for fifty bucks? I think not.)

3. Can I pay you in installments? (Sure, as soon as I can pay my suppliers in installments.)

4. Will you install my parts I bought at Walmart? (Sure, as soon as the restaurants allow you to bring in your own eggs for them to fry up.)

5. This is a classic. (Not to me.)

6. Are you honest? (If I said yes, and I’m a crook, you won’t know until it’s too late anyway.)

7. Can I borrow a tool? (No!)

8. Do you give estimates for free? (Nnnnnnnnnnooooooooooooo!)

9. Can you come over to my house and see what’s wrong with my car? (Sure, just let me hitch up my tool box, and diagnostic equipment on my back and I’ll be right over.)

10. The shop downtown will do it cheaper. (Oh, well let me get into a bidding war for your business.)

11. Do you fix cars here? (No, I break them. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked this. I average about five a month.)

12. I’m a mechanic. (Darn, I guess I can’t rip you off. Imagine trying this one on your doctor.)

13. My boyfriend is going to check your work. (Why not cut out the middleman, and have him do it? Then, I can check his work.)

Who Let The Dogs Out

A middle nineties Chevy pulled into the shop, and as I looked up from the job I was doing, the Chevy owner beeped her horn. Now, I haven’t worked in a gas station since I worked down in Baton Rouge, La in 1973. I don’t take well to being beeped at. It reminds me of how far back Baton Rouge was in my life. I get a little nostalgic, and in the end, a little on the slow side reacting to a horn summons. When I reach the car, two huge dog faces lunge at me through the window, snarling: one from beside the woman owner, and the other from the backseat. Oh boy, this is going to be fun. Meanwhile, Beep Beep is sitting with her arms folded across her chest in a state of obvious chagrin.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to make eye contact without giving the dogs a reachable target.

“I have an idiot light lit on my dash, and I want you to find out what’s causing it,” Ms. Beep orders. “I’m sure it’s just the fluid level.”

“Can you show me which one it is, please?” I ask, surprised Beep Beep could even see the dash with all the dog hair and grit spread over everything.

Ms. Beep gave me an irritated sigh, and started the engine. With front seat dog still across her lap, Ms. Beep pointed over the dog. Front seat dog grinned, daring me to get a closer look. I hunched around, with rear seat dog snarling hello in my ear, and saw it was the low coolant light. GM cars are notorious for bad coolant level sensors indicating low coolant level even when there’s plenty of coolant.

“Please release your hood,” I request. She pulls the hood release, and begins opening the driver’s door. “Stay inside the car, Ma’am.”

“Why do I have to stay in the car?” Ms. Beep asks, quite perturbed at my tone of voice, which left no room for debate, or so I thought.

“Because I don’t want your dogs out in my shop,” I answer, going quickly around to the front, opening the hood, insuring the coolant bottle was full, and closing the hood again.

“What did you do?” Beep Beep barks out from the driver’s seat, starting to get out again. “I won’t let the dogs out.” Woof woof, I add mentally.

“Stay in the car, Ma’am. I didn’t do anything. The coolant level is good. The coolant level sensor is probably bad,” I answer, eyeballing front seat dog with my ‘Who’s Afraid Of The Big Bad Wolf’ look. “The level sensors go bad in these all the time.”

“I wouldn’t have let my dogs out,” Ms. Beep states, starting the car.

“There’s no way I could know that, Ma’am,” I reason.

“I told you I wouldn’t have,” she retorts.

“Yea, you did; but I told you not to get out of your car, and you didn’t,” I reply with a shrug, as Beep Beep glares at me. “I didn’t get bit, and your dogs are still in one piece. It’s a win-win.”

Ms. Beep backs out without another word, as the two dogs look at me longingly.

Woof woof. :)

Dead Beat

When I saw who was exiting the 2002 Cad inside my shop door, I almost laughed. Before I go on, let me explain I have been cursed or blessed with an almost photographic memory for everything pertaining to events, people, and business dealings I have lived through. This particular gentleman, now exiting his Cad dressed in a dark gray business suit, had been in his early twenties back in 1984 when I last saw him. I will label him Dead Beat for the remainder of this post.

Mr. Beat had owned an old 1965 Chrysler with a 440 engine, and one of those ancient four barrel carbs I used to rebuild on a regular basis. When he had it towed in the first time, I showed him after a few moments someone had filled his fuel tank with water. This required a gas tank draining, carburetor overhaul, and new fuel filter. Needing the car that day, he refused to let me order a locking gas cap, I told him would be a necessity, because he had an enemy living around him. Dead promised he’d find a locking gas cap as soon as I finished. He came in the next week, all smiles, to let me know how happy he was with the way his Chrysler was running. I checked, and he had not put a locking gas cap on. Dead promised to get one right away. The following month, the Chrysler came in on the hook, full of water once more, and no locking gas cap. Mr. Beat was not happy, but he gave me the go ahead to redo the job. This time I kept the car until the locking gas cap came in for it. Dead Beat paid by check as he had done before and left. Check bounced, and Dead Beat was no where to be found: one of only two people to ever get away with stiffing me on a bill.

