"…AND ANOTHER THING…!"
I held the telephone receiver away from my ear. The annoying voice on the other end belonged to Beefus Rube, a long-time customer who loved nothing better than giving someone a piece of his mind that he couldn’’t afford to lose. 
In our case, no matter what type of service we performed on his old Chevy truck, Beefus always found something to complain about.
Quigley brought over a cup of black coffee “Here, Boss. This’ll keep you awake until he’s done.” He straightened some paperwork on the counter. “Pardon the pun, but what’s his beef?”
I covered the mouthpiece – not that Beefus was listening anyway. “He claims the winter tires we sold him don’t work.”
Quig’s eyebrows shot skyward. “You mean the Great Lug Snow Stompers? Those puppies can climb trees!”
“Yeah, well, that’s exactly what he tried to do. Beefus straddled a downed pine tree on a logging road and got high-centered. So now he blames the tires.”
When I recounted the incident later at coffee time, Basil just shook his head. “I don’t know why you keep him around, Slim.”
“Hey, he brings us all his business,” I protested. “That’s gotta be worth something.”
Quigley’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he cautioned. “You give him a huge discount to begin with, and if he still complains, you throw in some extra freebies!”
The boys were right. My fixation with customer satisfaction was so bad that I’d become an easy mark. “But you can’t get mad at customers,” I whined defensively. “It can ruin your reputation.”
Tooner choked on his Diet Coke. “What!” he spluttered. “You think Beefus don’t badmouth us already? Sheesh, he brags to all his buddies down at the Legion ‘bout how easy it is to scam us.” He stuffed some M&Ms into his mouth. “I agree with Basil. It’s time to toast the guy.”
Deep down I knew the guys were right. But how do you fire a customer?
As fate would have it, Beefus and I had another chance to dance before the week was out. On Thursday, his truck showed up on the hook with a busted fuel pump. I gave the job to Beanie, our junior tech, figuring that if I was going to lose money on the job anyway, at least it wasn’t on a full technician’s wage. Twisted thinking, I know, but what can I say?
Quigley looked over my shoulder as I made up the invoice. “Holy smoke, Slim!” he exclaimed when he saw how I’d priced out the parts. “The term is ‘markup’, not ‘mark down’ – you’re giving him better deals then we get as staff!”
“Quit exaggerating,” I grumbled. “Call Beefus and tell him it’s ready. I’m going on a long, long test drive.”
“What? You’re gonna make me deal with ol’ grumble pants?”
“You’re the service writer,” I reminded him. “It’s what I hired you for.”
But by 7:30 the next morning the phone was already ringing off the hook as I opened up the shop. It was Beefus and he wasn’t using his inside voice.
“SHAMBLES!” he hollered. “What kind of incompetent help do you keep there anyway? I’m trying to go huntin’, and my truck is in the middle of Main Street, deader than raccoon road kill!”
I ground my teeth to keep from screaming as I hung up the phone. All the way downtown, I had to keep reminding myself: Keep your cool, Shambles. Remember, you’re a professional!
Getting out of the service truck, I was assaulted by a wave of angry glares from Beef’s buddies, who hovered around the stalled truck like vultures in hunting gear. Beefus was waiting for me. “No fuel to the carb – again!” He wagged a stubby finger under my nose. “What kind of cheap fuel pumps are you installing these days?!”
One of the lumps of Camo grunted in agreement. “And he calls hisself a mechanic!” he muttered to his cohort.
I ignored them and turned my attention to the truck. Beefus was right – there was no fuel getting to the carb, yet I had good readings on the vacuum side of the fuel pump. As I sat in the truck with the key on, I happened to glance down at the fuel gauge. It read empty.
By the time I’d put a couple of gallons of gas in the tank and started the truck, I had made up my mind: Shambles, this has gone far enough!
Later, my staff hooted with laughter when I described my morning’s exploits. Tooner wiped the tears from his eyes. “So I expect we’ll see a nicer side of Beefus next time he comes around!”
I shook my head. “There won’t be a next time.”
Quigley stared at me. “You mean you told him off?”
“Sort of. I told him our shop was unable to meet his service expectations, and that he had my permission to take his work elsewhere.”
“Your permission!” howled Tooner. “That’s a good one! What’d he say to that?”
I shrugged. “Oh, he wasn’t too happy. Apparently he’s already worn out his welcome at all of our competitors.”
“Really?” Basil looked thoughtful. “So that’s why we got all his work. Everyone else had already told him to hit the road.”
In this business we try our best to retain our clientele. But sometimes – just sometimes – there comes a time when you just need to say goodbye.
Rick Cogbill, a freelance writer and former shop owner in Summerland, B.C., has written The Car Side for a variety of trade magazines for the past 14 years. “A Fine Day for a Drive,” his first book based on the characters from this column, is now available for order at thecarside.com.
