This morning at 7:45 am I walked out of the house to my car, planning to take it in to the garage I like so much, for its 112,000 mile check-up. My philosophy: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, which is why my car is a ’93 Ford.
Problem: front left tire is flat flat flat — dead flat.
I have a class at 9 am and no way to get there… so what now?
Walked back inside house and pulled out card for same garage where I planned to take the car. Called. Their service guy will be in at 8 (right now, about 7:52) and he can probably come right over and fix my flat.
Service guy — he id’s himself as Chris — calls at 8:01 en route to my house. Calls again 8:16 stuck in traffic, but about 1/4mile from my house. I go outside.
Five minutes later, Chris pulls up in the old station service truck and parks. Gets out and, holy moly! he’s smokin’ hot and calm and in control. My blood pressure literally drops about 30 points and I know everything will be fiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnne. Seriously.
He inflates the tire, jacks up the car, and checks the tire again. The culprit: nail in tire. He lies down between the car and me, coolly pulls the nail, fixes the tear, checks the tire thoroughly again, turns the car on, checks that the tire is okay again, and takes down his equipment.
All the time, he has nothing of the “Stand aside, little lady” ethos. Just cool, competent, gentlemanly. Combined with big green eyes and strong forearms, complete with tribal tattoos.
I know because apparently I consciously checked him out. He didn’t catch me–I think–but I did. Thoroughly.
He makes sure I’m okay, says he’ll meet me at the garage, and heads off. I get my stuff, head for garage, turn in car for check-up. Guy at desk says Chris will take me up to school (about a mile away). Chris says he’ll pull the truck around. Truck is 15 feet away: he doesn’t need to pull it around. Unnecessary, but polite. I just follow him over. He leans across the seat and opens the door, since he’s already inside. He apologizes for “old” service truck, because apparently the new one was in a crash last week and is currently in body shop. I say, no worries, because after all my car is 18 years old and I like old trucks (I do, too!). He replies that he’s got a ’96 Ford — “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.”
I swear that’s what he said…
Drives me up to school, we talk about what I teach–which is a subject he was good at. He’s not put off–it seems–by me being a professor. Nice, easy conversation. More than polite stranger, less than hoochie. Did I mention: big green eyes, smokin’ hot body, air of being comfortable with himself and me?
Chris drops me off at the turnaround–not the corner. Nice.
So: someone has to come and pick me up at school at 4 pm so I can pick up my car… and I have to bring the car in again Wednesday to get brakes fixed. And I just realized I have his cell on my phone, from this morning. Anticipation: I don’t recognize it.