Call it a day

 

 

Like the giant pinwheel of fun that is my life, my dreams seem to revolve around a central theme. This circular expenditure of energy, this blustery display of frivolity that is me, fueled by the frustration and guilt of unkept responsibilities, always revolves around the same fixed point of obsession. Round and round and round she goes, where she'll stop -- you guessed it -- Yuba City Honda.

I was back to work again, if you could call it that. By work, I mean wandering around, zombielike, getting jobs dispatched to me, and making feeble attempts to fix cars with muscle memory alone. The dealership itself had fallen into a dystopian state of disrepair reminiscent of a scene from The Walking Dead. Hundreds of cars, seemingly abandoned, in various stages of disassembly and decay, were parked haphazardly in what would likely become their final resting place.

Raymond from Bible Study was a service writer, the perfect replacement for Randy, the previous alcoholic scam artist. Raymond was spun out on speed, and he kept handing me new work orders before I could even get started on the previous ones. I was Lucy in the chocolate factory, unable to keep up with the flow of shit jobs that were being dispatched to me.

"Here ya go, brother," he said maniacally. "Timing belt. 2001 Civic. Gravy. You're welcome."

It wasn't gravy. It was shit. The car was a wreck, an overheater, a head gasket case, most likely. I started it up to move it from the parking lot, and smoke started billowing out from under the hood as the gauge climbed into the red. I shut it off and went on to the next car.

This one was decidedly worse. It was an Accord, or it had been, I supposed. I could only find bits and pieces of it strewn along the side of a wooden storage shed which was in a similar state of decomposition. Rotten boards and fossilized car parts intermingled in a muddy, overgrown thicket of weeds. I put a pin in this one as well and tried to move on to my next job.

I was looking at an Odyssey minivan with an obvious transmission problem, and making a note to order the parts for it, when Raymond accosted me again.

"How's the Civic comin' along?" he asked, his eyes brimming with meth induced mania as he handed me a couple more work orders. "For later. Put 'em in your back pocket. Oh, but this one's a waiter," he said, pointing to the white Civic.

"It's going to need more than a timing belt, Raymond," I said. "I'll have to make you a list."

"What about the Accord?" he prodded. "That one's been here the longest."

I wondered about the customers, if they, like the car slowly merging with the earth in the ruins of the decaying storage building, were themselves becoming human petroglyphs, their mummified remains long since scattered to the wind, leaving only the ghostly, Hiroshima-like image of an elderly couple etched into the couch in the service department waiting area. 

My sense of urgency increased, and I kept shuttling back and forth between jobs, with Raymond handing me "just this one more quick one, brother" in between transits. My own head gasket was about to blow as the pressure built up in my brain.

I stopped to take a pee break, but there was a huge line at the bathroom door. I'd never seen this level of activity in the dealership. Everywhere things were bustling, but no one was getting anything done. Even peeing was problematic.

I went to use the customer bathroom in the service department and found that it had been turned into a display area with plate glass windows instead of walls. The displays had fallen into disrepair, and the corners of the white linoleum floor had a dingy, oily film of urine and hair. 

"Don't sweat it," Reggie said, as I nudged past him. "People still use this as a urinal." 

I relieved myself and went back to my work. And by work, I mean walking around like a chicken with no head, flailing at this, flapping at that and accomplishing nothing. I wondered if anyone else had the same sense of futility, or if they had settled into this routine of ineptitude as their inevitable lot in life. Punch in, get overloaded with work they could never accomplish, punch out, repeat. 

I looked down at my shoes. They were the new ones I'd just bought for casual wear, and they were already filthy with oil, mud and transmission fluid...and a little bit of urine. I put my workboots on over them and decided to call it a day.

A customer, a black lady with an oversize shopping bag, beamed at me, "That's some neat trick."

I had to admit, it surprised me how well they fit. I took the litter-strewn conveyor belt walkway, whatever you call it, and exited the building. I guess I was done for the day. I have the sneaking suspicion, however, that I will be returning before long. As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.