I recently received my income tax return in the form of a direct deposit into my checking account. It was an exciting surprise to see a sudden, somewhat unexpected influx of finances and immediately my mind went to work on a list of all the fun toys I have always been too reserved to purchase. To Hell with the fledgling economy and being cautious with my investments. All this talk about a modern American Depression was, well, depressing. It was finally time to spoil myself. But over the past few weeks, my car has been making this odd noise when I tap the brakes. Not so much a screech or a grind but a subtle staccato reminiscent of a child learning to play the trumpet. Normally odd noises are my queue to turn up the radio and retreat to the safety womb of denial that I live much of my life in. But since my girlfriend is currently taking classes in speech pathology, I'm newly acquiring a paranoia for hearing loss. In lieu of gunning the music, it was clear that I would have to do the inevitable and kiss goodbye the prospect of spending my income tax refund on something fun, in favor of purchasing something practical. Goodbye full suspension mountain bike. Hello new brake calipers, I'm sure we'll have just as much fun together...
I despise investing money in anything auto related and every time I have to, it's a reminder of just how shallow I am. I mean, safety and security are pretty cool but there's nothing exciting to me about new brake lines, pads, or calipers. I couldn't see myself purchasing such things and then waking up the next morning with all the anticipation of a child on Christmas Day, just dying to go out in the driveway and pump my brake pedal. "Wow! Look at me not go!" No, to me, dropping over $300 means that I should have a tangible, enjoyable toy. Something that I don't necessarily need but I can see and touch and boast to my friends about. Not something that's vital to my vehicle's existence and makes my car "safe" to drive.
Begrudgingly, I quickly quaffed my Saturday morning cup of coffee, took a longing look at the early morning sun as it began to shine over miles of trails in Forest Park, and headed in the opposite direction to the Les Schwab Tire Center--the place where the hick on the commercial slings "free beef" with every tire or brake purchase while supplies last. I assume it's just a Slim Jim but I couldn't tell you for sure because they ran out before I got there. I was the first customer of the day and was promptly greeted by a younger, slightly nervous but pleasant mechanic who I explained my vehicle's symptoms to, complete with a falsetto rendition of the aforementioned sound which subsequently made me wonder how many people this particular gentlemen would endure through the course of the day making childlike noises in an attempt to describe their vehicles. An older gentleman, clearly the senior mechanic who was training him, looked on impatiently and seemed to take note of the entire conversation from afar. I got the feeling that he already knew what was wrong with my car and judging from the way he shook his head in disgust, it was most likely the result of my own negligence.
I took a self-loathing, seat in the waiting room between the coffee machine and the water cooler and thumbed through the selection of sports and outdoor fitness magazines on the table before me which, to add insult to injury, advertised the same Kona mountain bike that I would have spent my money on prior to my arrival at the Northwest's premier tire center. It seemed like eons had passed but the clock told me it was only about five minutes since I'd sat down. Boredom was nice enough to remind me that the book I planned on bringing was safe at home, so I set to examining the rest of my surroundings. The waiting room was adjacent to the garage and separated by a large pane of glass through which you could watch as your vehicle was being worked on. It reminded me of the lion exhibit at the zoo and immediately upon realizing this, I found myself rapidly tapping the glass to get their attention. The tactic worked better than expected--mostly because I acted without any expectations. The four mechanics immediately stopped what they were doing and looked up alarmingly, fully expecting to see me suffering on the other side of the glass from third degree burns caused by the complimentary coffee. Instead, they found me nervously smiling like a jackass as I frantically waved them off by flamboyantly miming that I'd just located the creamer. Improv has never been one of my great strengths. After the mechanics each exchanged bewildered looks and resumed their work, I slumped a little lower in my seat concealing my face by blindly sifting through magazines and occasionally watching as they worked on my vehicle. Within a few moments, it became clear that the elder alpha-male mechanic didn't get along with one of his coworkers and was somewhat annoyed that his tools were already being misplaced in the early hours of his shift. I wondered what the rest of his day would be like.
The stern alpha-male mechanic finally returned with his diagnosis and under the table, just out of his line of site, I anticipatingly fingered the edge of my debit card which protruded from the top of my wallet like a Colt 45 Peacemaker from a worn, leather holster. "Well, your brakes are fine," he said reassuringly. "That's a relief," I replied as I allowed my hand to fall away from the plastic and the fear of spending hundreds of dollars faded. Then, with one fluid movement, he drew an invoice out of his front pocket and sliced through the space between us like a sword-wielding assassin. The damage was done. I looked down in horror at the $787 price quote for four all-season tires that hit me so hard he might as well have kicked me solid in the cajones. "When's the last time you rotated your tires?" he asked. The thought occurred to me to lie but it wasn't like lying to your parents about attending Easter Mass since there was no approval to be gained in this situation. And besides, unlike the existence of Heaven and Hell, this guy had physical evidence of my inaction. "Uhhh," I nervously offered as I reached for an answer, "I, uhhh, thought that was something optional. You know... like flossing?" "No, I'm afraid not," he replied curtly. Only then did I recognize that he took a certain sense of satisfaction in delivering the news. "You should rotate your tires about every other oil change--so, right around 10,000 miles," he continued. The memories of at least 10 oil changes on this vehicle in the past 2 years flashed through my simple mind. "When you don't rotate your tires, it causes them to cup or scallop which could potentially be dangerous (the thought of a cup of scallops was extremely distracting and delicious). I'd recommend you replace all four tires immediately or risk a blowout in the next 5,000 miles." He offered to let me take the invoice and shop around but in fear of facing further ridicule from other mechanics for my ignorance, I accepted the fate of my negligence and slid my debit card across the table. I could see my brand new bicycle ghost riding away from me into an ideal sunset that only existed on the posters of travel agency walls. He took the card and disappeared and already I could hear the bounce of fresh tires being pulled off the rack and rolled out of the storage room. The pungent smell of rubber and the sound of the tread lightly gripping the freshly polished concrete floors as they rolled through the store room and into the shop taunted me like a bratty child. Oh, how I could have slapped that child. But we were in public so I would have to wait until I got home, and slap him in the driveway.
As I said before, I'm pretty shallow. So, when I'm having a bad day, one thing that makes me feel better is when someone else also suffers over some minor inconvenience. I see this behavioral phenomena as karma smiling in my favor and as I am not one to question the cosmos, under those circumstances I feel somewhat obligated to take pleasure in the paltry frustrations of others. Kind of like that quote, "when God closes a door, he always opens a window." As if to answer the prayers I didn't recite, the senior mechanic stormed into the room. "Did you throw away your security lug nut?" he blurted accusingly while punctuating his words by slamming my keys on the table. "It has a specialized groove on it to prevent people from stealing your wheels. If we don't have it we can't get your tire off without drilling out the bolt," he added haughtily. The combination of the urgency in his voice coupled with my own immature inability to not laugh at the mention of my "lug nut" caused me to chuckle which did nothing but stoke the fire of his fury. Facetiously, I replied with a common defensive term I've coined that is a combination of the words no and yeah, "nnyeah, I don't know but I'm pretty sure that it's still just in the back of the car near the spa--," but he parried my rebuttal with a barbed verbal attack almost before I could finish, "Most people throw it away because they don't know what it is!" This made me laugh because it was already a given that I didn't know much about cars and now he was attacking that fact as though I hadn't already admitted it. Nothing could have been more inappropriate nor more offensive than my laughter but I can't help the fact that I react the same way when I'm nervous as when I'm delighted. The younger mechanic was now standing behind him and the nature of our rhetoric made it clear we were in a schoolyard fight but unclear which side he was on. Either way, I fully expected to leave with a torn shirt, black eye, and possibly a broken rib. Still taking pleasure in the anger in his tone, I asked if he'd checked in the various stash compartments near the tailgate and he cut me off exclaiming, "I did and it's not there!" I was left positively tickled by his reaction and without a word, I made my way out into the garage with a shit-eating grin on my face while both mechanics trailed. As I lifted the spare tire compartment, the mechanic immediately started panning through the contents of the back of my vehicle. He picked up items in disgust and winged them with a snap in his wrist to send them across the interior of my vehicle with maximum velocity. I made no effort to hide my smile and now even the younger mechanic couldn't help but sport a fart-smirk as well. The senior mechanic was throwing dog towels, ice scrapers, jumper cables, bungee chords, and road flares, and for some reason I was verbally racing to explain the presence of each of these items when he finally came across a pink cheetah-print dog sweater with a faux-fur neck liner--a gift from my sister when she was a software consultant for Petco. Judging by the dapper dachshund sporting the exact same attire on the otherwise transparent packaging, there should have been no doubt of package's contents, but in his haze of frustration, he inverted the package and vigorously shook the dainty garment onto the ground before picking it up with both hands as though to examine its size. Before I realized words had escaped my mouth, I told him, "you can keep that but I don't think it will fit." Instinctually, I winced in full anticipation of getting punched right in my fat face. Luckily, the blow never landed and as I slowly opened my eyes to find that I was still alive, the younger mechanic picked up a small zip-lock bag that contained the target of our search. The elder mechanic yanked the bag away from him and contemptuously mumbled, "I'm surprised he kept it." I think to say something smart like "HE is standing right here," but decide to take the moral high ground and maintain my silence. What can I say? That's just the type of person I am.
I resumed my presence in the waiting room and was half-sorry for the pleasure I'd taken in this man's frustration and the fact that he probably went on to have a horrible day. Man, I'm a total jerk. But then again, so was he. As I drove home, allowing the steering wheel to glide through my hands in their natural movement of correction when turning onto the highway, my brand new tires rolling as pavement lines blurred and the strange sound having vanished, it occurs to me I'm too irresponsible to to argue with the origins or circular nature of karma; I'm too busy accepting the second choices I am forced to make as a result of the repercussions of my neglect.
