Chapter 2: Charley’s Autohaus

I was still feeling stress and shock from finding my new wife in bed with her old roommate, that is, her old lover. I put my mind back eight months and thought about when Terry and I first met.

Hearing the familiar clatter of a diesel-powered car pulling up to my garage, I put down my tools, wiped my hands, and walked out of the bay from underneath the Volkswagen Golf TDI that I had up on the lift.

Standing next to a remarkably young-looking mid-1990s Mercedes 300D (a large four-door sedan) was a tall and curvy young woman with long, wavy brown hair in casual clothes. Her face showed stress and uncertainty.

“Hello, I’m Charley Sims; this is my shop. How can I help you?”

“You fix diesel-powered cars like this one?”

“I sure do; that Golf up on the lift behind me is a diesel. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a stylish young woman like yourself doing with a frumpy old car like this?”

“It belonged to my father, and he passed it on to me when he died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss. So, what seems to be the trouble?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I’m Theresa Monroe. Terry. I don’t seem to have Dad’s skill at keeping her running right. It’s really hard to start; it’s polluting more and more with extra smoke coming out the back, and even the radio quit on me.

“The dealer quoted me an absolutely astronomical estimate, which I can’t possibly afford, and I don’t have enough income to get another car. That Mercedes dealer was so snooty, they couldn’t wait to get rid of me and my old-fashioned car. Now their cars are all slick-looking and hideously expensive.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I guess I need to leave it with you, Charley, so you can diagnose it while I’m at work. I can be back here at five o’clock; would that be alright?”

“Sure. I usually charge $100 for a diagnostic, but you caught me on a good day, so I’ll waive the charge.”

I was applying a cute girl discount, political correctness be damned.

“Oh, that’s nice of you, thank you. I’ll get my bike out while you make out a receipt for me.”

For those unfamiliar with this model, the 300D was used around the world as a taxi—very popular in Europe, where gasoline was double or triple the price of diesel fuel. There’s no downward slope to the roof, leaving ample room in the back seat for passengers (even tall, long-legged Germans) and a spacious trunk.

I watched her heave an old road bike out of the trunk; you might see a high school student use one for commuting while they were too young to drive.

“Is your work far from here?” I wasn’t eager to close the shop, but I didn’t like the idea of her going a long way through evening traffic.

“No, it’s easy. I work at the medical center; it’s only half a mile away. Here are my keys. I’m hoping you can figure out what ails the old girl. Bye, Charley, I’ll see you at five.”

“OK. Ride carefully; they drive like maniacs on Lincoln Blvd.”

I watched her ride off. On this type of bike her torso was horizontal, and her ass hovered over the little seat as she pedaled. Insincerely, I scolded myself. And yet, she was too delicious not to watch. She glanced back over her shoulder and caught me leering. Oops. My bad.

I finished with the Golf, drove it for a mile or so to be sure it was fixed, parked it to the side, and texted the owner to come get it.

After a second cup of coffee, I was ready for the old girl. Terry already had me calling it that, I chuckled. I felt nostalgic surveying the old-style dashboard. All analog dials and nothing digital. As she had said, getting the motor started was difficult and slow, and I knew I was in for a headache before I was done with her. I carefully lined her wheels up on the lift and parked in position. (The car was a “4-matic,” which is Benzese for an automatic transmission.)

Before I left the driver’s seat, I checked the fuses. Yup. I went to the cabinet, found the right fuse, and installed the replacement. The radio came to life, easy-peasy.

“If only all fixes were like that.” Years in the garage meant I talked to myself out loud all the time.

From that point, though, it was all downhill. Finished with the hands-on part of my work, I brought down the lift and hauled all the paperwork out of the glove box to the office to review.

I already knew I would be the bearer of bad news, and I worried that soon I’d have a very upset bicyclist on my hands.

