Three years ago, my little family was travelling through a lot of rough waters. I was just beginning the master’s program in special education at Eastern Michigan University. I started down this path trusting that the Universe would provide a way to the end—even though I logically knew that the 1 hour 15 minute daily commute would be murder on our 10-year-old-already-high-mileage cars. Sure enough by the second semester, car #1 was just not drivable on the expressway (the story of that car will be told another time). And then one morning car #2 refused to start. It had been complaining for awhile, but I had ignored its sputtering, and I hoped.
I spent that March morning on the phone with different car shops, telling them the symptoms and getting the grim prognoses. I firmly suspected that it was the alternator; so I would always ask for a quote on that particular fix. I went through a few pages of the phone book and several online suggestions. All of the quotes for an alternator in our area were for around $750 dollars that we absolutely did not have. Towing was going to be another $60.
Being a necessarily stubborn and patient person when it comes to money, I was prepared to spend the entire day calling every single mechanic and shop in the Flint area. Of course, I decided that logically the best way to approach that plan was to systematically call each listing in order marking them off as I went. Right about the time I had gotten through the C’s, I was hit by the inevitable incredible wave of panic and grief. And I dropped the damn phonebook.
When I picked it up, I opened up to the Auto Repair section, but it was in the R’s. Before going back to my marked spot, I randomly picked one mechanic who didn't even have an ad on that page, and thought “What the hell?”
When he called back later that day to let me know it was fixed, he started with, “Hey, how are you doing?” I said, “Well, I think you’re about to tell me how I’m doing today.” He laughed. “I think you’ll like this.” It wasn’t the alternator. It was a couple of leads from the battery, and he charged me less than $100.
From then on, every time he asked, "Hey, how're you doing?" I'd respond with "You tell me."
For the next three years, Rick kept my mid-1990’s high mileage cars running. When I left for my long daily commute, I was comforted by knowing that Rick was a phone call away. When the economic timing of my vehicle drama was particularly bad, I’m sure he could hear the panic and tears in my voice. Every time he knew that I was about to break,—when I would start down the road of “What if it’s something I can’t afford to get fixed?”—he would calmly tell me that I needed to get the car to his garage first, and we would worry about the rest later. He was always right. Having Rick was almost like having a dad during vehicle crises.
After several spark plugs, two alternators, miscellaneous wiring, cables, belts, oil changes, tune ups, a starter, a shredded tire, bent rim, and a replaced gas tank (also a story for another time), I started my first student teaching assignment. This meant that I had less than two semesters to go before I would be a certified teacher with employable endorsements.
Last September, a couple of weeks into the first student teaching assignment, my car’s headlights began indulging in some interesting quirks. It was still dark when I left at 5:30 AM, so I kind of needed light to see the road I was traveling on at 70 mph. When I hit a bump or jostled the car just right, the headlights went out. I would turn them on and off again until they remained on. At first this was just a little scary. Eventually, it became a lot scary.
So I called Rick. I told him what my car was doing. He laughed. And he said that “doesn’t sound like much fun.” I took the car to him that weekend, and he fixed it. When I came to pick up the car and pay him, I told him that I was really grateful to have found him. He laughed. And I said that seriously, I probably wouldn’t have been able to finish my teaching certifications without his help. “No problem. Call when you need something else. Did you ever get that tune up I recommended last time?.....”
That was the last time I saw Rick; the last time I took my car to Rick’s Garage. A couple of months later I called just to see what the cost on that tune up would be, and to ask about the likely cause and repair costs associated with the clunking noise coming from the other car. When I called, I was met with this message: “The following number 810 XXX XXXX has been temporarily disconnected.” Odd. He couldn’t have been carted off to jail or on the run or something. (Remember this is Flint). But… he couldn’t have possibly gone out of business. He was Rick, and Rick was awesome. I reassured myself with that, thinking if I had to I’d call his home number and get to the bottom of this mistake.
About a month ago, I had a super stellar weird morning. I’d left my purse at home, but I didn’t know it right away. While looking for my purse in the front seat of my car, I smacked into a pothole so hard that it completely took out my front passenger tire (shredded), wheel (destroyed), and some lug nut bolts (snapped).
So I called Rick’s home number. His wife answered and I apologized for calling so early, but… She stopped me. She told me that Rick had passed away at the end of last September. I told her how sorry I was, what a great man I thought he was, and again how sorry I was, that I wish I’d have known because I would have come to calling hours and sent condolences, and oh… I was so, so sorry.
She was overwhelmingly gracious about it, bless her. She told me what had happened: He hadn’t been feeling well. He had just finished fixing a car for a registered nurse, and he collapsed in the driveway on his way to handing over the keys. The RN tried to revive him, and worked on him until the ambulance arrived. But there was nothing to be done. He was gone.
I don’t really even have a right to miss him as much as I do. His family is devastated and they will be for sometime. He was only 55. I’ve thought about whether there is something I could do for his widow, to thank them for all of his help the last three years. I’m not sure yet what that might be. And I have a luxury she does not: of still feeling disbelief that Rick is gone.
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