You know, I never had a great rapport with the mechanic around the corner. It might have been all the pictures of Reagan, Bush and Frank Rizzo on the wall that made me feel less than warm. But in any event, I’ve started to get the feeling that he’s ripping me off.
I was talking to one of my neighbors yesterday, and she made no bones about it. “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing,” she said. “He’s got no diagnostic equipment, I don’t think he knows anything at all about cars that aren’t at least thirty years old,” she said. “And besides, he makes most of his money as a gun dealer. Take your car to someone else and have them look at it.”
She recommended a garage bay in an industrial park a few blocks away. I went there this morning to have them look at it. It was a truck repair place run by a couple of guys, one with a heavy accent and another one who couldn’t speak English at all. No Joey Vento cheesesteak for you!
But they showed me the problem – a piece of protective molding that had split and was rubbing against the suspension whenever I made a turn. The guy who couldn’t speak English got under the car and made a makeshift repair with a screw and a washer. “This will be fine, you don’t need nothing else,” the English-speaking guy told me.
The price? $20. I thanked them profusely.
I can’t believe that other moron was gonna charge me $375.