The Car Service

I get a text from Gerry. Gerry owns the garage I’ve been taking my car to forever. ‘Dear Loyal Customer’ it begins. Long story short, Gerry’s lease hasn’t been renewed.

His garage is being demolished to make way for a homeless shelter. A much-needed facility that will house young families, Gerry says. Lives will be transformed, he says. Think of the children.

I’m thinking about my car. How will I get a service, Gerry?

He’s getting to that bit.

He’s reopening at a site outside town. He looks forward to receiving loyal customers there. A warm welcome is assured.

Warm welcomes are good. I’m all in favour. But out of town is out of town. If I leave my car with Gerry now, I’ll need to jump on a bus or bounce into a taxi to get back to the city. Then I’ll have to jump on a bus or bounce into a taxi to collect my car.

That’s a lot of jumping and bouncing for a man in his sixties.

Gerry does a good job for a fair price. Also, he never makes me feel stupid for knowing nothing about cars. But all that jumping and bouncing!

Sorry, Gerry, but we have to stop seeing each other.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I delete his contact details from my phone.

Annual Inspection

I need a new garage quickly. My annual vehicle inspection test is fast approaching.

I book the car into the dealership I got it from six or seven years ago.

The dealership is notoriously expensive. But I choose their most basic service package. I’ll also resist the dealership’s attempts to upsell me anything else.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Come the day, I park the car and head to reception to drop off the keys. But you don’t simply drop keys off at the dealership. I’m told to take a seat in the plush showroom. My Customer Liaison Officer will be with me shortly.

I sit in a comfy seat, drinking coffee and watching TV.

You don’t get this at Gerry’s.

Ten minutes later, a young man clutching a clipboard looms over me. He’s a huge bear of a fella. His blue suit looks far too tight on him.

“I’m Josh,” he says in a big booming voice.

“Hi, Josh,” I reply in what sounds to me like a small, weedy register.

The Service

Josh tells me what’s going to happen. What’s going to happen is that top-notch mechanics will carry out the service I’ve requested. Additionally, and free of charge, Josh shouts, the top notchers will check my vehicle for anything else that needs fixing.

Josh will ring me to see if I want these faults corrected along with the service.

He could have my answer now, but I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the comfy seat and coffee.

About an hour, says Josh, taking the keys.

The Café

I go to a nearby café to wait. I order an Americano.

A barista asks my name and stands, pen poised, ready to write it on the cup. I look around. There’s no one in the shop except for me and the three baristas, but hey. Just a man doing his job.

I say my name. He asks me to repeat it. I repeat it. He asks me to spell it. I spell it. The barista writes ‘Barnden’ and smiles at me. Job done.

I choose a table near the counter and pull out a chair. I sit down and open my phone.

Time slips by. At some point, I realise I still haven’t got my coffee.

I look around. The three baristas are standing chatting, arms folded. In front of them, a coffee sits on the counter. I’m pretty sure no one shouted, “Barnden!”

I think about saying something. Just in time, I remember I’m the Coward of the County who avoids confrontation. I meekly pick up my tepid coffee and sit back down.

The Checks

I continue scrolling. Then Josh phones. The service has been completed. The top notchers have finished their checks. Josh gives me the results.

“You’ve got to replace your front and rear wiper blades,” he booms.

Yeah, but not today, Josh.

“Your rear brake pads are worn,” he continues. “They’ll need replacing soon.”

I hear you. Soon, definitely.

There are a couple of other things, but I’ve tuned out.

Then he gets my attention. “You’ve got to play in the council bushes.”

Is Josh’s too-tight suit constricting the blood flow to his brain?

“Can you repeat that, please?” I ask.

“There’s some play in the council bushes,” Josh says. Slightly different, but I’m still baffled.

“Sorry, Josh,” I say, “But I don’t understand. What do you mean, council bushes?”

Josh lets out a huge laugh that has birds flying out of trees across the street.

“Not council. Console. CON-SOLE!” He continues chuckling for what seems like ages.

Gerry never chuckled at me.

When he stops laughing, he explains. It’s a suspension problem.

He tells me the top notchers are standing by spanners in hand, ready to fix these faults. And they’ll do the work at a knockdown price, Josh says.

He tells me the knockdown price.

The knockdown price is double what I’ve paid Gerry in total over the last ten years. If I accept the knockdown price, my wife will be shelving her retirement plans for the foreseeable future.

I tell Josh thanks, but no thanks.

I sit back down to finish my coffee. I search on my phone for ways to retrieve deleted contact details.

Then I jump up from the table and bounce out the door.

If Gerry and I are getting back together, I need to start training.