“No, the rear discs from your ’87 Firebird won’t bolt onto the hubs of your CJ-5.”
“Take the neon tubes out of your pant leg and stop trying to steal stuff!”
Oh, the seventh circle of hell is truly found within the doors of Autoplace (name changed to protect my sorry butt). This store, plunked as it was on the outskirts of Tinytown, served a population of two tribes: the white trash and the British car enthusiasts. The worst part about the Brit-car drivers was that they would 1) need the most obscure parts for their restorations, such as a 7mm hard brake line that gently flares out to fit a 9mm union at one end (and yes, we carried it), and 2) were perpetually lounging in the store with their elbows on the counter, telling the least probable stories that I’ve ever heard.
For instance, I once heard two tales of heroic driving and near-death experiences involving a Triumph TR-3 and a Corvette C5 Z-06 dueling on a twisty local road, with the Triumph taking the lead at the end by the tightest margin. While I don’t doubt the ability of a well driven TR-3 to beat a C5 around a tight course, I do doubt the ability of that particular TR-3, namely because I saw it barely run once, and it was in no shape to race a Huffy, much less a C5. That, and the second time I heard the story, the owner claimed to have lost to the Corvette because of a school bus coming up with road in the opposite lane and cutting off his last passing opportunity. Can’t splatter the kiddies over the countryside, don’tcha know.
Well, you can. But you probably shouldn’t.
The worst part about our white trash customers, on the other hand, was that they existed at all. These folks ranged from the merely stupid (which is aggravating but understandable) to the downright abusive. My first day on the job, actually, involved one fat old bastard buying new chrome lug nuts for his Pontiac Bonneville, cross-threading them, and then coming back into the store to holler at everyone working there for ruining his wheel studs.
And then there was the man who, having discovered a pinhole leak in his forward brake lines, pinched them off and drove eight miles to the Autoplace with only the rear drums on his pickup truck working.
Or the man who, as mentioned above, wanted to swap the rear discs from his Firebird to the front hubs of his CJ-5. When I looked up the parts (not that I needed to) and informed him that they wouldn't fit, he then inquired as to whether he could drill new holes in the discs to fit the bolt pattern on the Jeep, to which I replied that no, it would be dangerous without the proper tools. He showed up the following Monday evening with a need for a new rear disc, because he tried drilling anyway and ruined the disc and bored through the meat of his thumb. Which he showed us.
Other people were far more entertaining, the college students especially. Parents, if you’re going to go to the trouble of getting your kid into a premier Ivy League school, and the expense of buying them a brand new car, puh-leeeese spend five minutes teaching them how to take care of their machine. Or your son or daughter might end up being the source of limitless blogging material.
For instance: One Saturday morning we heard a Civic with the most awful rod knock come banging into the parking lot. I went out to investigate, being the helpful sort (she was cute). Our conversation went something like this.
Civic Driver: “I think there’s something wrong with my car.”
Retaxis: “Yeah, I could tell. Has it been making that noise for long?”
CD: “A couple of days.”
R: “When was the last time you had the oil changed?”
CD: (Shrugs) “The light on the dashboard has been on for a while. My boyfriend says it’s the oil light.”
R: “And how long has the idiot light been on?”
CD: “Four weeks.”
Folks, welcome to my world. This one event stuck in my memory because (she was cute) Eric and I got chewed out by the manager for laughing so hard in the parking lot that we cried, and Eric sat down in a puddle of antifreeze. Poor Civic Driver got an education on engine lubrication, after which she called her father and asked him to pay $4000 for a new engine.
Teach your kids. You get to spend time with them, and it’s cheaper in the end.
It wasn’t just the lady students who caught severe cases of ignorance from their parents. We had our fair share of entitled young turks come through to display their various boneheaded moments in the parking lot.
One Ivy League freshman in his brand new M3 showed up asking for “performance” spark plugs. Which I sold him, for $8.99 each. I figured (wrongly) that he would be happy with his newly released fifty horses, and that there was no way to screw up a spark plug change. Thirty seconds after returning the spark plug wrench, though, this freshman got in his brand new, gift-from-daddy-for-quitting-cocaine BMW M3, started the car, and immediately revved it to the redline. At which point the number 2 cylinder spark plug, which he had neglected to tighten, divorced itself from the cylinder head at high speed and artfully dented the lovely aluminum hood.
I recommended a good BMW repair shop, and found him the number in the phone book.
The more observant employees of Autoplace also caught shoplifters from time to time. While baggy pants are great for holding all your loot, I do tend to notice if you walk into the store without a problem, and then walk out again dragging your pin-straight leg. Yes, those neon tubes that you can stick under your car are cool, and if you really want to you can shove them down your pant leg. But I would appreciate it if you paid for them
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