Here he was, exiting his Cad, all smiles and sure no way in hell I’d remember him. Oh contraire, Mon Ami.

“Hi,” Mr. Beat said amiably, gesturing at the Cad. “I have a check engine light coming on in my Cad, and I’d like to get it checked out.”

“I’d be glad to,” I reply, leading the way into my office, and checking the calendar. “I can get you in tomorrow to find out why the light’s on.”

“Fine,” Dead agreed happily. “Can I drop it off when you open?”

“Sure, let me get your name, address, and phone number.”

Dead Beat gives me the data, and starts walking out the door.

“Just a second, Mr. Beat,” I call him back in, having quickly extracted the invoice, with stapled on bounced check from twenty-three years ago out my drawer. I hand it to him. “This will have to be taken care of first, along with a fifty dollar charge for the time you allowed the bounced check to remain unpaid.”

“I…I…” Mr. Beat is stunned, his face begins draining of all color as he looks from the invoice to me.

Now folks, I know the slick way to have handled this would have been to check the Cad out; and somehow come out of the transaction with all the money owed for both the present day repair as well as the past, but I ain’t that slick. Sometimes you have to get your enjoyment of life the old fashioned way. The look on Dead Beat’s mug was worth the old bill’s value.

“I’m not paying this,” Dead stated, handing me the old invoice back hesitantly; because the gears are turning in his head, reminding him I now knew where he lived, and he didn’t know what that little factoid would mean.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll not be getting your Cad fixed here until you do,” I reply, looking at the calendar. “I have your address just in case you change your mind. Get out, and have a nice day.”

Closing the circle on these little anecdotes using the Klingon method of serving it up cold, is probably not the proper way of handling these situations. If you’re not an old curmudgeon with all your bills paid off, it’s best to laugh at my post, but disregard my philosophy. Oh sweet Jesus, it was so good though. :)

Overnighter

Oh joy, my favorite Disney Truck visited for diagnostics and routine maintenance today. It must stay inside my shop overnight again. I will take precautions upon entering tomorrow morning. This vehicle could inspire a nightmarish story, where the creepy nick-knacks on it pull free of the body, and come after the heroic mechanic. I know just where I can find one of those. :)

High Hopes

Oh boy… I’m thinking as the 1967 Mercury drove up into my shop. A very good customer had phoned me earlier to let me know her son was dropping off a ‘cherry’ old Mercury he’d just bought. A quick look at this ‘cherry’ Merc, and I’m thinking although I had seventeen years on this old clunk, it certainly outdistanced me in mileage. When I’m in better shape than the vehicle a customer drives, I always recommend the elephant graveyard for the poor thing, rather than torturing it with stop-gap repairs.

“Hi, Bernie,” the young man said with a big smile. I will call my optimistic customer High Hopes for the remainder of this post. He was really proud. “What do you think?”

I’m thinking you should have let me see it before you bought it, High. High is in his mid-twenties; and he grew up in Oakland, so he didn’t fall off the vegetable truck yesterday. I liked him, and knew he would probably be upset when I rained on his parade. First, I cringed and went right to the basics.

“How much did you pay for it, High?” I asked reluctantly.

“Only a thousand,” young Hopes tells me enthusiastically.

“Good,” I remark, knowing this lesson could have been much more expensive. “Return it to the guy, and see if you can get eight hundred dollars of your money back. He may take it since he can make a quick two hundred, and then scam someone else. If…”

“No way,” High cuts me off in shock. “This is a classic. They’re going for…”

“Easy… easy there, High,” I gesture for calm. I look up at the clock, and make a snap decision. “Go have a seat in the office, and give me forty-five minutes. Keep an open mind, when I explain my reasoning, after I gather some facts. Believe this: I’m not trying to make light of this situation. I’m trying to save you a lot of money and pain.”

Young Hopes looked at me suspiciously, as if I were trying to obtain the vehicle for myself (I’d rather open up one of my major arteries). He finally nods reluctantly and goes into my office. I sigh and pat the poor old Merc sympathetically, and get into the driver’s seat. The Merc bucket seat is now made up of folded over cardboard to keep the seat springs from entering the driver’s body in extremely painful ways. Closer to an hour than forty-five minutes later, I take my list into the office. High looks up from a magazine he was reading almost fearfully. I gesture for young Hopes to follow me out to his gem. For the next half hour, I pointed out all the flaws, which were expensive and fixable. Then, I spent another twenty minutes showing him the flaws, which were non-existent at any price.

