come inside, reluctantly admitting us to his sanctum sanctorum.
And that’s exactly what it was. I suspect Nick Wallace of being an original, card-carrying member of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
Entering his small shop in the back of Damm Fine Carpets was nothing short of a religious experience. He had every tool imaginable, from small milling lathes to complex electronic testing equipment. It was one of those workrooms that had a place for everything and everything in its place.
I’m the kind of messy mechanic who hates to work on cars. I do it only when absolutely necessary, and I never have the right tool for the right job. Oh, I may have it, but I can never lay my hands on it when I need it.
Through the years I’ve counted my lack of mechanical aptitude as a real character flaw, chalking it up to laziness and sloth as well as growing up with no mechanically inclined father living in the house. At the time of my divorce, it was one of the reasons Karen gave for throwing me over for the chicken conglomerate accountant from Cucamonga. She said she was tired of having to do her own oil changes.
Now I’ve got that Guard Red Porsche. I’ve looked under the hood of my 928, but I’ve never had guts enough to tackle anything I’ve found there. At this point, I’d a whole lot rather pay somebody who knows what he’s doing than screw up something by attempting to do it myself.
Besides, there’s no place to work on a car in the basement parking area of a downtown condo.
Considering all this, I was somewhat envious of the shipshape conditions in Nick Wallace’s private domain. He could have given Rachel Miller and her sister lessons in housekeeping. There wasn’t as much dust visible in all of Nick’s garage as there had been on Rachel’s collection of salt and pepper shakers. The shiny concrete floor had no telltale grease spots. For that matter, the place didn’t even smell like a garage. There was only the mildly pungent odor of some kind of cleaning solvent.
At the moment, there were just two vans in the shop. One of them was obviously in for a tune-up. Its hood stood open, and a new set of spark plugs lay on the rolling mechanic’s chest nearby. The other van sat in the far corner with both front doors wide open.
Nick Wallace went back to the one van and stopped dead in front of the open hood. “Whoever designed this sucker never planned on changing the plugs.” It was a complaint aimed at the universe in general, not at us in particular. Once he had voiced it, however, Nick resolutely bent over and began resetting the plugs.
“What is it you want to know?” he asked without looking up.
“Which van is it?” I returned.
He jerked his head in the direction of the van with the open doors. “That one,” he said. “I’m still trying to dry it out.”
I’ve seen a few carpet installation vans in my time. They’re usually dented and dinged. Mostly they look neglected, like they’re lucky if somebody bothers to feed them gas and oil occasionally. That, however, was not the case with the Damm Fine Carpets fleet of vans. Not if the two currently parked in Nick Wallace’s garage were any indication.
They were several years old, but they still looked brand new. The outside paint was waxed and polished to a high gloss. If they had ever been dented or scratched, the damage had been carefully rubbed out and repainted. On my way to the one van, I walked past the other and managed to catch a glimpse of what was under the hood. The engine had been steam-cleaned. It could have come fresh from the factory that very day.
When we reached Larry Martin’s van, the one with the open doors, we found that the cleaning solvent smell was emanating from there. It was industrial-strength carpet and upholstery cleaner.
The entire interior of the van had been custom carpeted. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, it was a carpet company’s vehicle. The outside of the van looked
And that’s exactly what it was. I suspect Nick Wallace of being an original, card-carrying member of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
Entering his small shop in the back of Damm Fine Carpets was nothing short of a religious experience. He had every tool imaginable, from small milling lathes to complex electronic testing equipment. It was one of those workrooms that had a place for everything and everything in its place.
I’m the kind of messy mechanic who hates to work on cars. I do it only when absolutely necessary, and I never have the right tool for the right job. Oh, I may have it, but I can never lay my hands on it when I need it.
Through the years I’ve counted my lack of mechanical aptitude as a real character flaw, chalking it up to laziness and sloth as well as growing up with no mechanically inclined father living in the house. At the time of my divorce, it was one of the reasons Karen gave for throwing me over for the chicken conglomerate accountant from Cucamonga. She said she was tired of having to do her own oil changes.
Now I’ve got that Guard Red Porsche. I’ve looked under the hood of my 928, but I’ve never had guts enough to tackle anything I’ve found there. At this point, I’d a whole lot rather pay somebody who knows what he’s doing than screw up something by attempting to do it myself.
Besides, there’s no place to work on a car in the basement parking area of a downtown condo.
Considering all this, I was somewhat envious of the shipshape conditions in Nick Wallace’s private domain. He could have given Rachel Miller and her sister lessons in housekeeping. There wasn’t as much dust visible in all of Nick’s garage as there had been on Rachel’s collection of salt and pepper shakers. The shiny concrete floor had no telltale grease spots. For that matter, the place didn’t even smell like a garage. There was only the mildly pungent odor of some kind of cleaning solvent.
At the moment, there were just two vans in the shop. One of them was obviously in for a tune-up. Its hood stood open, and a new set of spark plugs lay on the rolling mechanic’s chest nearby. The other van sat in the far corner with both front doors wide open.
Nick Wallace went back to the one van and stopped dead in front of the open hood. “Whoever designed this sucker never planned on changing the plugs.” It was a complaint aimed at the universe in general, not at us in particular. Once he had voiced it, however, Nick resolutely bent over and began resetting the plugs.
“What is it you want to know?” he asked without looking up.
“Which van is it?” I returned.
He jerked his head in the direction of the van with the open doors. “That one,” he said. “I’m still trying to dry it out.”
I’ve seen a few carpet installation vans in my time. They’re usually dented and dinged. Mostly they look neglected, like they’re lucky if somebody bothers to feed them gas and oil occasionally. That, however, was not the case with the Damm Fine Carpets fleet of vans. Not if the two currently parked in Nick Wallace’s garage were any indication.
They were several years old, but they still looked brand new. The outside paint was waxed and polished to a high gloss. If they had ever been dented or scratched, the damage had been carefully rubbed out and repainted. On my way to the one van, I walked past the other and managed to catch a glimpse of what was under the hood. The engine had been steam-cleaned. It could have come fresh from the factory that very day.
When we reached Larry Martin’s van, the one with the open doors, we found that the cleaning solvent smell was emanating from there. It was industrial-strength carpet and upholstery cleaner.
The entire interior of the van had been custom carpeted. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, it was a carpet company’s vehicle. The outside of the van looked
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