The Mechanic and
the Babe
by Don Drewniak
My wife and I
moved from Texas to Fenwick Island in
southeastern Delaware some years ago. Our new
home was three kilometers removed from Atlantic
Ocean beaches and the summer resort of Ocean City,
Maryland.
I had a ’99
Nissan Pathfinder with 186,000 miles on it that
was badly in need of a tune-up. (My wife always
gets the new cars, while I get the hand-me-downs.)
There was only one automobile shop nearby. It was
run by a short, fat, bald guy named Nick who was
probably in his mid-40s.
Once all the
high-priority items associated with the move were
taken care of, or being worked on, I drove the
Pathfinder to Nick’s garage on a Tuesday
morning. There was only one other car in the
building. In retrospect, that should have been
red flag number one. I explained what I wanted
done.
“Be ready
at three.”
I walked back
home as our house was only a mile away and walked
back getting to the garage just after three.
These were Nick’s first words, “Do you
have any extra blood pressure pills?”
What the
hell?
“No,
sorry.”
“Well, if
you ever get some, I’ll knock something off
your bill. Can’t afford a goddamn doctor, so
I get the goddamn pills from some of my customers.”
I thought
about trying to explain to him why taking
different pills with different dosages was not a
good idea, but I figured he had been told that
more than once.
He put his
right hand up to his forehead. Using his thumb
and middle finger he massaged his temples. “Goddamn
blood pressure gives me these goddamn headaches.”
I moved the
conversation, such as it was, to the Pathfinder.
“It’s
ready to go. Can you pay cash?” he asked.
Since I knew
he was trying to sidestep both federal and state
taxes, I had no problem paying with greenbacks.
Off I went.
It was back to
Nick’s two months later to get an oil change
for my wife’s SUV. Once again there was only
one vehicle in the garage, a mint blue Lincoln
Continental.
“What
year is it?” I asked as I nodded in the
direction of the Lincoln.
“An
’88. The rich son-of-a-bitch who owns it has
two other cars that he brings in here. Brought
this one in yesterday. Get a phone call this
morning from a daughter. The bastard went and
died on me last night. My best customer. Can you
believe this shit?” Red flag number two.
Almost three
months passed before my next visit.
“How are
you doing, Nick?”
“Better.
Got a guy who gets me the pills I need on the
cheap. Say, do you ever go to online chats to try
to get a piece of ass?”
“Nick, I’m
married. Why would I do that?”
“Listen,
there is something wrong with my wife. She won’t
give me no sex.”
Looking at and
listening to him, I knew the problem was not with
his wife.
“Can’t
do anything with your car today. I gotta date for
lunch coming up.”
He’s
got to be joking.
But he wasn’t.
“Listen,
I started a chat last night with this Russian
babe and I’m set to meet her at a pub.”
During the
summer months, thousands of people flood into
Ocean City to vacation. Because of this, large
numbers of Eastern Europeans come to work in area
restaurants, bars, pubs, shops, hotels and the
city’s amusement park. Nick had obviously
hooked up with one who had a different type of
“work” in mind.
“Suppose
your wife finds out?”
“No
chance. Come back tomorrow. I’ll tell you
all about it.”
I was looking
forward to the next day. The shop was empty and
Nick was sitting at a rickety wooden desk in his
filthy office. There was an open bottle of
whiskey sitting on the desk. Nick looked even
more shitty than usual. “How did it go, Nick?”
He stared at
me for nearly a half minute before taking a good-sized
swig of the whiskey. “That miserable goddamn
bitch stole my credit card and emptied it before
I could stop it.”
“How did
she steal your card?”
“She was
waiting for me at the entrance. A few wrinkles,
but still good-looking. Big boobs. Great legs.
Short, short skirt. She had a waitress bring us
to a booth near the back of the place. She wanted
wine. I got a beer. She ordered a goddamn lobster
dish. I got a cheeseburger and fries.”
Just what the
doctor ordered.
“She gets
a second wine. I get another beer. We finish
eating. It’s another wine and another beer.
Then she puts a foot up against my crotch and
rubs. Rolls her tongue over her lips and says,
“Let’s go to my place.”
Uh-oh.
“Now I
gotta take a goddamn piss real bad. So I put a
credit card on the table and tell her to get a
waitress to take the card so we can clear out
fast. I run to the men’s room.”
“Let me
guess, Nick, she was gone.” He nodded as his
eyes watered. “What did you do?”
“I
figured she went to the ladies’ room, so I
sit and wait. The waitress comes and hands me the
goddamn check. I ask her if she saw the woman I
was with. She tells me she left.”
“Did you
call the police?”
“Whatta
they going to do? And then my goddamn wife is
gonna find out.”
“How did
you pay?”
“I had a
second card with just enough credit to cover the
goddamn bill. I came back here and changed back
into my work stuff and then I go back home and
get the info on how to get a hold of the credit
card company and I come back here and find out
she cleaned the card out.”
“Will
your credit card company wipe out what she spent
because the card was stolen?”
“Yah, but
that is going to take a few days and the card was
canceled. It’s gonna take a few more days to
get the new ones. My wife uses hers to get food
and whatever else needs, but the two of them are
part of the same account.”
“Are you
going to tell her you lost yours?
“Yah, but
then she’ll try to use the other one and
find out it’s empty. I’m goddamn
screwed.”
“Nick, it
could have been a lot worse.”
“How the
goddamn hell how?”
“You gave
the Russian a gift by leaving your card with her.
I’d bet she would have taken you to some
dump of a room where there would have been one or
two guys who would have beat the crap out of you
and taken your wallet, wristwatch and who knows
what else.”
His usually
red-flushed face turned pale and he proceeded to
empty the bottle. He rubbed his eyes, looked up
at me and asked, “Any chance you can float
me a loan.” Red flag number three.
“Sorry,
Nick.”
I passed by
the shop a couple weeks later. His sign was gone.
In the main window was a notice that read, “Thrift
shop coming in August.”
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