Customer Feedback

My car had been bothering me for a few months. The breaks made this thumping/squeaking sound, so I figured they needed work done--maybe new break pads, which is not a thing I do. In fact, I do very little to my car, except drive it. Occasionally, if I'm feeling especially handy, I'll put some air in the tires or check and add some oil.

My car's not junky, though. It's quite dependable, and I like to keep it that way. I'd been putting off taking it to the garage beacuse it makes me feel so helpless--helpless to not have a car, and even more helpless to not understand one thing about how a car runs, what mechanics need to do to make it run, and how much that shoud cost. Mechanics love schmucks like me. We pay for their kids' college funds.

There's no garage I go to regularly, mainly for the above reasons. I haven't yet found a place I trust here, like a friendly neighborhood auto shop. A few times I've taken my car to the Geminin Auto Care center, which is a mere 5 minutes' walk from my apartment. It's seductively convenient, but fishy. Once I went to pick up my car after they'd aligned the steering and, while waiting 15 minutes in the lobby for someone to assist me, saw what I assumed to be the shop manager. He was speaking loudly into his cell phone chewing out his daughter, who'd gotten into trouble at school and was, from what I could gather from his scoldings, in the principal's office. The situation made me feel uncomfortable: for me, for him, for his naughty daughter.

But I took my car there again anyway. It was a Sunday, the following day Martin Luther King Day. I dropped off my car in the late morning, and th lobby was empty except for the woman behind the counter. She was Asian and spoke with an accent I could not place. I told her I wanted the steering aligned, the brakes checked, and the tired rotated. She said they would call later to let me know if they needed to do anything special.

At home, I did regualr Sunday stuff--cooking, cleaning--and then I went on a nice, long run. The afternoon came, and no phone call. I thought of calling the garage, but figured they would get back to me soon.

They didn't. I had no special place to go, no special place I was dying to drive to, so it was not a big deal. *They* were the ones who called *me*, right? That's why I pay them, not vice versa.

At 5:45, the phone rang. It was the Asian lady. "You need to come get your car! We're closing in ten minutes," she said.

I did not care for her accusatory tone--I could have said, "If it's such a big deal, why didn't you call me before?" Instead, I said, "I'll leave right now. It's a short walk." Mr Bir Toujour walked over with me. I set the pace with brisk steps, imagining the staff waiting impatiently to lock up and go home.

A man was at the counter as we went through the door to the lobby. He was picking apart his bill with the Asian Lady. "What was this for? And this? And what was this for?" Not a good sign. The man had a little daughter with him. She sat on a stool next to the counter, playing with a motor oil display as he and the Asian Lady went back and fourth over his payment. For a kid, the lobby of an auto shop is the most boring place ever.

The squabbling went on for a few minutres. I spaced out, but just as the man and the Asian lady were coming to a head, the stool slipped and the girl fell, hittin her head on the stool. The man scooped up his daughter and the Asian lady freaked out. "Are you okay? Are you okay? Sorry! Sorry about that." The little girl took it all pretty well. I hate to see adults losing it, how that can make bad feelings feels worse.

Finally, the man and his daughter left. The Asian lady looked at me. "2000 Corolla?" she said. "Here's your bill. Steering alignment and tire rotation, so that comes to $117."

"And the brakes?" I asked. "You checked the brakes, and they were fine?"

The Asian lady blinked at me a few times. "I'm pretty sure we checked the brakes."

Mr. Bir Toujour, who had been losing his patience a bit during the exchange with the man, said "What do you mean, pretty sure? Either you did it or you didn't."

"Well," she replied, "we only have one mechanic today, and he's not very here, because today is the day his mother in the Philippines died. She's been very far away. He is excited. His mind is in another place." I couldn't quite get it all because of the Asian Lady's accent, but it sounded pretty tragic.

What are you supposed to say to that? Mr. Bir Toujour knew. "Then he shouldn't be working. We brought the car in to have the brakes checked, and we want t know if they were."

Mr. Bir Toujour's insensitivity embarassed me. This guy's mother died, and he had to come to work that same day? I put my hand on Mr. Bir Toujour's arm. "Hey!" I said. "Come one, now."

But he didn't look at me. He kept on with the Asian lady. "We don't care about your mechanics' personal lives. Just tell us if thre brakes were checked or not." By that point, I felt like the answer was pretty clear.

"I'll get the mechanic to go ask him," she said, and then she went off to the back. She'll get the mechanic to ask him? I'd thought she said there was only one mechanic working. Nothing made sense.

A few long minutes (filled with Mr. Bir Toujour swearing and me trying to hush him) later, a tall, burly mechanic came out with the Asian lady. "Yeah, he checked your brakes," he said.

"And there's nothing wrong with them?" I asked. "Because that's the main reason I brought the car in. The breaks have been making squeaking sounds, especially the right read one."

"I'm almost positive that he checked the breaks," he said. That he used the word "almost" convinced me that no, he did not know. "Look, bring your car in first thing tomorrow and we'll look at it then."

"Okay," I mumbled. The Asian lady rang up the work on my credit card, and Mr. Bir Toujour and I walked out the door.

"Are you going to bring the car back in tomorrow?" he asked.

"Hell no," I said. "That's why I brought it in today--so I wouldn't have to tomorrow."

"I can't believe that crap about the bride in the Philippines."

"What?" I said. "Bride? I thought she said the mechanic's mother died?"

"No, no," Mr. Bir Toujour said. "She said that he was doing a shitty job because today his bride is flying in, and he's been waiting for three years." What, like a mail order bride? I felt bad for getting mad at Mr. Bir Toujour for getting mad.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," I said. Then I pulled my car out of the parking lot, and the breaks squeaked.

"You should write them an angry letter," Mr. Bir Toujour said. He's sent many an angry letter in the past, and they usually contain lots of phrases like "fucking idiot" and "total moron shithead."

"I'm not sure if it will make any difference. You see how inept they are. I'm not going to that garage ever again, and that's my customer feedback. "

But it wasn't. A few days ago, Mr. Bir Toujour and I went for a walk up Albany Hill. On the way back, we stopped at the drugstore so I could buy some dandruff shampoo. We walked home along San Pablo Avenue. "Look," he said,"it's your favorite auto shop." It was after 7pm, and the shop was closed.

There it was--Gemini Auto Care, a place I walk and drive by all of the time. Why was it suddenly pissing me off so much? Why did I right then feel the need to clear out my throat? I ran over and hocked a big fat loogie all over the plate glass of their front door. "There," I said. "That's my customer feedback."