Wednesday, December 29, 2004

 

THE HELPFUL MECHANIC

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My car had been chugging and hesitating so I stopped in at a local garage. The mechanic (skinny, late 30's, stained dark blue jumpsuit, long greasy black hair, black baseball cap, slightly askew) took a look and a listen.

"There's nothing wrong with this car," he said. "You just got some bad gas. I'm going to fill you up and and put in some fuel line cleaner and you'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Listen," he said, "where have you been buying your gas? From those quick serve stations?"

"Mostly," I said.

He snorted. "All those people who run those stations, they're ragheads, not Americans. Have you noticed that?"

I nodded.

"Can I give you a tip?" he asked.

"Sure," I said.

He bent over and in a conspiratorial half-whisper pronounced: "White people. Get your gas from white people."

He nodded his head slowly, as one does when imparting a great truth. Then he gave me a quick wink, turned, and went back into the garage.

I got about a mile down the road before my car started chugging again, and finally stalled out. I had it towed to the dealer.








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