Yesterday morning I got a call from my mechanic. As he didn’t have my car, I was curious. It turned out one of his guys had inadvertently left an air compressor in the trunk of my old Volvo earlier in the week, when they were doing some work. I guess it took them a few days to figure out where the compressor had gotten to. (As I never once heard it roll around, I didn’t suspect its presence.)

 

I started going to this particular auto shop about a jillion years ago – on the advice of my dearly departed friend, Chili Gene. At that time, my car was lovingly cared for by my current mechanic’s brother. When that dude retired, I was devastated. Who would I trust to tend to my car? Would I have to go through finding a new-to-me mechanic? As it turned out, the retired mechanic’s brother stepped in and more than ably worked on my ride. Before I knew it, I loved the guy.

 

There are a lot of reasons I love my mechanic. He has talked me down from a crying jag, after I messed up something on Mister’s car and turned to him for advice. I remember how he told me to let him take a look at it, and to maybe go and sit for a bit. After only a few minutes, he returned and told me he’d taken care of the problem. And then he refused to let me pay him. I won’t lie – that only caused me to cry more.

 

He’s given me more rides than I can count, on the occasions that found me unexpectedly having to leave my car for repair, with no way home.

 

He never overcharges me. I’m not a mechanic, but I’m still certain of this point. And he’s always honest.

 

Often, he’ll ask me about life. In those conversations, I answer honestly, regardless of whether the day is good or bad. And he usually responds with something along the lines of, “Kiddo – there’s just no point in being miserable. You’re gonna get through this one way or another. Might as well do it being happy.”

 

I love that he calls me “Kiddo.” And it makes me laugh, too, as he’s probably only 10 years older than me – at the most. But to him, I’m “Kiddo.” And to me, that’s just fine.

 

After my mechanic called and told me about the air compressor, I volunteered to drive it over to his shop so that he wouldn’t have to trek to me. He’s a good guy, and I was planning on running around town anyway. Besides, it seemed like the right thing to do. A good mechanic is hard to find, and worth hanging on to.

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