How Much Should I Take Him For?

by Richard T. Hellinga

I’ve got to sit here and cover the front for that dumbass John while he’s at the bank cashing my paycheck, just like I told’im to. Two weeks ago the rat-bastard makes me the foreman in the shop. Then last week when I go to deposit my first check with the extra 80 bucks on it I get fucked. My wife calls me on Tuesday to tell me that the bank called and that the check bounced. Son of a bitch. The money disappeared before I even got the fuckin’ chance to spend a dime of it. I told that dumbass I was gonna pack up every one of my tools and leave. Then he was like “Oh, Dave I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.” I told him I don’t give a fuck what happened and to get me my fuckin’ money. So he squared it away with the bank. But then I said, from now on, if he wants me to work here, he’s gonna have to cash my paychecks for me every fuckin’ week. I don’t need that kind of shit. I’ve got to help support a wife, kids, a house, and two cars. Who the fuck does that idiot take me for? How can you fuck over the people that work for you?

It’s a slow morning. I take a drink from my Pepsi. There’s another article in the Sports section here about whether the Sox are gonna get a new ballpark paid for by us taxpayers. Fuckin’ cold outside. All that snow last night and now it’s down in the teens. Our furnace is on the fritz. It died the other night but I managed to get it going again. For some reason the pilot light went out. That’s not a good sign at all. It’s over 15 years old. We’re gonna have to replace it soon. There’s no way around it.

In the office here it’s not too bad. There’s an extra space heater. I don’t mind sitting awhile, but it’s not like I don’t have plenty of work to do to support myself and John’s coke habit.

Through the front window I see this maroon four-door Town Car pull up. Though the window is kind of frosted up a bit, I can see that the front fender is pushed in, it looks like the grill’s cracked, and I can tell the hood ain’t quite closed. Out comes a kid about sixteen or seventeen. Behind him a black Camaro pulls up, and out comes another kid. The first kid says a few words to the kid with the Camaro. They look Italian. They’re antsy from the cold and I can see their breath. They come in together. I feel a blast of that icy air and they quickly shut the door behind them, thank God. It seems the older I get the harder it is to handle the damn cold.

I close up the paper and set it down on the desk in front of me. “What can I do for you two guys?” I ask.

“Uh, I need my car fixed,” says the kid who drove the Town Car. His voice is deep but he don’t sound too sure of himself. He’s stocky, kind of barrel-chested; built like a football player. He’s wearing a real nice-looking black leather jacket and a pair of jeans that are tight. Looks like a fag. I don’t get guys wearin’ tight jeans. Who they showin’ off for? Other guys? His friend’s a little shorter, with a black jacket and tight jeans too, looking just as clueless. Clueless One and Clueless Two, come in.

“Looks like it,” I say. I know it ain’t his car.

“Yeah, uh, how long do you think it’ll take for you guys to fix it?” He looks all fidgety, not just from the cold but like he’s trying to play it cool but can’t help himself.

“Don’t know. I need to take a good look at it first. Do you want an estimate?”

“How much will it cost?”

“Nothin’. Estimates are free,” I say. “That way if you don’t like what I tell you, you can go somewhere else to get another estimate. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah. That would be cool.”

I stand up and finish off my Pepsi and throw the empty plastic bottle in the trash next to the desk. I should’ve just left it there on the desk and let John throw it away; make him clean up after my mess instead of me always having to clean up after him.

“Why don’t you pull it inside so that I can look at it without freezing,” I say. “I’ll open one of the doors.”

So in the shop I’m looking over this Town Car. Those two kids are waiting in the office. Billy’s underneath the front of a Caprice. Jay’s in the spray booth painting that Mustang I finished yesterday for that moron I overquoted by fifteen hundred just because I didn’t want to have to deal with him. Any asshole who tells you they get their car detailed every three months loves their car way too fuckin’ much. People like that are a royal pain. When I told the guy the price he didn’t even blink, so we got stuck doing his fuckin’ car. He’ll pay, but I’m sure he’ll want everything absolutely perfect. People like that are never happy when other people touch their cars.

The Town car’s an ‘87. Not even a year old. The inside is real sweet; black leather and power everything. The kid’s old man didn’t spare a dime on this car. Outside, the grill needs to be replaced; I’ll have to order that. The fender ain’t too bad; I know I can take care of that. I pop the hood. There’s no damage to the radiator or the engine. But the hood won’t quite close all the way. Once I get the fender right and replace the grill I’ll have to see. Mostly labor. I won’t have to paint anything.

I go back into the office and ask the kid, “So how’d it happen?”

“I was just parking it at the mall last night,” he says. “And there was a light post right at the end of the space, you know what I’m talking about? But there was some ice in the space. I didn’t think I was going that fast. But the car wouldn’t stop and it slid right into the post.” He shows me with his hands.

“It snowed pretty heavy last night,” I say. I know because I had to clear my driveway with the snow blower just so I could pull my car out of the garage.
The kid nods with his eyes open real wide. “Yeah, it did.”