“You must think I’m an idiot,” High says dejectedly, the dawn of nuclear winter appearing on the horizon for his plans of cruising on the strip in his ‘cherry’ Merc.

“Nope,” I state without reservation. “Try my earlier advice with the prior owner, and do it with an ingratiating smile on your face. Don’t go the accusation route, or you’ll end up with no money and in jail for assault.”

Young Hopes laughed, and nodded his head.

“If that doesn’t work, start listing pictures of it in every free flea market paper you can find. You might be able to get your money back if you can find someone with this same car, looking for a part this one still has. Try Craig’s List on the computer too. Sometimes…”

“Hey, what if I found someone with this model trying to…” High sees the look of annoyance flooding over my countenance, and pauses. “What…”

“Someone with a showroom condition Merc like this might need something off this one,” I explain patiently. “You don’t buy another one of these in hopes of making this one into showroom condition. If the rust were any thicker on the driver’s side floorboards, you’d be driving this beauty around like Fred Flinstone.”

“Okay… okay,” High takes a deep breath. “I’ll go see if I can get some of my money back.”

“Let me see the next one before you buy it, okay?”

“I will. Thanks… I think.”

“You’re welcome… I think,” I reply, getting another laugh out of High before he gets into the Merc and drives away. I go into the office to fill out the paperwork for his Mom. She won’t be happy either. :)

Now Voyager

I was working on a 1999 Ford Ranger when I heard my motion detector go off as a vehicle stopped inside the shop. It was a middle nineties Plymouth Voyager I recognized, although it had been at least six months since I saw the Plymouth last. A well-dressed man in his early forties exited the Voyager. I recognized him too. He had brought his Voyager in for a diagnostic check to determine why it was stalling and hard to start, intimating the whole time I was ripping him off with a diagnostic fee like all the others. Apparently, he had three other shops have a go at finding out what his problem was with the Plymouth, all to no avail. I received this news in detail at the time; but since I tend to tune out after hearing how I’m ripping off a customer I haven’t even met before, the details elude me at the moment. To my surprise, the man I will identify as Now Voyager for this post, decided to have me check out his vehicle even though by then I didn’t want to at any price.

After a detailed diagnostic scan, and some hands on poking around, the main two culprits causing the six trouble codes stored in the computer were the downstream oxygen sensor, and the cam angle sensor. Fuel pressure, and a myriad of other tests I won’t bore you with gave normal readings. He also had an ABS brake code unrelated to his problem, which was coming on due to a corroded connector near the battery. Now listened to my explanation why it would be important for me to erase all the codes, and then have him drive the SUV for a week before rechecking what new or old codes showed up. This narrows down the inadvertent codes from the solid troublemakers. Once he knew the retest was free, Mr. Voyager was all for it.

Now drove in after a week with a detailed log of stall-outs and hard starts I had asked him to keep. The ABS was fixed, because he had not seen any other indication of an ABS trouble light, and the slight pulsation he had felt when applying the brake was gone. Mr. Voyager had two repeaters, the cam angle sensor and oxygen sensor, which I explained would have to be done first before going any further. At this point, Now wanted an iron clad guarantee everything on his vehicle would be in showroom condition after I fixed these two items. I told him what he was demanding was impossible. He decided to keep on going with it until the Plymouth screwed him up real good, or he found a shop to guarantee the impossible. So, I’m less than enthused as I recognize my good buddy, Now, again in my shop, and up to no good I’ll wager.

I greet Now as he comes around the front of his Plymouth toward me. He hands me a receipt instead of talking - always a bad sign. Reading over the invoice, it appeared some enterprising garage I will not mention, had replaced everything on the Plymouth but the oxygen sensor and cam angle sensor. The invoice was missing the key ingredients to legally operating in the state, such as the shop’s state license number, etc. It didn’t even have the shop’s address and phone number on it, let alone an area for writing an estimate with customer’s signature. I handed the receipt back to him with a shrug.

“As you can see, I spent a lot of money,” Now said through clenched teeth, when I didn’t respond to the magnificence of his receipt verbally.

“So, how’s it working for you now?” I asked, not in the least bit interested.

“It still stalls, and is even harder to start,” Mr. Voyager answers, as his voice rises a few decibels, “and I want to know why!”

“Probably because you let this shop replace everything except the oxygen sensor and cam angle sensor,” I reply amiably; because other than the guess I just gave him, Now was getting nothing from me.

He tries comically to hand me the keys. “Here, I want you to check it.”

“No, Sir, the statute of limitations has run out on that. You decided to ignore my diagnosis; which is your right, and go somewhere else to get your vehicle worked on. I suggest taking it back to them. I imagine you demanded a guarantee, so now’s the time to cash in on it.”

“They… they’re not there anymore,” Now’s voice drops down to a whisper.

“I would suggest taking it to the dealer, or another shop,” I suggest earnestly; because while I take no comfort in other people’s woes, I have no empathy for stupidity. “They will have to check it over to make sure this other place didn’t add to your troubles.”

“You should do the diagnostic over for me for free,” Now states with gusto, thinking he’s in a Walmart arguing for customer rights.

“Not going to happen,” I state more firmly. “Have a nice day, and good luck with your vehicle.”

Now starts to launch into his mantra, but I hold up a hand to dissuade him from further dialogue.

“Not going to happen,” I repeat.

Now gets it finally, and leaves in a huff. Better than leaving with help. Ah… Monday… :)

All Set

I noticed a man, probably in his forties, wearing a gray business suit, out in front of my shop checking it out as if he were lost. He looked a little out of place too, and I was still waiting on parts for the Honda Accord torn down in my shop bay. When I approached him, the man immediately walked toward me with a smile and his hand out. I shook hands with him.

“I thought maybe you were lost,” I offered.

“No, I’m looking for a shop like yours in this area. How’s business?”

“Pretty good,” I answered, wondering if he was somebody from the City of Oakland.

“How long you been here?”

“Over thirty years, twenty-five as owner this next April,” I’m curious now where this is headed. I’m always waiting for the next city inspection.

“You look near retirement age,” the man observed with a friendly smile.

“What gave me away, the gray hair, or the permanent cynical look, branded onto my face?” I smile back. “Seriously, I probably won’t retire unless something unexpected happens.”

“Would you be interested in selling your place,” the man chuckled at my little joke, and got down to business.

“Sure, 1.5 million dollars, cash,” I answer immediately.

He laughed in earnest then. After a moment, he shook his head. “You’ll never get that much for it.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep on workin’ then.”

“Do you have a mortgage on the place?” The man asked, glancing around inside the door.

“Nope, it’s paid off.”

“You could be set pretty well if you sold the place,” he told me. “Can I leave my card in case you change your mind?”

“Sure, I’ll give it to my wife. If I assume room temperature under a car or truck in the near future, I’ll leave word for her to give you a call.”

He laughed and handed me his card, before leaving. It only had his name and phone number on it. Maybe my wife will have to do a little checking on this guy if I join the other side of the Ghost Hunting equation. :)

Discriminating

“I know what you’re going to tell me,” the middle-aged man said with a sigh, getting out of his lime green Volkswagen.

“If you’ve guessed ‘I don’t work on European cars’ then you’d be right,” I reply with a smile.

The surprised look on his face told me that was not the phrase he expected.

“A good customer of yours recommended you to me. He told me you worked on everything,” the man argued, and put his hands on his hips to show his pique I guess.

“I’m sorry, but he was wrong. What’s his name, and I’ll call him. If he’s a good customer, I’d like to avoid any more misunderstandings.”

“Ah… I think… it was Tim, or Tom…”

Wow, that narrows it down. It sounds like the old name drop without a name.

“Look,” he goes on as I stay silent while he searches for my imaginary customer’s name, “I live just over on Adeline. It would be really convenient if I could bring my VW here.”

“I’m sure it would, but I don’t work on European cars. The big sign on my building front states Asian and American Car and Truck Repair. If you have one of those, I’d love to work on it.”

“I have a Ford Explorer,” he says, brightening. “You’ll work on the VW if I let you work on the Ford?”

“No,” I answer, keeping my tone even. “I’d work on the Ford, but not the VW. Look, it’s just like if you took your VW to a European car repair shop. They won’t work on your Ford because it’s not within their level of expertise.”

“Why can’t I get my vehicles done at the same place? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“If one was Asian instead of Euro, you could. I’ll get you the address for a place on East 9^th that does European cars,” I offer, stepping toward the office.

“How much do they charge?”

“I don’t know. I’m not affiliated with them. They’re just the closest Euro repair I know of. You can call and tell them what your problem is, and they’ll tell you what the diagnostic charge is.”

“Forget it!” The man jumps into his Limeade VW, and backs out.

I only have time to sit down in the office when Limeade shoots back in the door. I again greet the man as he launches out of the driver’s side seat.

“I want one of your business cards,” he demands. “I’m going to report you to the Better Business Bureau.”

“For what?” I start laughing in earnest. “Not working on VW’s? Never mind, I’ll get you the card.”

After I fetch a card for him, he’s still perplexed at what I think is so funny.

“You seem to think this is some kind of joke,” he said, looking at my card.

“I don’t think you’re joking, but I think it’s funny. Anyway, let me know how it works out for you. I’ll add something else for your complaint: I’m not working on your Ford, or any other vehicle you ever own.”

“Tha…that’s discrimination!” The man accuses.

“Good luck to you,” I wave at him as I walk back in the office. “Don’t forget to let me know how your complaint progresses.”

He drives off after staring angrily at my office door for a few moments.

There must be a full moon tonight. :)

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. :)