5/11/99

From Silb to Egzoz, Repair for the Worst

Think you need just a squirt of oil? Prepare for the 'shokobservim' of your life.

    If you have a car, you have a Morris.
    Morris is my garagenik. His place is like any other, with the marble walls, the mustachioed Mohammed walking around with a wrench in his hand and a chip on his shoulder, the wall-to-wall bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. (The main reason he has cars up on the lift is that there's nowhere else to put them.)
    I like Morris because he's honest and expensive. (I wouldn't trust him if he was honest and cheap.) He's got all the gadgets and meters, and handles them with the aplomb of a brain surgeon. He even uses a stethoscope, for goodness sake.
    There's one unwritten rule about Morris's garage: you have to wait. The prime minister could come in, he could even be the first one there when Morris opens up in the morning, he still has to wait. But you have to know how to wait. For instance, never, ever wait in the waiting room. Don't sit in your car and honk. Don't call for an appointment. Don't tell him you're in a hurry. Try anything; he'll just smile and say: "Wait."
    The way to wait is, you have to hover. Morris always has a herd of customers standing by his side, shuffling along with him as he moves from car to car. You mustn't stand too close, or get maneuvered to the back of the herd. Never ask "Am I next?"; you have to say the right thing at the right time, to be noticed at the precise moment when Morris is ready.
    When Morris slams down a hood and looks up, that's the right time to say something like: "Busy day, huh?" If he responds, it's the signal that you're next.
    When he stops spinning a suspended wheel and nods, slip in a quick joke, like: "It might work better if it was on the ground."
    When he slides in the last ring in a fantastically complicated gearbox and says "Aha!", you might risk a little flattery, if you don't mind dirty looks from the others: "Morris, you're a genius, I could never put that thing together."
    While a customer absorbs the shock of a cost estimate, you could try a bold, direct hint: "You think my problem'll cost that much?"
    If you're too pushy, you've had it. "Mohammed," he'll holler, "take a look at this guy's drive shaft." You've been shafted, alright: nobody comes to Morris to have Mohammed do the work.
    (Of course, all that's academic, because there's always gonna be that S.O.B. who strides in and, ignoring the rules, hollers "Yalla Morris," prompting Morris to drop everything and hang out with this guy until the next shameless hollerer walks in. But don't bother trying it; either you have what it takes or you don't, and if you read this newspaper, you don't.)
    Does your Morris speak English? Nah. None of them do, not a word. You'll pick up your car and he'll explain why it took a week and a half:  
    "Breksim, girzim, shokobservim, overall, egzoz."
    "Oy."
    "Rear bakax, front bakax, klutch, silbim."
    "Gevalt!"
    "Plus plugim, bandim, fyoozim, coppling, flushing, shpritzerim, filterim, griz, kabelim v'rudiutor condishoner."
    And you say "How much?" in English, and it turns out he canג€™t speak the language.
    Cheer up, though; you'll shell out enough to buy two new semitrailerim, but at least your car's not a totaloss.
    (My favorite is that there "silbim." It's a "sealed beam" -- but in the plural; one sealed beam is a "silb.")

EVER GO out with Morris on a test drive? You tell him you think your breksim are shot. He tells his hovering herd he'll be back in a minute, points to the passenger seat and says "Get in."
    "Gee, I didn't know my car could do 140," you say, with your heart in your mouth. And talking animatedly with his hands, he turns to you (he assumes you're watching the road for him), chortles, assures you this baby can do 180, and proves it.
    (It's one of those incomprehensible laws of the road: a garagenik is allowed to do 180 in a 60 zone.)
    Then he slams on the breksim, going from 180 to zero in a second and a half, and says, "Hmm. I think you're right." But just to be sure, he repeats the process on the flight back to the garage.
    Sure enough, he's gone halfway across town and back. Exactly one minute.
    When you're finally selected from among the hoverers, you want to take full advantage of his attention. "While we're at it," you say, keeping the others at bay, "I've been hearing these noises."
    If Morris is an expert at anything, it's noises.
    "What noises?"
    "A sort of a tika-tika from where I think the engine is. And when I make a left turn, sometimes there's a kind of tchach-tchach -- no, more like a chick-chack -- that could be the front right wheel falling off. Oh yeah, and last week when I was at a bar mitzva in Holon, I heard a pssssssss, followed by a sudden gluck."
    "Just one gluck?"
    "Definitely."
    Morris knows instantly what it all means: two weeks in the Bahamas for his family, all expenses paid (by me). But he has to make it look good, so he suggests maybe he should take a look. (What are you gonna say, no?)
    There ought to be a prayer you can say while the garagenik has his head under your hood.
    It's like what Deri must have felt when the judge said: "This court finds you..."
    C'mon, Morris, what's the verdict -- say something!
    Hold your breath...
    "Tsk."
    It's the tongue-cluck of doom.
    Alright, you think, it's bad. But how bad?
    Morris straightens up and looks you right in the eye. Your life hinges on his very next words; 99 times out of 100 it'll be something like...
    "Who's the last guy who worked on your car?"
    "Look, the best I can do is let you pay in 36 monthly instalments."
    "Don't you know your car needs water?"
    "I'll have an estimate for you a week from next Tuesday."
    "Boy, even if I could get parts for this model..."
    "Ach, if only you'd come to me a day earlier."
    "By the looks of it, you have a teenage son who just got his license."
    "I can see why somebody sold you this car."
    Or, if there is a God: "Mister, you're very lucky."

MORRIS IS smart, because he makes it clear he doesn't need your 3,000 shekel job. He gladly refers you to some yokel who can do the job for a thou -- knowing perfectly well that you'll learn a lesson, because that's the surest way to make it a 5,000 shekel job.  
    Morris is very rich: in this country, any Jew with dirt under his fingernails is rich.
    Morris is dependable: if he screws up, he'll do the job again and again until he gets it right -- and he guarantees it.
    Morris is thorough: if he doesn't find anything wrong, he'll keep looking until he does. (He knows you're not there because your car's in perfect condition, and anyway, whose is?)
    Morris is patient: if he can't fix your car until that new hex nut  arrives from Japan, he doesn't mind.
    Morris cares, he really does: "I won't give you the car until it's safe enough to put your kids in it."
    Morris commands trust: he knows you don't understand nuthin' about anything beyond the dashboard, so he'll say: "look, just trust me."
    Morris believes in customer satisfaction: he knows that when you finally get possession of your car again, you'll be happy to just get the hell outta there. 
    And most of all, Morris knows: you'll be back.