Moving On, Mechanically Speaking

I broke up with my mechanic. It was a long time coming. I lost faith. I think that was him right now on the phone. He used the 800 number so I'd pick up.

Or it was Barack.

The mechanic, X of X's Motors, let me spend too much money on my old car and didn't fix the problem. Charged us to come back to discuss it. Did or did not do some of the work we paid for, depending on who you ask.

Would you go back to X?

He knew something was wrong. He called to check. He called again to tell me about his specials (chair massages for customers, and a "ladies special" to teach "ladies" how to talk to mechanics). Gosh, I'm too busy starching my husband's shirts to go to to a ladies mechanic-speaking lesson! Thanks, though.

And don't touch me. Eew.

For this one thing I miss the old place.

The mechanic we went to was a dear. I never knew his backstory, but he was a little gritty and his employees seemed like they all had criminal records. Maybe he was trying to help people go legit? They were courteous, did good work, and were a teensy bit rough around the edges. The series of ladies who answered the phones and ordered parts didn't seem to be our mechanic's girlfriends, but did seem as if they might have a night job, too...

When my car needed something, the mechanic would come to our house with the tow truck and take it to the shop for me. Awesome.

A relationship like that doesn't end when you move. We kept going to him because he was our mechanic. Then one day I went to drop off my car and his shop was boarded up. I never found out what happened.

Started going to a different beat up freaky old place with the world's dirtiest (intellectually, physically) trucker hat collection. Am I imagining that they had a singing James Brown doll, too?

Finally I decided it was o.k. not to drive 20 minutes to the trucker hat mechanic, and settled on X, with his Bluetooth earpiece and newsletters.

Good luck to you, X.

This lady's a person of the peeps.