The Police

The other day I received an email from Ron Palm, aka Ronski. We worked together as mechanics at a place called Morrie’s Imports out on the west side of Minneapolis. Like all shops, Morrie’s had it’s own vibe. Steve, the foreman, left everyone alone as long as the work went out the door and didn’t come back. Which meant showing up ten minutes late nearly every day never put me in hot water. And everyone, even Morrie, overlooked the fact that I brought my dog, Annie, with me to work when I did finally show up every morning.

In his recent email, Ronski reminded me how well trained she was, always lying on the matt I provided next to my tool box… except when I went for a road test. The minute I left the building she would bring her ragged tennis ball down to his bay, and drop at his feet, with a look that said, “OK, dad is gone, throw the damned ball.”

With only a few exceptions, all of us in the shop were about the same age, which meant everyone listened to the same radio station. One day I talked the guys in the parts department into giving me an old warrantied FM/cassette stereo (cassettes were still the high-tech deal for car audio) that actually worked pretty well in a stationary position. I also scrounged a couple of car speakers, which I put into enclosures that looked a lot like medium sized carboard boxes. And then I turned up the volume.

Roxanne, by the Police, was a hot ticket on the radio at that time. Whenever I heard those first few guitar licks, I cranked the volume from loud to really annoying. Pretty soon everyone was singing along with the chorus….. ROXANNE, turn off the red light, ROXANNE, you don’t have to put on the red light…. ROXANNE. Steve had enough sense to leave us alone. Singing mechanics are happy mechanics and happy mechanics get a lot of work done.

Like I said, everyone liked the music. Well, maybe not everyone. Lester did “unit work,” overhauling engines and transmissions, in a separate room at the other end of the shop from my stall. A nice enough guy and a good mechanic, Lester had the misfortune of being at least 30 years older than the rest of us. When he walked to the parts department, Lester moved across the concrete shop floor with slow deliberation, dragging one foot slowly behind him, the result of a stroke he’d suffered some years before. Though the stroke slowed Lester down, it did nothing to impair his hearing, or his voice.

Sometimes the shop would be a nice buzz of music turned up too loud, mixed with the zing of air-ratchets and impact wrenches. Amidst the chorus or ROXANNE and the drone of ten air tools running at once another sound would sneak into my consciousness. Clump-slide, clump-slide, clump-slide. And there would be Lester. By the time he ambulated all the way from his little room to my stall, he was really pissed off. The long walk also gave him a lot of time to think about exactly how he was going to tell me that he JUST DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHY THAT G-D MUSIC NEEDED TO BE SO F-ING LOUD! The rest of a typical Tim and Lester conversation can’t be repeated here. One day I came in from lunch only to find the wires to my speakers snipped neatly with a wire cutter. So Ronski retaliated by cutting the power cord on the little clock radio in the unit room.

I can’t say it was all in good fun, we were all young and feisty – except for Lester. By the next week all was forgiven however, especially after I helped Lester put ball joints in his personal car afTer work one day. Then I was Lester’s buddy.

Until two or three days later when one of those great rock ‘n roll songs came on the radio. And underneath the hammers and power tools and Sting’s lament to his new love, this one odd sound would creep in: clump-slide, clump-slide, clump-slide.

And now whenever I hear Roxanne on the classic rock station, I think of Lester. And I thank god I don’t have to pull wrenches in a shop full of guys less than half my age.