A Mechanic by Any Other Name

This is a story about the ups and downs of the acquisition of Vinnie, which has been like driving a mountain pass with sheer peaks and a deep valley. Its characters are six—three mechanics; two women, yours truly and Vinnie’s previous human; and, of course, Vinne, aka a van thus far called Vincent van Gogh. 

I suppose, there’s also a smaller, a little longer in the gear, ruby-colored van in the background. She, recipient of last week’s “Dear Ruby,” has watched this all unfold, clucking and sputtering under bated breath. Do you think it’s possible she knew, before I did, having watched my change in health status, it was time to move on?

I. The First Mechanic

The first mechanic was selected by me. With Vinnie being the largest purchase I’ve ever made, I didn’t want to skimp on the pre-purchase inspection. So when the third auto shop I called said they didn’t inspect Sprinters or diesel engines either but recommended this particular shop, I made an appointment, only slightly balking at the high price tag. Double what I’ve paid for any other inspection. Worth not taking a gamble on a purchase of this (for me) magnitude.

The other woman, a gem of a human with strawberry freckles, drove Vinnie in for the appointment. We shared lunch and swapped stories and felt an instant rapport. Then the first mechanic gave us both his assessment. The list of recommended and suggested repairs was relatively small. One item, “transmission service needed,” the first mechanic recommended against. His explanation went like this: He couldn’t know if such a service had been done prior to Vinnie joining up with the freckled woman. If the service has never been done, doing it this late in a van’s life can actually cause major problems.  

True to her word and following that advice, Vinnie’s human agreed to get all the items on the list, except the transmission service, done at a mechanic of her choosing. So you see, the second mechanic waits in the wings.

II. The Second Mechanic

A week later, financing secured, list checked off, we two women met once more. Shortly after, I waved goodbye from the driver seat of Vinnie the van, title in hand.

Not far down the road, I found myself wonder why everyone around me was being a total ass. Specifically, other drivers were acting like I hadn’t put on my blinker. Oh.

I got off at the next exit, flipped the left blinker, and dropped to the pavement far below the driver seat. Sure enough, no left blinker was flashing at Vinnie’s tail.

The second mechanic answered the phone after the third ring. I explained who I was and, in a tone expressing my surprise, noted the absence of a flashing indicator light.

“Correct,” he responded.

“Say more,” I prompted.

The second mechanic explained that he’d written “it” on the invoice—it being that the rear taillight was in need of a part called a lamp holder, which he didn’t have in stock. He could order it for $75, install it for $140. He sighed, exasperated. “No one reads the invoice.”

Then why didn’t you say it with your words? 

I hung up. It was after 4 pm. Light was fading, and I had a distance to go.

There followed a series of calls to Sprinter mechanics with wildly different quotes both for both part and for the service. The earliest any could get to it was Monday, four days away. With heavy Seattle traffic, I was nearly two hours from my sister’s, where Ruby awaited for me to return and move “house,” from her to Vinnie. One parts guy, given my predicament, recommended a friend at a different shop.

The outgoing message at The Sprinter Shop was probably the loveliest I’ve heard from an establishment of any sort. The shop closed at 5, now half an hour away. I left a detailed message and returned to my calls.

At 5, I gave up. I’d use my arm to signal, make it back to my sister’s not too long after dark, and deal with it in the morning. My phone rang just as I started backing up.

III. Ken

Ken was as warm and joyful as his his daughter, who had assured me it was not a problem that I was 40 minutes away, and they were closed: “We can’t have you out there with no light in the dark.” So was his sweet boy, a long-haired shepherd mix, who sized me up and then gave me the dog hug, that wondrous trusting lean, and accepted caresses as Ken and I talked. 

Ten minutes after my arrival, Ken ascertained that no lamp holder was needed, just a bulb. After installing one, he spent 45 minutes going over the basics of a diesel engine and its care while surveying everything under the hood—only after pausing to make sure he wasn’t “mansplaining.” I assured him he was explaining. This was the first diesel I’d owned. And I appreciated both the information and the question very much.

We exchanged a Rolling Desk sticker for his card. Then refusing payment, he told me to FaceTime him any time I was on the road and got a quote from a mechanic that seemed at all off.

When Ruby met Vinnie

Voila! Act 3 closed. The end.

I wish.

The story, of course, doesn’t end here. For one thing, wouldn’t you have some questions if I’d set you up for a deep valley, and the blinker was it? And don’t we need a coda? And isn’t this a beginning?

Back at my sister’s, I parked Vinnie side by side with Ruby, dwarfing her, and started the move-in process. I discovered a perk I’d somehow missed. Heated floors! My toes flexed in anticipation.

I also noticed something unsettling, once and then twice more, during the various times I shuffled Vinnie around to give my sis and her family access to their driveway. Sometimes, I’d push the gas, only to have nothing happen. Getting the van to inch either forward or backward required stepping on the gas and pushing to over 3,000 RMPs, gears seemingly spinning. “What’s the matter, V?” I cooed.

“Sounds like it needs a transmission service,” Ken said when I got him on the phone.

Yes, he’d heard the spiel the first mechanic gave us about not doing the service. But no, it wasn’t a line a mechanic should be perpetuating. If something goes wrong after a transmission service, it’s not the service that caused it but, rather, the fact services haven’t been done as they should, and it was going wrong either way. He’d take a look first thing Monday morning.

---

I don’t need to tell you it’s been a long weekend. There’s a whole lot to wish for and send love to in the world these days. I know. But if you have any spare love, please send it to Vinnie as we cross my fingers and Vinnie’s wheels for tomorrow morning, hoping it’s just a transmission service that’s needed.

And shout out to Ken of the Sprinter Shop in Lakewood, Washington. I can’t think of anything the world needs more right about now than humans who look out for one another just because.

I’m adding this to the Rolling Desk’s kindnesses of stranger’s collection. Have a story you want to add and be featured on this desk? Hit me up to submit your piece.

---

Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting! I realized composing this I don’t typically share stuff in such real time—preferring to wait and process till I’m ready to spin events or moments into essays or stories.

I’d love to share this ode to Ken and small businesses and humans who help each other out as far as I can. Pretty please, restack “A Mechanic by Any Other Name” (press the little recycle button) or share it with a link! Or, if you’re a Substack writer, please consider recommending the Rolling Desk.

For the comments: What’s the moral of this story? For me, it’s two-fold: Seek ought small businesses like Ken’s. Keep having each other’s backs. We’re all we’ve got. Do you think sometimes things happen for a reason, like the burned-out bulb was meant to take me to Ken? Want to share your peaks and valleys this week?

---

Never miss a post! Escape to gorgeous landscapes. Collect the kindnesses of strangers. Contemplate disparate connections. Get lost in lyrical prose.

Paid subscriptions keep this desk rolling.

Subscribe

— Wanna support this desk and the work it takes to show up weekly but prefer not to take out a paid subscription? You can tip Vinnie and me any amount you choose: