Expensive

I opened the comic shop for New Year’s Eve day. It’s beautiful outside, with sunny skies, and temperatures in the mid fifties. Stop-ins have been few though, which allowed me to get a lot of writing done. One of the kids who came in was funny. He was probably around twelve or thirteen, and his interest in the comics caused his eyes to involuntarily widen. I wondered watching him whether the prices were making him bug-eyed or the comic cover art. He settled my wonderment in short order. He walked over to the register with a New Avengers comic.

“I’ll give you fifty cents for this one,” he tells me like a seasoned flea market patron.

Only one problem: he wasn’t at a flea market.

“Sorry, that comic is $2.99,” I informed him, and came around the counter to point out my bargain comics. Comic sticker shock is a common occurrence. “Comics are expensive nowadays. I do have some ones for a quarter to seventy-five cents there in the box.”

“There’s no New Avengers ones in here,” he complained after looking through the box.

“The New Avengers series started in 2005, and it’s real popular,” I explained, “which means it will probably never be in the bargain box.”

“Well… I don’t want any of these.”

“I have a bunch of free promotional comics here on the counter. You can take whatever interests you from them,” I gestured at my freebies spread out near the register.

He became a little more animated sifting through the over forty free promotional titles, and pulled out six he liked. I put them in a bag for him.

“I’ll come back when I save up for the New Avengers,” he promised on his way out. “Man, comics are expensive.”

And just about everything else unfortunately.

Voices

I couldn't pass up displaying this picture.

I know rain depresses many people, especially when in some parts it never lets up for more than a day. In California, it seldom rains. At my shop, rain will drop the number of street artist drop-ins down to zero. Although these comical denizens supplied funny moments this year to write about, I don’t miss them when the rain limits their street excursions. Rain usually causes breakdowns; but if I’m successful in preaching preventative maintenance during the year, my regular customers don’t experience them. When rain falls like on Friday, the day proceeds with repair appointments, phone spam, glances out the big door at wet sidewalks, and quiet normalcy. Customers ask me all the time how I can stand working alone. I’m never alone. Characters run around in my head all day long, spouting dialogue, and telling tales. :)

Braking Point

“Okay, I want you to tell me how this can happen,” a guy in his mid thirties growled at me from the doorway where I had just opened the big rollup door.

He held out a set of disc brake pads worn down past the metal. Having done a few disc brake jobs, I recognized the pads, at least what was left of them. They were off a GM vehicle. I didn’t know this guy, at least I didn’t think I knew him. I’m getting to the age where I’m not real sure about anything. I’ll call him Unhappy Brake.

“The disc brake pads wore down. They weren’t replaced in time to save the rotors, which must have been ground down to scrap,” I state the obvious; because I have no clue where Unhappy is going with this. “Where’d you have the brakes done?”

Mr. Brake named a place in Oakland I wasn’t familiar with.

“This is after only eight thousand miles!” Unhappy raises the level of dialogue, at least in volume.

“Why are you here, and not there?” I asked.

“I need a second opinion. Those assholes tell me the pads wore out because I refused to replace the rotors when they did the job. No way pads wear out this quick for any reason,” Unhappy informs me authoritatively.

Au contraire, Mon Ami.

“May I see your invoice?” I asked, not wanting to shoot my mouth off before discovering a few more facts. Mr. Brake digs the receipt from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I look it over, and what do you know? The shop wrote right at the bottom of the invoice: ‘Rotors below minimum thickness, customer refuses recommended replacement. This will cause premature pad wear.’ I pointed it out to Unhappy. “They did warn you what would happen if you didn’t replace the rotors, Sir. What they wrote is true. Another thing is you kept driving, even when this sensor on the pad was singing in your ear down the street.”

I showed him the pads with spring metal sensors; which ride against the rotor to warn the driver with a squealing noise the pads are at replacement thickness. They were worn to nothing. It is a noise no one short of the deaf can ignore. Dogs will follow your vehicle, howling for your blood if you ignore the sensor noise.

“You’re in it with them! All of you people…”

“Hold on there, let’s keep from saying things we might regret,” I interrupt. “I’ll tell you exactly what happened. You didn’t want to spend the money for rotors. This shop was nice enough to let you dictate to them how to do the job. They warned you what would happen. You drove till the pads destroyed the rotors once and for all, thinking you could pull off the old ‘look what your pads did to my rotors’. Instead of apologetically replacing everything, they pointed at the note on your invoice and said have a nice day. How am I doing?”