“Whose car is it?”

“Mine,” he says, but he don’t look or sound too confident.

“You got insurance?”

“Yeah, but—” He stops himself.

I keep looking at him like I look at my own kids when they give me a line of shit. And after a second or two he says, “Well, actually, it’s my father’s car.”

“I figured that. Does he know you wrecked it?”

“No.”

“I see.” This kid is in deep shit. I pull some parts books off the shelves behind the desk, then sit down and start looking up some things.

“How long will it take to fix?” he asks. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

I don’t look up at him because I’m trying to find the part number for that grill. “No it’s not that bad,” I say. “Couple days. There’s no damage to the engine or the frame. If that was the case then you’d have real problems.”

“I can have it back this weekend?”

“Depends on whether I can get the parts that quick.” I pull out a pen and an estimate sheet.

He shakes his head and says, “Shit, man.” Then he turns to his friend and asks, “What am I going to do?” The other kid shrugs. His hands are in his jacket pockets. “I don’t know what to tell you, dude.”

“You need it soon?” I ask.

He looks down at the floor and then back up at me. “Yeah. My parents will be back Sunday. They’re in Vegas. I have to pick them up at the airport Sunday night.”

He is definitely shittin’ his fancy fuckin’ tight pants. And he should be. So now I’m lookin’ at this kid and I can’t help but think, how much should I take him for? I don’t care where he gets the money. I don’t care where John gets the money to pay me. That’s not my problem. I do the work, I’m uspposed to get paid. The kid wrecks the car, he’s gotta pay to fix it. I’m not the one who took his old man’s car out for a spin behind his back. The little Italian Prince probably has a nice fat account just like his buddy here with the Camaro. Typical fuckin’ dago. They turn sixteen and they get themselves a Camaro or a Trans Am because that’s what they gotta have and their stupid parents give it to’em. I don’t understand how the hell you can give a 16-year-old a car like that. They’re guaranteed to smash it up. They’re too young and stupid and inexperienced. I don’t know how many cars I’ve seen that were wrecked by teenagers. You give a 16-year-old a car like that and they think they own the whole fuckin’ world. Like they’re entitled. They don’t learn how to appreciate what they got, especially because they haven’t eaten shit day in and day out at a job in order to pay for the car in the first place. And then the stupid parents wonder why their kids are so fuckin’ stupid. If any one of my kids took out either my car or my wife’s car without our permission I’d kill’em then ground’em for a month. Who do they think they are? As if driving is some sort of right. Well it ain’t in the Constitution that’s for sure. Not that I don’t feel bad for the kid. When I was that age all I wanted to do was impress girls. But that don’t make it okay to take out your old man’s car while he’s on vacation. He’s a good-looking kid. I bet he’s got more than one girlfriend. Or maybe not with those tight jeans of his. Or maybe that’s what the girls go for these days. Who knows with these kids? I always had a couple girls. Up until I started dating my future wife. Then I got married and I haven’t so much as touched another woman. When you’re young and unmarried it’s one thing to be hotroddin’ around. Maybe he thought he was clever. My oldest think’s he’s pretty clever. The other two seem to know their limits. I don’t worry so much about Scott. He knows what he’s supposed to do. Though Anne wants to do more than we allow her, for the most part she still listens to us. But not Kenny. Oh, no. I know he’s doing a whole lot of things with those stupid loser friends of his I don’t wanna know about. If he’d use the fuckin’ brains he’s got to get along, instead of getting around, he’d be ten times farther ahead than everyone else. But so far it looks like Kenny will actually make it to college, like he should. A few more jobs like this and I’ll be able to pay for it. I’ll worry about the other two’s college money when the time comes. I got enough to worry about right now.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say to the kid.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” he says.

Don’t thank me until you’ve seen the bill, I want to say. Boy does he look earnest and guilty. I bet he’s praying to God right now. Well, kid, do whatever you think is gonna help save your ass, because you’re gonna need it. He obviously didn’t think it through. He obviously doesn’t have a whole lotta experience driving that whale of a car around, let alone when it's snowing. You grow up around Chicago you’d think you’d know how to drive in this weather. Or maybe his old man didn’t instill enough fear in him.
Shit, my old man made me beg for the car the night of my senior prom. I had a date waiting to be picked up. I was wearing my rented tux. I was holding the flower I was going to pin on her. But my father made me beg him right there in the front room while my mother and younger brother sat with him watching the fights on TV. We only had one car. If anything happened to it we were screwed. And my old man didn’t quite trust me. I was only just graduating, barely. I wasn’t exactly a serious student at CVS. I was too busy cutting classes with my friends. Yeah, I thought I was pretty fuckin’ cool. But I didn’t know shit. And neither do these two clueless kids.

“Can I have your name and address?” I ask the kid.

“Yeah. It’s...”