After my third keyboard in four months failed, I’ve learned to clean my hands before using my office computer. I reviewed the service records first. The car’s history was fairly complete and well documented. But even the most reliable automobile model with proper maintenance isn’t going to get past 250,000 miles without some failures. If the old girl were a spacecraft, she would be past the moon by now or have orbited the earth almost ten times.

“Focus, Charley, it’s not science corner.”

As the items added up, I scowled. “Terry is going to hate this.”

Finally, after confirming the prices for the list of necessary parts, I saved the spreadsheet and put the PC in “sleep” mode. Back in the bay, I studied the old car. For her age, she was in fine condition. Overall, the body had only the most minor dings and scratches, the paint was good, and the seats and upholstery were clean and in good condition.

It seemed unkind somehow to give up on her.

Then I had an idea and looked into my rack of spare parts. There they were! A new set of five glow plugs for a guy’s 300D. I bought them years ago but they were never used, because the stupid man wrapped his car around a concrete pillar the day before his appointment. The massive car saved his life, but that was the end for the vehicle.

[Author’s note:
To start the engine in a diesel-powered car, special plugs are used to intensely heat each cylinder. The glow plugs operate like the glowing red filaments inside a toaster, but many times hotter. After a few moments, the necessary temperature is reached. On the dashboard, the glow indicator goes dark, and it’s time to crank the engine. Fuel is injected and ignites, and the diesel engine idles with the characteristic clattering sound.]

I made a snap decision. It was only 3:30, and I decided to volunteer an hour of labor and replace the glow plugs in Terry’s 300D. This should at least make the process of starting go easier for her and soften the rest of the blow.

Congratulating myself on my good deed for the week, I figured the five $20 parts were already paid for and I had the time available.

“Another cute girl discount, you dog!”

I glanced again at the old wall clock, showing 5:20, but still no sign of Terry. But then I heard her bike rattle and get propped up next to my open office door.

“I’m so sorry; they kept me late for some bullshit, Charley.”

She was red-faced, breathing hard, and sweaty. Stray hair dangled in front of her face, and she brushed it away. Completely adorable.

“It’s OK, I wasn’t going to leave until you could get here. Please, just take a minute and catch your breath. I have a clean restroom over there, but first tell me if you want a drink. I have Coke, Sprite, root beer, and...”

“Root beer? Oh, yes, please. I’ll be right back.”

“She likes root beer? I want to marry her!” The unspoken thoughts caused me to smile. I reminded myself not to speak my internal dialogue out loud where she might overhear me.

In the corner of my small office, I had a small “college dorm” type refrigerator, which supported a microwave and my tiny coffee maker. I pulled out two root beer cans and placed them on each side of my desk.

Terry returned and sat in the comfortable chair. She’d obviously washed her face and corralled all of her hair back into a ponytail with a clip.

“Dad’s Old Fashioned? Excellent!”

“I run a quality establishment, ma’am. But I won’t make you wait. I went over your car thoroughly...”

“Daisy.”

“You named your car Daisy?”

“I didn’t; my father did. I asked him why, and he said he needed a flower name because she smelled.”

“I think I would have liked to meet your dad, Terry.”

“I have no doubt of that. You have a preference for German cars in common. I know his reasons, but what is your excuse, Mr. Charles ‘Autohaus’ Sims?”

“I didn’t have many choices after high school, but I did take auto shop and decided that would be something I could do for work. I worked at a few places building up my knowledge and experience, and then the guy who owned this place hired me. His parents were immigrants from Germany, and his father created this business and handed it on to him when he retired. So he knew everything about German cars and taught me all the ins and outs.

“I found that I preferred working on these German cars compared to all the other makes I worked on before. Even a lowly Volkswagen could last forever if treated properly. And people who buy these expensive imports get attached to them and want to be sure they get properly treated. The local dealers for these brands are penny-pinching idiots and hire cheap, low-skilled mechanics who can’t or won’t read manuals. Then, owners bring their cars to me because I have built a reputation.”