My Mechanic

Our cars run our lives. We depend on them to keep us connected to society. They transport us to all our obligations and pleasures. So the people who keep them running for us hold considerable power.

Those of us with marginal finances can’t afford to buy bad work or get ripped off by a dishonest or incompetent mechanic.

I drive the better part of 40 miles to get to my mechanic. I found him when I really needed honest, sufficient work, and I’ve gone back ever since, because he always provides. No one else has matched his integrity and accuracy.

Rich is a brilliant diagnostician and a wizard at repair. The car may not end up as the factory intended, but I know from my own work in the bike and cross-country ski business and as a consumer for more than 40 years that the factory doesn’t know everything. In fact, manufacturers are often the least reliable authority on their own products. They’ll only tell you what’s wrong with it when the federal regulators hold a gun to their heads.

If only his personal habits matched the purity of his customer service ethics. He will not last much longer at the rate he guzzles alcohol and sucks cancer into his lungs with nearly every breath. You might wonder why I entrust my car to someone I have seen slurringly intoxicated. He was not always that way. I monitor the problem. Meanwhile, his work record is still far better than most other mechanics I’ve been to.

His hands look like those of an artist as they pass over his work. Whatever he does to himself, he cares about his customers and his work more than his health. He is consumed. He will give it everything he has, as long as he has it. The lesson is to be honest to others, be fair.

He’s a successful small business owner. I’ve been going to him for 15 years. The business is killing him, because he cares so much, but in the meantime he offers a matchless refuge for drivers in need. He can’t keep a helper because they can’t match his skill, dedication and friendliness. One or two have come tantalizingly close, but they never last. Maybe he's harder to get along with as a co-worker and boss than as a customer. In any case, he ends up working alone. And he puts in the hours.

Some people are early risers. When they have a lot of work they get up extra early. Others slide toward the night. Rich is nearly nocturnal now. He found that he ended up working late even if he came in early, so now he just comes in late.

“Fuckin’ phone’s always ringing during the day,” he says. “I couldn’t get any work done anyway.” He swigs more beer, followed by a mouthful of Jack Daniels. I don’t know what to say. He has me by the car. We’re all dying of something. The best thing we can offer each other is good company while we live.

The last mechanics I trusted this implicitly were Rick Cline’s boys at Sports Car Specialties in Gainesville, Florida in the 1970s. They were another nocturnal bunch. I’m sure their wizardry was fueled by a lot of alcohol and a few other things. But they did work magic on my Spitfire and any other car lucky enough to come into their orbit. Rick could be seen by 11 a.m. most mornings, a fist shoved deep in one trouser pocket, a coffee cup clenched in the other fist, a cigarette protruding from between two fingers. He would squint at the floor, sip, puff, sip, puff, slowly coming to life after a night in his machine shop.

Rick’s was a racing shop. Rich has no such ambitions. His calling is to minister to the regular driver. His motto is “Driven to keep you rolling.” He lives it and will probably die by it. I fully expect he will be found dead at work or die while driving home. I don’t know what we will all do then. Just pay more and expect less, I guess. It’s normal, most places.