Unhappy’s mouth worked for a moment with no sound. He then grabbed his receipt from my hand, and off he went without another word. Off I went to the backroom to share Unhappy’s experience at my shop. I hope the other shop takes Unhappy’s feedback to be a warning: don’t let customers dictate how brake jobs are done. If not, I'll have to get in touch with all my 'people', and get this straightened out before some other Unhappy outs us to the public. :)

The Act of Writing

I wrote a couple thousand words yesterday, completing a complicated section of plot finalizing my main characters’ first meeting. Something most people would think of as drudgery instead brightened an already satisfying day for me. Writing changes everything. It acts as an outlet for frustration with real life incomprehensible to other people. Disliking something in a news article, I often times incorporate it into whatever I’m working on, and change the outcome. No one can stop me from reversing an event on my computer in a story. I’ve rewritten politics, battles, religion, and solved world shaking problems with but a couple thousand words. Heh, heh, heh… and no one can stop me. :)

Just Comics Today

It’s a kick being in the comic shop on Christmas Eve Day, playing Christmas Carols and writing. I still had a bunch of sample comics left over from Free Comic Book Day, so I passed out a lot of those already. A guy came in and made the day. He bought my two latest self-published novels, and the newest Ghost Rider mini-series. The main sales so far have been from my twenty-five to seventy-five cent boxes, but that’s okay. The kids remind me of my trips to the local drugstore comic book rack when I was young. To top it all off, no young thugs today yet. :)

Wake Up Call

“Hi, Bernie,” a woman’s voice called out from right beside me on Friday morning.

In my defense, the air compressor was knocking away. I was in complete concentration mode under the hood of a 2001 Pontiac, and probably nothing short of an earthquake would have jarred me out from the Pontiac’s maw. I managed to not pop my head up like Bambi scrambling for cover, and eased out slowly as if I knew she was there all the time. This doesn’t happen often; because in my shop’s neighborhood, it’s not healthy to get surprised. I usually have a sixth sense about walk-ins. Lucky for me, I was surprised by a five foot four inch old customer’s daughter, and not a six foot four gangbanger. Who says God doesn’t watch out for the oblivious.

She wanted to make an appointment for an oil change. In doing so, she issued a gentle reminder to get my head out of my ass; and look up occasionally, as if I did indeed know where the hell I was. :)

Monday the twenty-fourth I’ll be in my attached comic shop, writing all day, instead of fixing cars. I’ve already promised a bunch of my regular kid customers I’d be open early.

Merry Flippin' Christmas

These two look like they may have overindulged at the aquarium Christmas party. :)

Rainy Days

Because it’s poring down rain out here, I can relax under whatever four wheel beast I have in for repairs. The rain cuts down on my sidewalk stop-ins, good or bad. Today it was a 1989 Ford Pickup with a core plug leaking coolant in a stream down the back of the block. I did a complete clutch job just seven months ago on this ungrateful piece of… sorry… anyway, I had to pull the transmission, clutch disc, pressure plate and flywheel back out again. The block plug had sprung a major leak behind the flywheel, and I didn’t need to have the customer ask me why I didn’t replace it while it was apart last time. That very question was winging its way through my brain as I wrestled the flywheel down, and saw the rotted out block plug. As I was contemplating the four hours labor time I would be eating, my motion detector chimed. A beat up old 1990 Buick limped into the shop with plumes of white smoke billowing out the tailpipe.

I hustled out from under the truck… well… it was as fast as I hustle anymore, and went out to meet and greet. A lady around my age (old) was sitting behind the wheel, and she gestured at the plumes of white smoke.

“What do you think that is?” She asked.

“Trouble,” I answered. “Do you smell that odd, kind of sweet smell?”

“Yea, is it oil? It’s been leaking a lot of oil.”

“No, it’s coolant. There’s coolant leaking into your car engine’s combustion chamber. The heat from combustion makes the steam,” I explain. “You can shut off the car. Have you overheated the car recently?”

She hesitated for a moment while switching off the engine, considering what information should be imparted to me.

“I blew the lower radiator hose on it a couple weeks back,” she admitted, “but everything’s been fine since it was replaced.”

“How hot did it get… on your gauge?” I asked, peering in to see if she had a gauge. She did. I also took a quick look at her odometer.

“It went all the way hot. It took me fifteen minutes to get somewhere I could stop. This is bad?”

“Real bad, I’m afraid.” Especially since the Buick needed a new interior, and about five grand in body work. “I noticed you have nearly a hundred and eighty thousand miles on it. I can’t fix it cheap, and anything other than cheap would be too much spent on this car.”

“Damn. I wish there was a cliff around here I could drive this thing off of,” She sighed, starting the Buick, complete with rear smoke screen.

“If there was, I’d follow you in the truck,” I said under my breath as she backed out.

The Offended

We had a flame war on another forum with my automotive peers, because some points were discussed rather bluntly (To me, it was more like luke-warm discussion). Of course this gave the easily offended a chance to warble about civility, personal attacks, etc. I wrote a poem for the offended. :)

They come, journeying from far and wide,
Desperately battling to stem the tide,
Of vast ether net of unending text,
Calling out loudly for them to be vexed.
Never mind they can use their keyboard mouse,
To bypass this heinous idea house,
Where eternal thought bytes flow with sharp fangs,
Waiting to rip and rend with unfelt pangs,
Of guilt at the passion they inject in,
Poor, unfortunate victims of the din,
Who shakily left click their way inside,
Where weighty words of evil mind abide.
Enlightenment blinds, as they howl in pain,
Shielding their eyes against lettered bane.
'I am offended', they cry in hushed voice,
'How can I resist this bright tempting choice?
It makes me seethe inside my very soul,
Therefore banning it will be my life's goal.
Out with sarcastic pointed font of wit!
Away with logic, making me a twit!
I will hound the purveyors of sharp prose,
Until all I see only makes me doze.
No longer will this site open my eyes,
Soon it will be filled up with fluff or lies.
When joyous, I log on, in future days,
No one will be left here to clear my haze.'
Off went the offended, bored with the site,
Searching, cause there's no end to doing right.

:)

Escort Troubles

I’m sitting in the office, and I see movement through the glass, followed by a low pitched growl or clearing the throat noise. Upon opening the door, I see a man with one foot in the entrance, looking intently for something inside the shop. He sees me step through my office door and straightens up.

“Uh… hi… can I help you,” I asked, thinking it might be Tuesday's Santa, out of uniform.

“Sorry… I thought there might be a dog… you know… lot’s of places around here have dogs,” the man explained.

“Usually only the drug dealers,” I reply with a smile; “but no, I don’t have any dogs.”

“Oh… good, I have a Ford Escort. It needs a clutch. How much to get it done… just a ballpark figure will do.”

I give him a ballpark figure and he laughs. Maybe I should have added a couple hundred.

“No… you don’t… understand,” the man waves his hand, still chuckling. “I’ll supply the clutch.”

“Not here you won’t,” I reply amiably.

“Really?” He looks at me incredulously, as if he knows all the other repair places are putting in customer’s cheapo parts, and I’m the last holdout.

“No,” I reiterate firmly. “Bargain auto parts stores sell parts cheaply for the Do-It-Your-Self folks. If you wish to buy your own parts, you’ll probably have to install them yourself. A clutch job on a front wheel drive vehicle is not the typical Do-It-Yourself type project.”

“There are several shops I’ve already talked to that’ll do it. I…”

“Great news for you,” I say enthusiastically; because if there are several places putting in customer supplied clutch parts, they’re doing them out of their garage at home, and the chances of him driving his Escort away in good shape are practically nil. “I wish you well.”

I go back in the office, and he follows me in. Oh boy.

“I just live around the corner. It would be easier if you’d do the job.”

“That may be; but if you have it done here, it will be with my parts, at or around the price I quoted you.”

“You mean it could be more?”

“Since I’ve never laid eyes on your car, the answer is yes. It could even be slightly less. I won’t start the job until I give you a complete estimate. You can give me the go ahead then, or drive it out.”

“Shit!” The man exclaims and leaves in a huff.

We don’t give much Christmas cheer in the auto repair business. We’re like the Bad News Bears unfortunately. :)