I have gotten many gifts from my dad; some of them were of the tangible sort: the occasional candy bar from winning a bet, a high school graduation gift of an entire dollar that he made me swear not to tell my siblings about, and a United States Marine Corps sweatshirt to help advertise his pride of service to that particular branch of the armed forces.
And there have been the non-tangible gifts as well: the deep seated knowledge that everyone deserves kindness, the fact that it is better to listen than to hold court, and that one’s curiosity should be insatiable.
I have cherished each of these gifts and put them all to good use. So thanks, Dad. Much appreciated.
Yesterday, I had an appointment for a car service—routine maintenance, nothing fancy shmancy, just keeping everything up to date and on a regular schedule. I’m a little neurotic that way. Schedules are chiseled in stone for me, and chisels do not come with an eraser.
I’m good about planning, and a little freaky when it comes to timeliness. I plan for traffic and throw in an extra minute or two for the unexpected, because the unexpected almost always occurs, and the unexpected usually likes to bring friends.
When I made the appointment, I was told that the shop had a shuttle, and they’d be happy to drop me off at my yoga class two and a half miles away. It takes me thirty minutes to get to the shop. I booked forty-five and put half an hour in between appointment time and class time. Loads of time.
It’s as if time were an innertube and I walked with it looped around my waist, buffered and cushioned with all it’s superfluous bits.
I backtracked around the first accident, sat patiently through an unusually high level of traffic, and gave myself a high five for still managing to show up one minute early for the car service. But instead of a shuttle, I was greeted with a Sorry, ma’am, the shuttle juuust left to drop someone else off, but they’ll be back lickity split. Ten minutes tops.
I sat in the lounge stewing as the clock rushed through my spare time. And every five minutes stood up to glare into the mirrored window of what I assumed was the manager’s office and inner sanctum.
Four minutes before my five-minutes-down-the-road class, the Lickity Split Shuttle puttered into the parking lot with a young man behind the wheel who had either yet to realize he was out of bed, and not still sucking plaster off the walls, or had been told that this shuttle drive was literally his last chance at keeping this premium job, and if he didn’t follow the rules of the road to a T, he’d be back to emptying Port-O-Potties at the local Rent-A-Center. So he was careful. And painfully slow.
Or perhaps just driving under the influence of unconsciousness.
We inched our way down the road, where I finally told him to pull over, as right about then I felt like a good ole fashion sprint would do my lungs a world of good. Shouting, “GET THE LED OUT, BUDDY!” would have made them even happier, but by the looks of the kid, I figured he had had a lifetime of shouting shoved into about three teenage years, so I kept it all in check.
After my class, I chose to walk back to the garage. This is where the mechanic came out and handed me my keys with an apology.
“Uh, yeah, we did all we could do.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The mechanic scratched the back of his head and then slumped over the counter. “Yeah, for some weird reason, we can’t get the brake pad light to turn off.”
I narrowed my eyes at the grease-stained man. “Did you by chance check the brake pads?”
“I vote you check them again.”
The man snorted and shrugged. And then left the lounge.
I quickly called my dad. I explained the problem. He asked me a series of questions. I responded with, “You do realize you’re using words I have never heard before. You’ve gone into auto verbiage. I’ve yet to learn that language.”
Well, he gave me a few pointers—questions to ask, but more importantly the confidence to speak up and get the service I paid for.
The manager came out of his mirrored office and stood next to the mechanic. “Sorry to say, but your best bet is to take it to the dealer and have them run a series of diagnostics. There’s nothing we can do. We’ve run all our tests, taken the sensor in and out, rebooted the computers and gave it a test drive. Something is faulty. Just take it to the dealer.” He then gave me a look that suggested I might want to get back home to that stew in the crockpot and the cake in the oven. Maybe change a diaper and throw in a load of laundry.
“Have you tried calling the dealer to speak with one of their mechanics?”
“Oh, no, they won’t talk to us,” he chuckled, shaking his head.
It was clear he thought speaking to me was a waste of his time. My instinct was to say, “Well, okay, I guess I’ll have to do as you say,” because … because I trust people are telling me the truth. But my dad’s voice was still fresh in my head. I took a big breath.
“Doesn’t seem right that I bring a car to you that has no issues only to be given it back with an issue now does it?” I zipped up my sweatshirt. “I think you guys have got a problem to solve.”
The manager looked down at my chest and then back up to my eyes. “You know what? Have a seat. Let me just have a quick looksee.”
I did, and sat for two minutes wondering how the hell my little show of bravado suddenly changed this fellow’s mind.
The manager came back out with a big smile on his face. “I think it’s a small matter of a bad sensor on our part. I can have a new one here tomorrow by fourteen hundred hours.”
I gave him a long look and then took my cars keys that he offered in his outstretched hand. “Okay,” I said, nodding. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Have a good one now,” he said as I turned to leave. “Semper Fi.”
I was about to turn back and say, What?? when I caught my reflection in his office mirrored window. Proudly sprawled across my chest were the letters that commanded attention, and apparently good service: USMC.
(And thank you to all people who have served time in the armed forces for their country. Your dedication and service is truly invaluable.)
Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all talked about down in the pub. Plus, you can see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone.