Jen Sorensen, �Slowpoke: America Gone Bonkers�
Two quick stories before I get to the main course.
Kimberly and I were working the Friday night shift at the bar when Hat Matt, one of our regulars from way back when we were a death rock club instead of an Irish bar came in and had two beers. Since he always tips well (he was the first person to give me a hundred dollar tip on purpose, a position previously held by some girl who was too drunk and or ditzy to pick up her $96.50 in change), he got his first beer for free. After a second one, coupled with the fact that he had been at the Hideaway for five hours previously, he had enough and decided to go home. Seeing how we have a ten dollar minimum on credit cards, he bought a token for next time and Kimberly ran his credit card for his grand total of $11.50. He signed the slip and headed down the stairs.
I was helping some people on the other side of the bar so I didn�t see him go, but it was only a few seconds later when Kimberly came up to show me his credit card slip. The fucker had tipped us forty bucks.
�I�m gonna go thank him,� she said, running down the stairs. The guy sitting next to him called me over. �Everything all right?� he asked. �Did he not sign for his tab?�
�No, just the opposite,� I said. He tipped us forty bucks off an $11 dollar tab, so Kimmy�s gonna go blow him in the parking lot.�
When that guy left toward the end of the night, he tipped us forty bucks.
I tell every guy in our bar that story now.
The same week, I was in The Hideaway doing some copyediting over a few whiskeys, because whiskey makes me find faults in others. The writings of others anyway. One girl, a semi-regular whom I talk to on occasion had been there before I arrived, probably by a few hours. At one point she leaned toward me conspiratorially.
�I�m going to tell you something, but it�s only because I�m a little drunk,� she said. �I think you�re fucking sexy.�
�I am fucking sexy,� I replied. �Humble too. But thanks for stating the obvious.�
�See? That�s what I mean. You�re a smart guy, and you�re witty. I just think you�re really fucking sexy.
�And it�s weird,� she continued, �because I�m normally attracted to hot guys.�
She tried to clarify this statement, saying she meant the tattooed greaser type or the tanned surfer dude. Through her explanation it was obvious that what she meant to say was that she was normally attracted to dumb guys, but she continued to accidentally replace �dumb� with �hot.�
She didn�t score my fucking sexy ass.
Anyway.
So two entries back, I wrote about the fucking scumbags that broke both locks on my doors and busted the passenger window out just so they could steal my $15 CD player. When it happened, my insurance company gave me a list of nearby body shops who could fix the damage. I picked the one closest to my house.
They looked over the damage and said it would cost $500 to fix. Since I had already had one door lock replaced for $300 through my local Chevy dealer, I figured I was getting an OK deal. I signed the paperwork and then pulled out my overused credit card.
�Oh, we don�t take credit cards,� he said. �It�s cash or check only.�
Of course, I don�t have $500 in petty cash these days, as I�m making a serious attempt to get out of debt and all my money that doesn�t go for food, smokes or booze (not necessarily in that order), goes to the bills. So I scrambled, talking my dad out of one of those social security checks he keeps in a drawer. I returned with the money that afternoon and the guy told me he�d knock off the additional seven dollars and make it an even five hundred, the magnanimous son of a bitch.
But he was friendly and we got along well. He even gave me tips on how to lower my insurance costs, telling me that my car isn�t the kind of car that gets stolen � it just gets broken into. Saying he�d call when the parts came in, that meant my day was pretty much finished as it was too late to really get anything done at the paper. Instead, I hit the bar, using the opportunity to work on my big cover story, which just came out last week. You can read it by clicking here.
Man, I never thought I�d get tired of having to go to bars and smoke for the sake of a story.
I still hold that to be true.
Anyhoo, nearly three weeks passed with no word from the body shop. I would have called them, but I was too busy doing �research� for the aforementioned cover story. In the meantime, I tried to enjoy the cross breeze from having both windows open (or one open and the other gone, anyway). I also kept no valuables inside, figuring nobody wants a tape deck out of a car anymore.
But then it started to rain.
I found the number for the body shop and asked what was going on. The receptionist didn�t know and said my representative wasn�t in.
Is there a special circle of hell for receptionists? Not that they�re bad people, but I know just from watching our receptionist at the newspaper that these people have to lie more than anybody.
I left a message with my name, and the rep called me back in three minutes, proving that the girl that answered the phones was lying, because he had to look up the account, call the distributor and then call me back, which wouldn�t happen if he had just walked in. But whatever. She has her circle waiting.
�Hey man,� he said when I answered the phone, �I�m sorry about the delay, apparently the distributor messed up the order, but it should be here soon.�
�No problem,� I said, �I was just wondering.�
�Wow, bro, you�re taking this really mellow, seeing as it�s almost been a month.�
�It has been a month, hasn�t it? Well, now that I know that, could you hurry the fuck up?�
�Sure man, should be real soon. Have you had your car in storage this entire time?�
�No, I�ve been driving around with a busted window and two doors that won�t lock.�
�All right, well�I�ll get them to hurry the fuck up.�
Another three weeks passed. I kept a towel in the car to wipe up the moisture after the rain. Finally, he called, saying they were ready to fix it.
I had to wait a few more days before bringing it in, still working on the cover story and trying to get ahead with the newspaper work so that I could afford a day off. I brought it in the following Wednesday � five days later. I brought it in at 8:30am, being told it would probably be finished in about four hours. To pass the time I had a new book, forty bucks in my wallet, a pack and a half of cigarettes and my favorite day bartender who makes some of the best bloody mary�s on the island.
Twelve hours later I had finished the book, smoked all the cigarettes, burned through the $40 and took out another $20, gone through two shifts of bartenders and my drunk ass needed to take a cab home, because my stupid car still wasn�t fixed.
The next morning the auto shop called at 9am. Simultaneously asleep and hungover, I answered the phone.
�Hey, uh, Dean buddy, I�m calling because, uh, your parts turn out to be significantly higher than we originally quoted you, so we need you to, uh, approve the new estimate before we go forward.�
�How much,� I said groggily.
�Well, uh, the window itself, we, uh, quoted you at��
�How much?�
�Two hundred dollars.�
�In addition to the five hundred I already paid you?�
�Uh� yeah.�
I was silent for a moment, long enough for him to finally say �hello� meekly into the phone. I thought about it. It�s been a month an a half. A month and a half of driving around with no window, living where it rains a lot, and parking at work in a shitty area where I have to wait for the guys holding paper bagged 40-ouncers to get out of my way so I can park. Add to this that I�m fucking hungover, and just want to go to bed.
�Hello, Dean?� he asked again.
�Just fucking do it,� I said and snapped the phone shut.
An hour later they called again saying it was ready to be picked up. They got the answering machine and left the total I owed, saying it would be $197.50. �Please remember,� the receptionist said (a male this time), �that we do not take credit cards, so please bring cash or a check for the full amount.�
I got in the shower and did the morning ritual stuff to get ready for my workday, drinking about 64 ounces of water in an attempt to hydrate. And I was getting more pissed off by the minute. Finally, I called a cab to bring me to the shop. I paced back and forth as I waited, seething.
When I walked into the repair shop I gave my name and waited for the receptionist to gather my paperwork. He finished and told me the total. Instead of handing him any cash, I gave him my business card from the newspaper. Then I took out my notepad and tape recorder. I hit the record button and had my pen ready.
�OK,� I said, �I want you to explain to me why it takes a month and a half before you realize that it�s going to cost an additional $200 to fix my car.�
�Oh, uh,� he stammered. �I don�t know anything about that, you�d have to talk to one of the reps. But neither of them are here right now.�
�When will they be here?�
�Uh, one should be back in a few minutes, the other one is gone until two.�
It was 11am at the time. �I�ll wait,� I said.
One of the reps came in almost immediately after I said it. The receptionist introduced us and I went through the ritual again: Business card, notepad, tape recorder, pen at the ready. I asked the same question.
�What are you doing?� he asked.
�Well, I do a lot of investigative reporting for the paper,� I said. �And consumer fraud is always a good story.�
�Well I didn�t work on your account, so I�m not fucking talking to you,� he spat back, hurrying to the safety behind the counter.
I went back to the receptionist, telling him I needed copies of the original contract and the current one, along with a copy of the standard estimate agreements given to patrons. He got my copies, and I said I would be outside reviewing my notes until the other rep came back.
Truth was, the hangover was coming back with a vengeance, and I needed the fresh air. I went across the street and sat on a park bench, trying to make my head stop pounding so I could look over the contracts. About ten minutes later, the original rep cam out and waved me back inside. When I entered, I was introduced to the owner of the establishment.
�OK,� she began, �you understand that an estimate is just that � it�s an estimate. Sometimes it goes up, sometimes it goes down.�
�Has it ever gone down?� I interrupted.
�I can�t answer that. But here�s the receipt from the distributor and here�s the breakdown of the parts and charges, so you can see that there isn�t any fraud here.�
�I understand that, and I know all about estimates. What I want you to answer,� I said, holding out my tape recorder, �is why it takes a month and a half before you discover the discrepancy in prices for parts.�
�I understand that you�re upset, but why did you approve the additional charge when we called?�
�Off the record,� I said, �you already had five hundred dollars in cash from me. Add that to the fact that it�s been a month and a half and you wake me up at nine in the morning, and I just wanted it to be finished. I still do. But that still doesn�t answer my question.�
�Would you feel better if I knocked eighty dollars off your bill?�
�You can do whatever you like.�
�Charge him a hundred and twenty,� she said to the receptionist, walking back behind the counter.
The poor receptionist gathered the paperwork, he took my original estimate and started to crumple it up. I snatched it back from him. �I�d like to keep this,� I said.
�OK,� he said nervously. �Um, that will be one hundred and twenty dollars, please.�
I tossed my bag up on the counter and shoved my hand in, pulling out a large scoop of quarters and setting them down on the counter edge, counting them into stacks of four.
The receptionist looked up at me, perplexed. �What? You only take cash. This,� I said, sweeping my hand across the mound of change, �is cash.�
I dug my hand back into my bag pulling out another fistful of quarters.
That�s right; I paid a hundred and twenty dollars in loose, unwrapped quarters. And they didn�t say a goddamn thing.
Don�t fuck with me when I�m hungover.
