Shortly after I moved to Murphy about 10 months ago, my car required maintenance, and I nearly crumbled under the weight of it.
If you are of a certain gender or sensibility, the prospect of finding a trusted mechanic would not cause you to bite the skin around your nails until you taste your coppery blood. Nor would you eat all of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream – using a wooden spoon, not a dainty teaspoon, while standing in the kitchen with the freezer door hanging open.
Finding a mechanic would be an unmemorable task in your day. The same holds true for local residents. You would just call up Suzanne’s husband, who has a cousin who works for a mechanic, whose father goes to church with your neighbor. Or something like that.
However, for me, a newbie in town and a complete dolt when it comes to cars, I was terrified. As a single woman, I have been burned in a professional garage before.
I’ve long thought that mechanics should list their prices like a menu at a restaurant so when you approach the counter, after a nip of gin to steady the nerves, you can educate yourself. The menu would provide you, first, with all the things that could possibly be wrong with the car (spoiler alert: it’s always the alternator), but further, can prepare you for the cost.
It’s a terrifying prospect to walk into the oily world of a mechanic and not know if your mystery problem will equal the cost of a steak dinner or if it is closer to an economy cruise to Alaska. It’s not just fear of the unknown, but more the implied understanding between you and the mechanic that from the time you hand him your keys, he becomes the king of your universe.
I attempt to wear a brave face, sure. And I secretly refer to the notecards in my handbag to throw out terms like “crankshaft” and “gasket head,” both of which sound like characters on Saturday morning cartoons, to let him know I can’t be pushed around. But he knows that bite has no teeth.
After 20 minutes or so in the waiting room, where I also recommend installing blood pressure stations, he’ll swagger back in, accusingly holding the dreaded filthy filter, and I’m suddenly drenched in shame as if he has removed the ragged-looking filter from my own chest cavity.
So when the dreaded light came on in my car in Murphy, I panicked. The first shop I drove into, the mechanic behind the counter scurried back into the garage through the door marked “mechanics only” when we caught eyes. He must have smelled my desperation and thought, “nope, not today.”
I had more luck at the second shop. The lobby was empty, but apparently there is a trip alarm when someone enters, because after a few minutes a stern-looking man appeared through the sacred door that separates royalty from the serfs. He was a tall man who walked like a former athlete, a mix between confident and elegant.
I snuck glances at my cheat cards, but couldn’t make out if the one on top read “exhaust” or “manifold intake,” so I handed him my keys in silence. I watched my car disappear into one of the bays and bit at my fingernails until he returned.
“You just need an oil change,” he said, and I let out a long exhale of tension and fear. “I’ll get you fixed up here in no time.”
He invited me back to watch him work, where I learned his name was Johnny Chastain, and he owned the shop with his brother, Shawn Chastain. They chatted amiably with each other and sometimes included me into their sibling cocoon.
Within 20 minutes, I was done and dusted. Johnny walked me back through the magic kingdom door and began pounding out numbers on an adding machine obviously stolen from the set of 1970s television show.
When he finished his tapping, he handed me the bill, which was less than I had just spent at the ABC Store. Both brothers waved to me as I drove away, and I knew then that I could pretend to be a local (one of my favorite pastimes) if anyone asked me for a recommendation.
“Check out those brothers up at that shop near the corner,” I’ll say. “They’ll take good care of you.” Because that’s what they did for me.
Abigail Hickman is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com.