Basil is not known for blowing his own horn, but when a simple repair degenerates into an overhaul from hell, the soothing tones emanating from the lunchroom let the rest of us know that somebody is undergoing musical therapy. Basil calls it musical yin-yang.
“So how long you been playing the clarinet, Basil?”
“Yeah,” said Beanie. “You’re pretty good. Can you shred like Julian Bliss on YouTube?”
Our head technician frowned as he polished his precision instrument with a soft clean rag. He’d had a rough morning with a power steering leak that wouldn’t quit.
“Beanie, ‘shred’ is a vulgar term that refers to guitar players with either ADHD or an illegal drug habit.” Basil removed the reed from his clarinet and stowed it in its case. “My preferred style of music is that of Benny Goodman or Artie Shaw. Good music should relax the soul, not deep-fry the brain.”
Tooner scratched his nose. “Yup. Like my harmonica. Easy to carry around, an’ they last forever as long as ya knock the spit outta them.”
At our request, Basil gave us a little concert of Christmas carols over lunch hour. It was so relaxing that it put me to sleep.
“Slim!” Quigley shook my shoulder for the second time. “Wake up! Sylvia’s back with her SUV…and she’s not too happy.”
Rubbing my eyes, I made my way up front. “Hello, Sylvia. Is your Explorer still giving you troubles?” This was the third time she’d been in for the same problem, and the dark look she gave me suggested more than too much eye shadow.
“Slim, you guys may think I’m crazy,” she began, firmly tapping her foot. “But we’ve got to get to the bottom of this. I’ve just volunteered to drive for a school band trip, and if I can’t be sure of my vehicle in this winter weather, then I’ll have to cancel.”
I could understand her frustration. At certain times, all the warning lights on her dash would flash on and off like a pinball machine on steroids. The unique part about it was that the problem only occurred on Wednesday afternoons at 4 p.m., exactly when she picked up the kids from school. “I also pick them up on Mondays and Fridays,” she had told us, “but the problem never happens then.”
I raised my hands. “Okay, let’s calm down. The next time you’re driving by with the kids in the car, why don’t you stop in and we’ll go for a test drive…”
Sylvia slammed the keys on the counter. “Hop in, buster,” she hissed. “The rug rats are locked and loaded, and raring to go.”
I gulped. We needed our calmest man on the job, so I quickly handed the job over to Basil.
But an extended drive around town failed to recreate the problem. When Basil returned, he was a tad frayed. “That woman won’t leave it alone, Slim!
I went over every rut and pothole, tried every speed bump in town – everything I could think of. But that Explorer will not act up.”
He lowered his voice and tapped the side of his head with a stubby finger. “Someone has to tell her it’s all up here.” He patted me on the shoulder. “And since you’re the boss…”
Obviously that was not going to happen. Instead, I loaned Sylvia my personal vehicle on a temporary basis. Then I began to give orders. “Okay, Beanie, surf those help for-ums for anything about 2006 Ford Explorers with intermittent electrical issues. Quigley, warm up that new espresso machine and whip up one of your specials.” (Quigley had been moonlighting on weekends at the local coffee bar. His latte artwork was now the envy of the local shops. I liked his impact gun design the best.)
But in the end it was Tooner who came up with the right brainwave. “How ‘bout visitin’ the scene of the crime?” he said, wiping down his har-monica on his coverall sleeve.
Basil rubbed his aching forehead. “Tooner, I’ve driven through that school yard at least a dozen times.”
“Yeah. But have ya gone there exactly at 4 p.m. on Wednesdays?”
Basil blinked. “Can’t say as I have…”
So on Wednesday afternoon, Basil sat in the Explorer with the heater going full blast as Sylvia’s kids exited the main school doors. First came Cindy with her gymnastics bag. Next was Barry with all his floor hockey gear. Finally, Johnny staggered out from Wednesday afternoon band class hauling a tuba case that was bigger than he was. Basil got out and opened the tailgate of the Explorer. Johnny’s tuba went in first because that was the only way it would fit. With some effort, they managed to cram the rest of the gear inside behind it, and then slam the tailgate closed.
After leveraging himself back into the driver’s seat, Basil checked his mirrors and put the SUV into gear. The moment he hit the first speed bump, however, all the dash lights began flashing like Morse code, and all the kids began chanting in unison. “See, see! Mom was right! Mom was right!”
After unloading the kids at their home, Basil came back to the shop and pulled inside so that he could investigate further. What he discovered was that a main wiring harness under the cargo area carpeting had been moved out of place during a previous repair job. The tight-fitting tuba case was causing it to short out against a pinch weld, therefore pulling down the entire signal system on the buss line. Once the wires were reinsulated and put back into their proper location, the intermittent electrical problem was solved.
Later I found Basil in the lunch-room, inspecting Johnny’s tuba and testing its brass keys. Putting it to his lips, he belted out a blast so powerful that it blew three fan belts off the wall.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed after my ears stopped ringing. “That’s a pretty big departure from your usual musical style.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “But I have to admit, it did wonders for my soul!”
