Manual labor as a metaphor
by C.A. Smith
"Give your career a boost," the ad read. "Tire and battery men needed. No experience necessary. Apply in person."
"I don't know anything about cars and can't drive a stick," I tell the manager. I'm cocky—3 percent unemployment will do that to you.
"No problem," he answers. "There's no 'I' or 'you' here. It's only 'us' back in the shop."
I nod. I never see him again.
I pass the drug test and report to work the next day.
"You're gonna get those dirty today," Anthony says, pointing at my unscuffed shoes. "Wear boots tomorrow, if you got any."
Anthony is a handsome, bullet-headed black man in his mid-20s. You can see the outline of his biceps through his shirt. I'm a white man 10 years his senior and see my arms hang like dead twigs. I've spent most of my adult life in office jobs—insurance salesman, loan officer, that sort of thing. This is going to be my first honest job.
Anthony drives in our first ticket. It's a beat-up, rusted-out SUV. The inside is filled with beer cans and empty potato chip bags.
Anthony says, "I tell you, the customer is dissing us, man. He's the type that goes to the doctor with his dirty underwear on!"
I laugh.
"Let's break it down! Customer wants four new tires."
I yank and stack the tires as Anthony goes around, prying off the hub-caps and air-gunning the lugs. He pops the nozzles and demonstrates how to break the beads using a wicked piece of hydraulic machinery called a 'separator'.
"Watch it now, son." Anthony says. "This damn thing will separate your leg from your body if you ain't careful."
I roll the old tires to the back and come back with my palms beading with blood.
"You got bit," Anthony says, grabbing my hands. "Watch out for those old steel belts, the steel catches on human flesh like Velcro. You gonna be OK?"
"Yeah."
Anthony shows me how to use the separator to put new rubber on the rims. The choreography is intricate and dangerous. Anthony assures me that I'll catch on.
He inspects the jeep's undercarriage. "Customer needs brakes," he announces.
As if on cue, the customer walks over. He's a flabby middle-aged guy in flip flops who looks like he spends his days in a climate-controlled office somewhere selling something over the phone. Somebody like me. He has two little daughters with him.
Anthony shows him worn pads.
"Duly noted," the man says. "I'll come back later."
"They're worn to the metal, mister," Anthony replies.
"Duly noted," the man says again.
I look at his kids. They keep their hands gathered at their chins. I silently wish them luck.
The next morning, I'm wandering the shop floor, looking for Anthony.
"Hey!" somebody yells.
It's Jimmy, hanging out the window of a car. "You're working for me today," he says.
He hoists the car. "Take those tires off."
I pry off a hub cap. He hands me an air gun.
Brrp! Brrp! The nut doesn't budge. "It's stuck," I say.
"Look at what you're doin'."
I look at the nut.
"Don't look at the nut, look at the gun. The GUN for chrissakes."
I look at the gun.
"Do you see anything wrong?"
"No."
"You have it on forward."
By lunchtime, I'm a nervous wreck. I try to lose Jimmy, but he follows me into the break room. "OK, lunch over," Jimmy announces. "Go work with Jimmy now."
"Jimmy?"
"The other Jimmy in bay 10."
The other Jimmy is twice the size of yellow-haired Jimmy. He has shortly cropped light brown hair with zits peppering the outline of his face and lazy slits for eyes.
"Jimmy said I should come over and help you," I say.
He looks at me and sighs. "Go ahead and lift the truck."
Big Jimmy's bay uses a drive-on hoist. I bounce down unto my hams and study it.
"Whatz wrong?" he asks.
"What keeps the truck from rolling off?"
"How the f—k would I know? Just lift the damn thing!"
I look at him.
"You haven't been around tools before have you?" he asks.
"No."
"You can't be tentative around 'em. If you hang back, they'll hurt you."
He saunters off and goes outside lighting up a cigarette. I hoist the truck against my better judgment and begin taking the tires off. I stack them in a nice, neat pile. My heart skip beat as I see Jimmy fling away his cigarette and come running back.
"This is a rotation job! Didn't you check the ticket? Which tire came from where? Go get the ticket!"
I get the ticket, but he ignores it. "Tell me what you're gonna do now? Huh? Well? You're f——d, that's what!"
My vision grows red, adrenaline spritzes into my veins. "No, you're f——d. F—k you," I say. "F—k you and the yellow-haired midget too."
I walk across the shop and go into the locker room to pick up my stuff. Anthony finds me and slaps a tire iron in my hand.
"If both of them come after you, I'll help. Otherwise, you're on your own—tire shop rules."
"You're f——d too," I say. I'm giddy. I'll never forget this. I walk back onto the shop floor.
"Over here, NOW!" Big Jimmy yells.
Customers scatter but I keep walking. I get into my car and head for a local golf-course. I hear they're hiring...
January 4, 2001 * Vol. 11, No. 1
© 2001 Metro Pulse
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