I take down the kid’s name, number, and address, and write in a bunch of numbers on the sheet for the parts and labor, and then add it all up on the calculator. The kid’s obviously not wealthy. But a bit better than most around here. If his parents are travellin’ to Vegas they must be doin’ all right. I figure three hundred extra oughta be enough for a rush job. And I figure I’ll take care of it myself. Fuck’im. But then I glance up at these two clueless kids and see his face. He looks scared. The same look my own kids get when they know how much they’ve fucked up. They know it. Just like this kid knows it. I stop writing. I don’t put in the total. He should be in school right now, not here in this dirty shop sweatin’ it out over whether his old man’s gonna find out about this little baby of an accident. It’s nothin’ really. Coulda happened any time. So what the hell am I doing? The fuck’s my problem? This kid is screwed enough as it is. To fuck him over like this would be like shooting a cow in a cage. He’s stuck. He can’t put this on the insurance because then his parents will find out and he’ll get in trouble and the premiums will go up. So he’s gotta pay for it himself with whatever money he’s got. If my kids were in a similar situation, I wouldn’t want them gettin’ taken advantage of.

I cross out a few things on the sheet. I know guys who’d take him for whatever they can. Like my boss who can’t fuckin’ add and subtract. But I’m not gonna take this kid. If I fuck this kid then I’m no better than that dumbass John, who still hasn’t come back with my money. I’m not like that. I’m not gonna be like that. I’m not gonna live my life that way. John or some of these other assholes I’ve worked for wouldn’t think twice about fuckin’ over this kid. But I gotta square it with my conscience. That’s my problem. I cross out everything on the sheet. It’s one thing to take from that prick Mustang owner, but it’s another to take from this kid. And that’s what it takes to be an owner. Which is probably why I’m just a worker and always will be. And I’m not any less of a man because of it. I don’t have trouble sleeping at night because I don’t go around taking from people that don’t deserve it. What comes around goes around. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna do this kid any favors by giving him a break. It costs what it costs. Hell, maybe I should do the whole thing for the cost of the parts just to piss off John. I bet he’d love that. I could do that just to spite that coke-snortin’ idiot...Screw that. I’m not gonna take away a chance at making some honest money for myself. And that’s exactly what it is: honest money. No bullshit.

“Ah, shit,” I say. “I messed up something. I need to redo it.” I rip up the sheet, crumble it, and throw it in the garbage. Than I pull out a new sheet and rewrite everything but with a reasonable total and sign it at the bottom, David Post, and date it, then come out from behind the desk and hand it to Clueless One. He takes it and looks it over. He don’t know what to look for. This is probably the first time in his entire life he’s been inside a body shop. He’s probably never even lifted a hammer. And there’s nothing necessarily wrong with that. I don’t want any of my kids working in a body shop either. You end up working for a dumbass boss who snorts eight-balls and writes you a bad paycheck. It’s always the same; everybody gets burned one way or another. John’s dealer fucks him. John fucks me. I fuck that prissy Mustang owner. The kid fucks his old man. The casinos fuck his old man. Who knows who his old man fucks over? Or that Mustang owner. If they can afford those cars they must be fuckin’ over plenty of people. And the government fucks everybody so they can build that asshole owner of the Sox a new fuckin’ stadium with luxury fuckin’ skyboxes I’ll never be able to afford to fuckin’ sit in. It’s just take and take and take. You always gotta be on your toes because there’s always someone out there who is out to fuck you over. Who knows all the ways we get fucked every single day and we don’t even know it; that’s the real burn.

“That’s a lot,” says the kid.

He probably thinks I’m taking him. So I can’t help myself. “Shoulda thought about that before you took your old man’s car out for a spin without his permission.”

He frowns and tightens his lips, nodding again. “So you can get it done on-time?”

“I gotta see if we can get the parts in. If I call now, I should be able to get’em in by this afternoon.”

“So when can I pick up the car?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.” I don’t want to go into work tomorrow, but I am for the few extra bucks I’m gonna make.

“So when do I pay you?” he asks.

“When you pick up the car,” I say. “And just so you know, we don’t take personal checks.”

“Oh,” he says. His friend’s face kind of tightens up, too.

“Yeah,” I say. “We only take credit cards, money orders, and cash.”

“I see. All right then, uh, I guess I want you to go ahead and fix it.”

Not like he’s got any choice. I do up a work order form. Then I have him sign it, and he leaves me the keys and goes off with his friend out the door. From my shirt pocket I take out my pack of cigarettes and lighter. I put a cigarette in my mouth, tuck the pack back into my pocket, then light the cigarette and inhale. I exhale and walk to the window that’s frosted near the corners. I take a long drag and exhale against the window. They’re in the Camaro. His buddy revs it real good before peeling out onto the street. I shake my head. He ain’t the first know-it-all teenager and he sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last. So there’s always gonna be shit like this. If that’s the way it’s gotta be, then that’s the way it’s gotta be. I can use the extra cash.

© 2003 Richard T. Hellinga. All Rights Reserved.