This is embarrassin’, muttered Tooner, flapping his arms to keep warm. “If anyone finds out it’s me under this fake beard, my reputation will be ruined.”
“Oh, quit scowling, Santa, you’ll scare the kids.” I glanced down the street where throngs of people stood waiting for the Christmas parade to begin. “Besides, a little community spirit is good for your image. It’ll smooth out some of your rough spots.”
“Those ain’t rough spots,” he retorted. “They’re character traits, an’ I’ve earned ‘em fair and square.”
Basil squirmed uncomfortably in his reindeer suit. “If you want to see rough, wait until this zipper bursts. I barely had room in here to leave my skivvies on!” Basil’s undersized costume had put a serious crimp on his usual donut intake. He was a little on the grumpy side without his daily sugar fix.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you call the costume rental store on the night before the parade – there ain’t much left to choose from.” I glared at Quigley, who was dressed like a Christmas tree as punishment for getting us into this predicament in the first place.
“Sorry, boss.” Quigley brushed some tinsel out of his eyes. “But you put me in charge of advertising, and I figured the Kids Christmas Parade would be good for our corporate image.”
Corporate image had very little appeal to me at that exact moment. You could say I was downright cool to the idea as I stamped my feet in an effort to keep warm on a blustery Saturday morning. “Why can’t they have Christmas parades in August?” I complained to no one in particular.
Right about then Beanie came running up to our float with some welcome news. “The parade marshal says we got two minutes ‘til show time. Shall I start ‘er up?”
“Hey, nice elf costume,” said Tooner. “I ‘specially like the curly slippers.”
Beanie mumbled a few choice elfish words and climbed into our tow vehicle. It was a 1996 Buick Skylark with a 3.1-liter V6, borrowed from one of our customers at the last minute, mainly because it had a trailer hitch and taillight wiring that actually worked.
Once we got started, it became clear that Tooner’s reputation as a grouch was perfectly safe; nobody paid the slightest attention to him. Instead, my costume had become the crowd favorite, and I beamed as I tossed bagfuls of candy to my adoring fans. “They love me, guys! They’re calling my name!”
Basil snickered. “I don’t believe the phrase ‘Slim’s a Grinch, Slim’s a Grinch’ would classify as a term of endearment.”
Before I could think of a comeback, everything ground to a halt. The high school band was doing an encore of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and they weren’t leaving a single day out.
“Hey, Twinkle Toes,” I hollered down from the sleigh. “Turn off the engine, will ya? We’re dying from the fumes back here.”
Beanie did as he was told, but once things got moving again, the car wouldn’t budge. It would start, run for two seconds, and then quit.
“Get it movin’, Beanie,” growled Santa, as boos and catcalls started coming from the crowd. “The natives are getting restless.”
“Get moving yourself!” our pointy-eared apprentice hollered back in desperation. “I need some help down here!”
Looking back, it must have been quite a scene to see Santa and Rudolph working frantically over a hot engine while the Grinch berated a cowering Christmas tree beside Santa’s sleigh. But the Buick was not in the holiday spirit, and finally Beanie scampered off to find a tow truck. Tooner and Basil directed traffic while Quigley sat alone at the back of the float, flashing his tree lights on and off like a traffic flare.
Finally, Dutchy pulled up in front of us with his deck truck, and as I reached in the driver’s window of the Buick to put the car in neutral, I noticed that the key had been left in the ‘On’ position. On a hunch, I tried the ignition, and to my surprise, the Buick fired up and ran like a dream. “Great,” I thought, “now we really look like fools.”
Back at the shop, everybody calmed down over some of Basil’s special eggnog. I took Beanie’s mug and refilled it. “How about checking for codes and doing a little web surfing to see what you can find, Bean.”
Half an hour later, he returned with a funny look on his face, and it wasn’t just the eggnog. “Turns out to be a common problem,” he said glumly. “The car has a history trouble code of P1629, right? Well, that’s the anti-theft system. Somehow, we’d set it off.”
Tooner scratched his itchy face. “Okay, so how come it runs now? We didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, yes, we did,” replied The Bean. “I left the key on, remember? That’s how you relearn the alarm system; you leave the key turned on for 10 minutes, until the flashing light on the dash goes out.”
Basil helped himself to more ‘nog. “I’d like to know what caused the problem in the first place.”
There were a number of possibilities, including a loose battery connection, a dirty pellet in the ignition key (cleanable with a pencil eraser), or a break in the tiny wires inside the ignition switch. In our case, it was the tiny wires that had grounded Santa and his helpers on parade day.
“That was a costly bit of community involvement,” I said later. “A free car repair – since it was donated – and Dutchy’s fee for a service call.”
“Good!” said Tooner in relief. “That means no more parades, right?”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, we’re already booked for the Valentine’s Day parade. According to Mayor Dewgood, we’re a big crowd pleaser, so he wants us back.” I pulled out my clipboard. “Now, to keep the budget down, I’ve already pre-booked our costumes. Tooner, you get to be Cupid…”
Tooner’s eyes bugged out. “But Cupid wears nothin’ but a piece of ribbon!”
“Exactly,” I replied. “And that fits my budget perfectly.”
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.
