My car needed some tires before Winter came as their treads were woefully thin. I was searching the websites of local establishments but all the new tires were going to cost an arm and a leg.
My perennially cheap bff Mo was my best bet at finding something cheap or used so I asked him where he went to get tires. He said there is a place in front of Briarwood mall that sells used tires real cheap and the guy was "a character". I asked him what he meant and got nothing but another generic statement about his odd personality. Needing something cheap and getting the green light from my buddy was all that I needed. I have to admit there was a little intrigue involved as I pondered what could make my absolutely unique buddy say someone else was out of the ordinary. With all that in mind I pulled up the company's phone number online and dialed.
The phone was picked up almost immediately and the voice of a young man exited my phone receiver. A nondescript accent and professional tone stated "Whitney's Auto Service." and I replied "Hi, I was wondering if you had..."
Before I could finish what I was going to say he cut in "Hey buddy, don't be like all these other assholes and ask me if I sell used tires. It says it online and on the sign outside my building. Of course I sell fucking tires."
I chuckled and said "No, I was going to ask if you had my tire size."
"Man, you just don't know how many fucking idiots there are out there, right?"
"I can only imagine." was about all that I could muster as my head was spinning a bit from the instant immersion in this guy's mind.
"So, man, what are you lookin' for?"
I told him my tire size.
He said he had that tire and then asked me for my first name to enter in his database.
"Markus"
"You don't sound like no brother. Are you black?"
"Um, nope." was about the only thing I could get out before he went on.
"Yeah, Markus, the whitest black guy I ever talked to. So, Markus, what's your last name?"
"Davis"
"Yup. Got it. So, where do you plant your ass?"
I told him my address.
"Markus, blackest white guy I've never met. Do you drive on the same roads I do with all these fucking morons? Dude, it's the fucking apocalypse out there. No one has a brain in their empty heads. Just morons, everwhere. Like you wouldn't believe? Have you had to talk to any of these fucking idiots? The phone calls I get. I can't even explain to you. Ring ring. Whitney's Auto Care. Do you fix cars? No, asshole, I sell fruit, fuck you. Ring ring. Whitney's Auto Care. Hi, do you know how to fix a problem with a Ford? Sorry, I only work on fucking space ships. Click!"
silence
I am dumbstruck
"You still there not black Markus?"
"I am right here."
"You feel me, negro?"
"I hear ya."
"Alright, so, what are you lookin' for? Wait, you already told me. Shit, what the fuck is going on with me? Yeah, I got those tires, USED, in stock. How many you want?"
He emphasized "USED" with a drawn out tone like a brother mocking a sister.
I told him I wanted two tires and he clucked his tongue and began telling me that replacing only two tires will make the other two wear faster as all tires are made slightly different and the treads will be off and some other scientificy sounds things, all of which I said I understand but I was poor and that it was only going to be two tires this time.
He covers the phone for a moment and yells out to the garage "Stop fucking eating on my time you goddamn burrito eater! Get back to work or I will fire your ass!"
He uncovers the phone and says in a conspiratorial hush "He doesn't even understand English. Don't worry man. He won't cut your tires when you get here. So, when are you getting here?"
I tell him that I need to make sure I have the money and that I am going to ask my wife and he laughs long and loud right in to the phone.
"Oh man! Oh man! You poor pussy whipped bastard. You got to ask a woman for money?"
I tell him that the car in question is my wife's and I am taking care of it. But, yes, I have to ask her for the money as I am a college student.
Long and loud laughing.
"Gotta love that pussy."
I am struggling to keep it together. I want to laugh at this madman and yell all at the same time. The bigotry and racism drip from every word. I think about hanging up and finding some other avenue for cheap tires but really have no idea what to do.
"Yeah man, get her before two and I can hook you up with a good price. I'll have the Mexican put some used tires on your old lady's car. I can't wait to meet you Markus. I've never met a white black guy before."
"Yeah, I'm white. Just so you know."
"Dude. I'm not a dumbass."
"I was jok...."
Laughter.
"Man, I'm fuckin' with you. Get up here already asshole."
Click.
I sit in silence wondering what the hell happened to me.
I tell Amber as much as I can remember. She is in shock and asks me if I am still going to take her car up there.
I say I don't know.
I try to call my buddy Mo and ask him why on Earth he setup me up to call Whitney.
Two hours pass.
I get a text. From Whitney.
"Hey Fucker, where are you?"
I
wonder for a moment who just wrote me that message and then it dawns on
me. Whitney used the callerID to message me from his phone.
I text back, "I was making up my mind whether or not to come."
"Oh yeah? Lady won't let you leave the house?"
"I meant whether or not I could spend the money."
"Hey asshole, you won't get tires cheaper anywhere. Bring that car up here now and I'll hook you up."
I resigned myself to the whole affair. He was right, the price was the best one I could find and the tires needed to be replaced before road conditions forced us in to a tighter spot so I begrudgingly said, "Yes, I will be there in about 20 minutes."
He didn't acknowledge my reply, he just hung up.
I blinked in surprise and put the phone down.
Ok, I guess. Here we go.
When I did my Michigan turn on State street I saw the gas station with new eyes. I had never given that place more than a cursory glance, what with the gas prices habitually 15-20 cents more per gallon than in my sweet home town. How nondescript it looked. Planted right in front of the mall on one of the busiest streets in Ann Arbor, prime location.
I pulled in but couldn't find a spot to park so I left the car by a gas pump and walked inside quickly.
The layout of the snack food on racks and fountain drinks was not logical and the only counter I was drawn to was behind glass where a bored woman ignored me by watching the traffic outside. I walked up and said I was looking to get tires for my car to which she motioned towards another counter at the other end of the small room that I had not noticed when I first came in. I walked over and stood there gazing through the plexiglass window in to the garage. There was a car up on the lift unattended. Then I noticed an older, Latino gentleman standing frozen at the far end. Dressed as one would imagine a mechanic would be.
Our eyes met.
It was magic.
The kind of magic that freezes you in place.
He stood there, like a New York City performance artist, unmoving.
I looked away after a few long seconds, after losing our staring contest.
He continued to not move.
I shuffled around and looked at items in the gas station.
About five minutes past and I found myself looking out the window in to the garage again at the man standing there. Was he dead?
I looked for a bell or buzzer to ring but was not successful.
I went back to the bored lady at the other counter and asked through the cutout in the glass if this is where I was supposed to come for car maintenance and tires.
She nodded.
I looked at her with some small amount of exasperation and nodded my headed in return. As one would when they finally get food at a company picnic after waiting in a long line only to have someone bump the food off your plate and on to the ant ridden ground.
Yes. I understand my futile place in this world.
Ten minutes pass.
I pull out my phone and text the unknown number (presuming it's Whitney's cell) and write "Hey, I'm at the gas station with my car, ready for those tires."
Some time lapses. I walk around the gas station interior, avoiding the cold. Every pass of the plexiglass window reveals the paralyzed mechanic standing in the same position.
"Who's this?" appears on my screen.
"Markus, I was supposed to get tires from you today."
"You're late man. I said by 2."
"Correct, but then I told you I was coming and it would be about 20 minutes."
"Well, I'm out picking up a car. I'll be back in 15."
"Ok, thanks."
I decide to walk around outside and not become afflicted with whatever malaise seemed to be floating in the air causing the two victims inside to be stricken helpless.
Fifteen minutes later I get a text, "My guy is in the garage, he can help you. I'm going to be a little longer."
"Yeah, I've been trying to get your guy's attention for some time now but he is just standing there looking at me."
"That goddamn cock muppet! Open the door and tell that assclown to come help you."
"Ummm...no."
"Nevermind, I'll be there soon."
Well, this is going to be something special when he arrives. Not that I want to see this guy humiliated in public but I am not pleased with being ignored for almost 30 minutes. If the man was busy working on a car or counting inventory I could understand but he is literally standing there mocking me with his somnambulist gaze.
Another amount of time passes.
In to the parking lot comes a tow truck with minivan attached.
Blocking at least part of the entrance the tow truck stops and out jumps Whitney.
He walks in all smiles and says "Hey there...Markus I presume?"
"Hi ya."
"What a sight for sore eyes. Glad to see what you look like after talking to you so long on the phone. Fuck yeah. Come over here ya bastard." walking towards the unmanned counter near the Plexiglas window.
"Fuck man, I just got that minivan outside for $400. What do you think of that shit, huh? Damn right. $400 and I can fix it up and sell it for $3000. I make money every goddamn day. Motherfucker. Money!"
He slaps the counter. Loud.
He talks to the monitor more than he talks to me but I know my purpose is to be his audience.
"So, what can I do for you, not black Markus?"
"Tires..." he cuts me off.
"Fuck. You want those two tires for your car, right? Right. I remember. I have em right out back, come on."
He stands up and starts walking out to the garage. I decide to follow since he didn't say anything else.
The mechanic who had been standing motionless was now nowhere to be seen. I want to ask about him but after waiting all this time decide that any interruptions will only extend my already long stay in this place with no chairs.
We exit the back of the garage and enter some shipping containers packed with tires. The whole time we are in the containers going through tires Whitney is cussing and carrying on about some lady who took up too much road near the private drive where he got the minivan. There were vivid and lurid descriptions of this woman that I Will not repeat. Things one would normally reserve for the battlefield as you lob hand-grenades in to the trees at people shooting in your direction.
Hurtful words to incite madness. His words made the containers hotter.
I was mostly silent.
Mind you, this wasn't a tirade. It was just a conversation about recent events.
Now with two tires in hand we exit the containers and pass back through the garage where the sleepy mechanic is now working on a car resting up on a lift.
We pass by him and I make eye contact. His expression says "Go ahead and tell him. I don't care."
We resume our positions back at the counter as he types in a bunch of information in to the computer about my make and model. He asks me odd questions about my lifestyle and points to the screen and says its a part of his computer system and he has to ask.
The phone rings and he picks it up, "Whitney Auto Care..."
A voice on the other end gets in a few words that I don't understand.
"Are you serious? You're an idiot."
Click.
He continues typing on the computer as if that was a normal end to a call about commerce.
I fight the urge to ask what that person wanted and why he didn't want to talk to them.
I notice he has some small gifts wrapped up (jewelry boxes or small chocolates) by the computer screen. I ask him about them, and quickly realize I shouldn't have.
"They're for my bitches. I got money, I got bitches. I get them little things and shit, keep em happy. They shut the fuck up and I get what I want."
He winks at me.
"I got money, I got this place and another down the road. I have nice cars. I got women. I live the fucking dream!"
I agree that it sounds like a dream. He nods.
Without standing up or looking away from the computer screen he yells "Hey you fucking ass, get in here!" He waits a moment and looks out the window at the guy working. "HEY YOU FUCKER, COME IN HERE!"
The man finally moves towards us. He comes in and Whitney throws my keys at him and gestures with his head out towards the gas pumps at my car.
The man walks out without a word. Whitney looks to me and says "Goddamn idiot doesn't understand English."
"Really?" I reply.
"No, but it seems like it. Fucking chili choker doesn't work at all. I need to fire his ass."
I look out the door towards my car at the man getting in and wonder what he has seen and heard in this place. What does he hear, or chose not to hear?
I ask him how business is these days, trying to probe a little bit more about this man that I couldn't even make up if I was a screen writer for prime time television.
"You know what? I've got my business, and I make the decisions. I decide what to do and when to do it. I don't have a boss. This is my life and my dream. I made shit come true by working hard. If I don't want to do something I don't do it. If some fucking moron comes in here and wants me to work on their piece of shit, I don't have to. I make the rules in this goddamn place. Me. That's all a man can ask for."
I had to admit. That was a impressive and made me a little envious. Not that I think there are morons every where trying to steal my happiness away, nor do I feel like unleashing Satan's tongue on every Tom, Dick, and Mary but I can appreciate his point of view.
He continues.
"So, I'm having this party on Friday night. I got lots of bitches coming over. You want to come? Man, it will be wild. You look like someone that really knows whats what and how to lay down some stank."
"Thanks, but I'm married. I brought my wife's car in."
His head goes hangdog. "Yeah, yeah."
A moment of reflection.
"You can still come though and not pound the punnani."
"Thanks again, but I'll have to pass."
He looks around for a moment like he is trying to come up with something to say and convince me to go then grabs one of the little gifts and extends it out to me and says, "Here, give this to your ol lady and tell her I said it was a gift. Then she will let you come out."
I see that he is really excited by the idea of not black Markus coming over.
I think my silence has allowed him to gain some amount of comfort. He is intrigued by me.
Just then the door to the gas station opens and in walks a middle aged lady dressed smartly. She comes right up to the counter and asks for assistance. Whitney stands up and says with amazing clarity and courtesy "Hello ma'am, welcome to Whitney's Auto Care. How may I help you?"
She begins explaining her situation as he comes around the counter to assist. They walk outside towards her vehicle together. He is nodding as she continues talking and walking.
The picture of understanding, manners, and accommodation.
I text back, "I was making up my mind whether or not to come."
"Oh yeah? Lady won't let you leave the house?"
"I meant whether or not I could spend the money."
"Hey asshole, you won't get tires cheaper anywhere. Bring that car up here now and I'll hook you up."
I resigned myself to the whole affair. He was right, the price was the best one I could find and the tires needed to be replaced before road conditions forced us in to a tighter spot so I begrudgingly said, "Yes, I will be there in about 20 minutes."
He didn't acknowledge my reply, he just hung up.
I blinked in surprise and put the phone down.
Ok, I guess. Here we go.
When I did my Michigan turn on State street I saw the gas station with new eyes. I had never given that place more than a cursory glance, what with the gas prices habitually 15-20 cents more per gallon than in my sweet home town. How nondescript it looked. Planted right in front of the mall on one of the busiest streets in Ann Arbor, prime location.
I pulled in but couldn't find a spot to park so I left the car by a gas pump and walked inside quickly.
The layout of the snack food on racks and fountain drinks was not logical and the only counter I was drawn to was behind glass where a bored woman ignored me by watching the traffic outside. I walked up and said I was looking to get tires for my car to which she motioned towards another counter at the other end of the small room that I had not noticed when I first came in. I walked over and stood there gazing through the plexiglass window in to the garage. There was a car up on the lift unattended. Then I noticed an older, Latino gentleman standing frozen at the far end. Dressed as one would imagine a mechanic would be.
Our eyes met.
It was magic.
The kind of magic that freezes you in place.
He stood there, like a New York City performance artist, unmoving.
I looked away after a few long seconds, after losing our staring contest.
He continued to not move.
I shuffled around and looked at items in the gas station.
About five minutes past and I found myself looking out the window in to the garage again at the man standing there. Was he dead?
I looked for a bell or buzzer to ring but was not successful.
I went back to the bored lady at the other counter and asked through the cutout in the glass if this is where I was supposed to come for car maintenance and tires.
She nodded.
I looked at her with some small amount of exasperation and nodded my headed in return. As one would when they finally get food at a company picnic after waiting in a long line only to have someone bump the food off your plate and on to the ant ridden ground.
Yes. I understand my futile place in this world.
Ten minutes pass.
I pull out my phone and text the unknown number (presuming it's Whitney's cell) and write "Hey, I'm at the gas station with my car, ready for those tires."
Some time lapses. I walk around the gas station interior, avoiding the cold. Every pass of the plexiglass window reveals the paralyzed mechanic standing in the same position.
"Who's this?" appears on my screen.
"Markus, I was supposed to get tires from you today."
"You're late man. I said by 2."
"Correct, but then I told you I was coming and it would be about 20 minutes."
"Well, I'm out picking up a car. I'll be back in 15."
"Ok, thanks."
I decide to walk around outside and not become afflicted with whatever malaise seemed to be floating in the air causing the two victims inside to be stricken helpless.
Fifteen minutes later I get a text, "My guy is in the garage, he can help you. I'm going to be a little longer."
"Yeah, I've been trying to get your guy's attention for some time now but he is just standing there looking at me."
"That goddamn cock muppet! Open the door and tell that assclown to come help you."
"Ummm...no."
"Nevermind, I'll be there soon."
Well, this is going to be something special when he arrives. Not that I want to see this guy humiliated in public but I am not pleased with being ignored for almost 30 minutes. If the man was busy working on a car or counting inventory I could understand but he is literally standing there mocking me with his somnambulist gaze.
Another amount of time passes.
In to the parking lot comes a tow truck with minivan attached.
Blocking at least part of the entrance the tow truck stops and out jumps Whitney.
He walks in all smiles and says "Hey there...Markus I presume?"
"Hi ya."
"What a sight for sore eyes. Glad to see what you look like after talking to you so long on the phone. Fuck yeah. Come over here ya bastard." walking towards the unmanned counter near the Plexiglas window.
"Fuck man, I just got that minivan outside for $400. What do you think of that shit, huh? Damn right. $400 and I can fix it up and sell it for $3000. I make money every goddamn day. Motherfucker. Money!"
He slaps the counter. Loud.
He talks to the monitor more than he talks to me but I know my purpose is to be his audience.
"So, what can I do for you, not black Markus?"
"Tires..." he cuts me off.
"Fuck. You want those two tires for your car, right? Right. I remember. I have em right out back, come on."
He stands up and starts walking out to the garage. I decide to follow since he didn't say anything else.
The mechanic who had been standing motionless was now nowhere to be seen. I want to ask about him but after waiting all this time decide that any interruptions will only extend my already long stay in this place with no chairs.
We exit the back of the garage and enter some shipping containers packed with tires. The whole time we are in the containers going through tires Whitney is cussing and carrying on about some lady who took up too much road near the private drive where he got the minivan. There were vivid and lurid descriptions of this woman that I Will not repeat. Things one would normally reserve for the battlefield as you lob hand-grenades in to the trees at people shooting in your direction.
Hurtful words to incite madness. His words made the containers hotter.
I was mostly silent.
Mind you, this wasn't a tirade. It was just a conversation about recent events.
Now with two tires in hand we exit the containers and pass back through the garage where the sleepy mechanic is now working on a car resting up on a lift.
We pass by him and I make eye contact. His expression says "Go ahead and tell him. I don't care."
We resume our positions back at the counter as he types in a bunch of information in to the computer about my make and model. He asks me odd questions about my lifestyle and points to the screen and says its a part of his computer system and he has to ask.
The phone rings and he picks it up, "Whitney Auto Care..."
A voice on the other end gets in a few words that I don't understand.
"Are you serious? You're an idiot."
Click.
He continues typing on the computer as if that was a normal end to a call about commerce.
I fight the urge to ask what that person wanted and why he didn't want to talk to them.
I notice he has some small gifts wrapped up (jewelry boxes or small chocolates) by the computer screen. I ask him about them, and quickly realize I shouldn't have.
"They're for my bitches. I got money, I got bitches. I get them little things and shit, keep em happy. They shut the fuck up and I get what I want."
He winks at me.
"I got money, I got this place and another down the road. I have nice cars. I got women. I live the fucking dream!"
I agree that it sounds like a dream. He nods.
Without standing up or looking away from the computer screen he yells "Hey you fucking ass, get in here!" He waits a moment and looks out the window at the guy working. "HEY YOU FUCKER, COME IN HERE!"
The man finally moves towards us. He comes in and Whitney throws my keys at him and gestures with his head out towards the gas pumps at my car.
The man walks out without a word. Whitney looks to me and says "Goddamn idiot doesn't understand English."
"Really?" I reply.
"No, but it seems like it. Fucking chili choker doesn't work at all. I need to fire his ass."
I look out the door towards my car at the man getting in and wonder what he has seen and heard in this place. What does he hear, or chose not to hear?
I ask him how business is these days, trying to probe a little bit more about this man that I couldn't even make up if I was a screen writer for prime time television.
"You know what? I've got my business, and I make the decisions. I decide what to do and when to do it. I don't have a boss. This is my life and my dream. I made shit come true by working hard. If I don't want to do something I don't do it. If some fucking moron comes in here and wants me to work on their piece of shit, I don't have to. I make the rules in this goddamn place. Me. That's all a man can ask for."
I had to admit. That was a impressive and made me a little envious. Not that I think there are morons every where trying to steal my happiness away, nor do I feel like unleashing Satan's tongue on every Tom, Dick, and Mary but I can appreciate his point of view.
He continues.
"So, I'm having this party on Friday night. I got lots of bitches coming over. You want to come? Man, it will be wild. You look like someone that really knows whats what and how to lay down some stank."
"Thanks, but I'm married. I brought my wife's car in."
His head goes hangdog. "Yeah, yeah."
A moment of reflection.
"You can still come though and not pound the punnani."
"Thanks again, but I'll have to pass."
He looks around for a moment like he is trying to come up with something to say and convince me to go then grabs one of the little gifts and extends it out to me and says, "Here, give this to your ol lady and tell her I said it was a gift. Then she will let you come out."
I see that he is really excited by the idea of not black Markus coming over.
I think my silence has allowed him to gain some amount of comfort. He is intrigued by me.
Just then the door to the gas station opens and in walks a middle aged lady dressed smartly. She comes right up to the counter and asks for assistance. Whitney stands up and says with amazing clarity and courtesy "Hello ma'am, welcome to Whitney's Auto Care. How may I help you?"
She begins explaining her situation as he comes around the counter to assist. They walk outside towards her vehicle together. He is nodding as she continues talking and walking.
The picture of understanding, manners, and accommodation.
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