This is the third part of the series on The Untold Chronicles of an Auto Mechanic in our continuing coverage of the funny mechanic’s struggles. Here is Part III.
And the chit-chat took the usual route until everyone was relaxed enough to delve officially into the business at hand. This tinker here, having already graduated as an auto engineer, probably with honors, to say the most, was all ears.
The business got a little murky when the pensive-looking client explained the nature of the visit in rather few crisp words. The starter, the solenoid switch, barely made it to the end of the first week.
The reason for coming a week after the confirmed organ demise was that the car got stuck someplace upcountry. And it was damn taxing to push it through the mud in the rainy season without a running engine.
This was courtesy of a dead starter and thanks to this tinker-turned-engineer. Now that very fresh lemons had been delivered, the task was to find the best possible way to make lemonade.
An impromptu meeting was convened by the borough’s tradesmen and the organ sellers. After thorough deliberations and not a few obscenities, the verdict was reached.
Senior Trade man’s Ruling
The ruling, read by one of the senior tradesmen, was short and precise. Electrical components, and more so second-hand ones, do not have a guarantee or warranty.
So if the client’s patient required another transplant, it was squarely upon him to do the necessary. He would shoulder the financial burden or cart his jalopy to another facility. He had other suggestions but cleverly decided to keep them to himself for obvious reasons.
The client silently chose the latter to evade an imminent confrontation with the army that firmly stood beside and behind me for any eventuality. I did not see or hear from him for days. I ignorantly assumed that he had cut his losses and moved on.
Little did I know that the horned father of demons was constantly at work against the same son of soil he had so cunningly plotted to deceive. If I had known then what I know now, maybe I should have cut the losses and rounded a few bends out of the tricky situation. As it were, the smoke of the brewing volcanic activity was too blinding to let me see the coming eruption.
The resultant engulfing was packed with the unmitigated fury of a scorned woman.
Talking about Everything, and absolutely Nothing
The coveralls-clad army lazily drank in the morning sub-Saharan sun, talking about everything and absolutely nothing.
Mornings in the garage are the opportune time to catch up on the general happenings. To share vital industry tips while waiting for the day’s clients.
Being a Friday, it is also a day to take stock of the week, celebrate its heroes, and laugh off the near-misses. I was among the week’s heroes. I had held the tiger by the tail earlier that week and come off without a scratch. Or so we thought.
Little did we know that the tiger was patiently licking its wounds and plotting a nasty comeback. And the come-back had the signature stealth and timing of a hungry feline.
As the tropical morning sun got hotter, the crowd of technicians got leaner as clients continued to trickle into the garage. Only a handful continued licking the mid-morning warmth, while the rest crawled into shadows cast by the town buildings with the lizards.
The usual garage din was now comfortably picking up, with the usual haggling and hustling on its way to fever pitch.
The Long Arm of the Law
Just then, I felt an all-too-soft tap on my shoulder, and my heart leaped in joy for the day’s first client. I hastily stood up and stretched my hand toward the tap for the usual African grip that signals the start of a deal. And for sure, I had a deal of the century in my hands.
The unmistakable sheen of a cop’s emblem, open stainless steel handcuffs, and the sinister smile of a duty-hardened officer stared crudely back at me.
As ignorant as I am in arithmetic, this one took me less than half a second to put together as I let the cold steel cuffs hug my poor wrists. The client I had earlier dismissed as conned and canned appeared from behind parked vehicles licking a crooked victorious smile.
My goose was marinated, cooked, and served. There was nothing the overall-clad army could say or do in the presence of the hard-eyed law enforcement officers. Just a silent, “Be a good boy and don’t try anything silly. We will check on you later”.
The walk to the police station was uneventful. Save for the usual bad-cop good-cop chat meant to get my mind off any funny ideas. The occurrence book happily took in my meager details, real and imagined charges.
Acquiring money by false pretense, talking to a client like nothing sinful had happened, and putting on a brave face in such grave circumstances. I was relieved of my weather-beaten belt, wristband, and just one shoe.
Automotive Industry Stories must have Police Involved
There were no other valuables on me worth mentioning or forfeiting. But why one shoe and not the whole pair? That was one question I wouldn’t dare ask, and I doubt any response would have come forth anyway. I was led off into the dingy police cells with the escorting officer half-smiling, half-sneering. The reception on the other end was uniquely kingly, with all the accompanying royalty.
No career journey is easy, more so in the Juakali industry. Automotive industry stories told in a raw and relatable way bring the car community together. The last part drops in a week, so get ready for more funny stuff from our mechanic.
