Hey Slim, how ’bout another smokie?” I brushed some crumbs off my shirt. “Easy there, Herk. I’m still chewing on my last one.” 
The venerable owner of Herkle’s Auto Parts raised the lid on the barbeque, releasing an aromatic cloud of smoke. “You know me; service is my middle name.” He reached for the BBQ sauce. “And don’t run off. I just sent Samantha to find you another cool one.”
Dave, the counterman from Nichols Tire, staggered up with a heavy cooler. “Here’s the steaks, Herk,” he gasped. “Want me to flip for a while?”
“Naw, I got ’er. Say, how ’bout a game of cards and a beer while they cook?”
Nearby, Tooner was having a discussion with young Jimmy C, the top technician at the local GM dealership. “Jimmy, I got some questions ’bout them Duramax diesels. Ya got any pointers for an old coot like me?”
“Sure thing,” replied Jimmy cheerfully. “Why don’t you come by Monday after work and I’ll show you some tricks. Say, is it true you know how to work on carburetors?”
Tooner took a long pull on his drink and belched contentedly. “You might say me and Quadrajets got a little history.”
“That’s awesome! I got this old 1970 GTO at home that just won’t idle…”
Right then Sam caught up with me and my empty glass. “A diet Mountain Dew with a hint of fresh-squeezed lime!” She held up a frosty mug. “Did I get it right?”
“Perfect,” I said, swapping mugs. “Say, did I hear you and Beanie are going steady now?”
Sam blushed furiously. “Well, he did give me this.” She showed me a shiny bracelet made of chrome piston rings. “I just love a man in coveralls!”
As she hurried away, I took a look around at the crowd gathered in the park and sighed contentedly. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, the perfect setting for the Slim Shambles’ First Annual Repairman’s Picnic. Anyone in the Hollownoggin Valley who had anything to do with vehicles was there, including car dealer techs and independent shops.
Under a big oak tree, techs were swapping stories. Basil was sitting next to Spoke Lee, owner of The Alignment Shop. “Hey, Basil,” said Spoke. “One of your customers came by for an alignment the other day.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Basil, swirling his glass of red wine. “I told her you were the best alignment person around.”
“Thanks,” said Spoke. “I noticed she had an oil leak after getting her car serviced at your shop. I just replaced it no charge. I told her it could happen to anyone.”
Basil raised his glass in salute. “Much obliged, buddy. Just send us a bill for your time.”
Spoke waved him off. “Forget it. I know you’d do the same for me.”
Dutchy, the tow service operator, was holding court at a nearby picnic table. His audience included Dickie Dickson, owner of the local used car lot. “Ja,” growled Dutchy, chewing on his ever-present cigarillo. “I’ll tell you what, Dickie; if one of your used cars breaks down within the first six months, just call me. It’ll only cost you 10 bucks, no matter how far out of town it is.”
Dickie slammed a beefy hand down on the table. “Dutchy, you’re a gentleman and a scholar. Make it $15 and it’s a deal.”
I smiled and sipped my Mountain Dew. This was life as it should be – automotive service providers cooperating and working together instead of competing against each other. It was almost more than I could hope for.
Over on the grass, our two local tool dealers, Big Stan and Mad Max, were cheering loudly for a bunch of tire techs engrossed in a game of cornhole. The grand prize was a roll cab from Big Stan’s Tool Van filled with Mad Max tools. From what I could see, the guys from Humphrey’s Tire were in the lead.
Suddenly a large hand slapped me on the back, knocking the wind right out of me. “Slim Shambles! Why, I’ve been looking all over for you. How are you, son?”
I gasped for breath. “G-great, Louis. How’re things at the bank?”
“Splendid, lad; just splendid.” He nipped the end off a large cigar and pulled out his monogrammed lighter. “This event you’ve organized is a smashing success. It reflects brilliantly on the way in which you conduct your own business affairs.” He blew out a great cloud of expensive smoke and smiled. “I always had faith in you, Shambles. And to prove it, I’m going to double your line of credit, and lower the interest rate. Stop by and we’ll sign the papers!”
As I struggled to take that in, cheers from the parking lot told me that the poker run had just finished. The drivers were some of our regular customers. Buck Pincher’s eyeballs nearly popped out when I handed him the winner’s check for $500. But then he sighed and gave it back.
“Keep it, Slim. You’ve given me such great service over the years that I wanna give something back. Tell you what; throw the biggest Christmas party your guys have ever seen and tell ’em it’s on me.”
The next thing I knew, Basil was standing over me. “Wake up, Slim, wake up. You must be dreaming.”
“Yeah, I know,” I gasped. “Buck’s never that free with money!”
Basil cleared his throat and shook me again. “No, I mean really dreaming. It’s time to wake up and let me use the creeper for a while.”
Embarrassed, I rolled out from under the truck I’d been inspecting and sat up. Basil was right; it had all been a dream. I looked up at him in disappointment. “Does that mean there’s no picnic this weekend?”
Basil stared at me. “Uh, not that I know of.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea…”
Suddenly it hit me – it was a good idea. I headed for the office. With a little help from my automotive colleagues, we could turn an old tireman’s dream into a reality.
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 15 years. “A Fine Day for a Drive,” his first book based on the characters from this column, is now available for order at www.thecarside.com.
