Give me a Brake

December 10, 2013

     The brake bid came in just over $1000. Heard a squeal, like a squad car was following behind me, on Saturday, during the snow fall. Only the next day, when it happened several more times, did I realize it must be the brakes.

     Jim, at Pace Auto in West Saint Paul, is such a welcoming guy. Who shakes your hand anymore when you arrive to get your oil changed? Who greets the dog with the same enthusiasm? I asked him to look into the high-pitched shriek, hoping it was an ailing squirrel or the vehicle simply needing more brake fluid added. The service took longer than expected this morning so I sat, with the guys, chatting a little, about nothing in particular after walking Tyrus around the neighborhood for 45 minutes. He started lifting his paws up in the air, one at a time and my toes were numbing, so it was time to turn in.

     The owner announced his birthday is coming up and he isn’t looking forward to turning 60. Said he had forgotten all about it until his wife mentioned having cake and ice cream to celebrate. The big bearded fellow with a heavy pockmarked face, ill-fitted burnt orange bib overalls and clunky salt-stained boots suggested he doesn’t want to get old and lose control over his bowels. Then added, without a breath in between, “Well, I just lost it pushing the truck out of the driveway so I guess I shouldn’t worry about that part of being old anymore!” And I shot back “And you were probably relieved since it warmed you up!” Everyone bust a gut, and we all rambled on like old war buddies after that.

     The mechanic came out of the back to hand me my key ring, loaded enough to make a janitor jealous, telling me I’m ready to go. Jim promised to email me the brake quote, told me the usual brake inspection fee of $20 is waived, and gave me a $19.95 coupon for the future. He extended a large palm and told me to have a good day. I opened the door for the dog, realizing my windows are immaculate, inside and out, and the floor mats were hair-free. I ran a pint of maple syrup in to Jim, wishing him a Merry Christmas. Suppose, deep down, I was hoping it would butter him up so he wouldn’t charge me an arm, leg and one ear for the brakes. I should have known better.