It takes less time to get pregnant and deliver the baby than it does for car transmissions to be rebuilt. By the time I got my car back, my future grandkids outgrew their car seats.
*Note: I
am not talking about the eons it took for the work to be done. I am referring to the day I picked up
my vehicle.
Peter,
my short transmission man, looked up at me soulfully and apologized for the
ski-season that I was car-less.
Then he handed me the bill.
I did
not sense that Peter received much training in consumer relations. Or in women who know Tae Kwon Do. And until I saw my bill, I had not
sensed that my vocabulary contained so many alternatives for my transmission
man’s first name. Of course, I am
an English teacher.
Peter
was surprised that I did not happily relinquish all of my male offspring, my
diamond, and the deed to our house as a down payment on this bill. In fact, he seemed surprised I had not
anticipated the infinite range a transmission bill can encompass.
“You
must recognize,” Peter insisted, “all of the man hours it takes to rebuild a
transmission. Not to mention all
the parts. There are hundreds and
thousands of parts. There are
rings, gaskets, dozens of separate clutches with their own modulating flow
valves and agitation torque compressors.
There are 100 bands, 12 converters, 60 barking seals – you look
pale. Would you like a donut?”
Peter
decided it would be helpful if I were permitted to watch a broken transmission
being disassembled before my eyes – that I may gaze upon ten thousand parts,
smell the burnt clutches, fathom the complexity of unmodulating a single
compressed torque.
“I’ll
take that donut now.”
“Well,
just a second. Come take a look at
this. You see this smoking seal?”
“Look, I
wouldn’t recognize a drinking walrus.
I want to go home, Dick.”
“It’s
Peter.”
“Please
give me my keys and my donut.”
“But you
haven’t paid your bill and I want you to feel comfortable about the work we’ve
done for you.”
“Just so I’ll pay my bill? Will I get my donut if I pay my bill,
Richard?”
“It’s
Peter and I am shocked that you think I am interested only in your money. I
want you to be happy. We here at Speedy Shifts are committed to your
happiness. Happy customers make us happy and—”
Peter
was relentless. He got out a new Maserati gasket and held it next to a
Mitsubishi O-Ring explaining how much more expensive they were than my
transmission parts.
Then he
brought me invoices. Exactly 896 of them
from last week alone, for satisfied customers who understood the transmission
business… enough to pay their bills without trying to die from boredom and
hunger… next to a floor display of Japanese bi-valves (which looked especially
delicious).
As I
licked the filling from an empty donut box, Peter was droning on about
Hyperbaric Pressure and an Extended Warranty.
Well. I’d had enough of his
linguistics.
I tossed
that box aside and met Peter’s gaze.
“Peter. I’ll see your
Hyperbaric Pressure AND the Extended Warranty and I’ll raise you TWO Hyperbole
Climactic Tension Devices and an Extended METAPHOR.”
Peter
smiled. “Who are you?”
“Why, no
one, Peter. Just a transmission
consumer.”
“Sure
you are.” His eyes held mine for
several seconds. Then he sighed. “Okay, Carolyn. May I call you that? How about we credit your account
the first 500 bucks? Call it
‘professional courtesy.’ Then I’ll
take you to the International Pancake House and buy you a real breakfast.”
“Quickly, Peter. Hand me my
keys. I’ll road-test us there at
once.”
You gotta know how to talk to these guys.
