The annual Christmas bash of the Yule Be Sorry Club was itching to get started.
But the world wouldn't cooperate.
Tony Renzi's Italian pork was heating. The slaw and potato salad were in the battered fridge at the back ofR&B Automotive repair shop. The Yards and Yuengling were on ice in the plastic cooler. (Club rule: Only Pennsylvania brews to toast the Lord's birthday.)
The bottles of Chianti sat atop a tool chest. Clumps of green plastic garland (retired refugees from Bart Brewer's home holiday displays) were strewn comically about the shop, a strand across an air pump there, a clump adorning a tire there.
Johnny T. had called to say he was closing up and would be across the street soon. Old Milt would arrive at 2 sharp. Scootch the Snap-On Tool Guy would stop by after he finished delivering bottles of cheer to his customers. The Kid was in the back service bay, trying hard to finish the Travers job. Bart likewise was scurrying to solve Zach Porter's "check engine light" problem. Looked like the O2 sensor.
The others would slide by later, staying long enough to quaff a drink, share a joke.
But the party couldn't begin until work was done. As Tony Renzi looked across the big counter in the front of R&B Automotive, he counted the customers still milling about: No way we close by 2. Party's startin' late this year.
What was it with people? Was the date of Christmas kept secret until the last minute? These people from the Hill were college grads, most of them. So why did they wait until Christmas Eve to remember they were driving to Aunt Marge's that week, and needed an oil change before?
But, hey, they were customers, God love 'em, so Tony met their needs using the same genial patter- "Stan, it looked pretty good, but ya did have to get a new set of wiper blades from Santa. Yeah, yeah, Santa takes Mastercard" - that he'd been tossing over that tall counter for 24 years.
He was the front-of-the-shop man, the face of the place. His partner, Bart, spent more of his time in back, bent under the hood, beloved tools in hand.
Behind and above Tony's head, two signs hung on the wall: "TOURISTS TREATED SAME AS HOME FOLKS" and "ALL BILLS MUST BE PAID IN FULL BEFORE THE CAR LEAVES. NO EXCEPTIONS." The first sign was true: R&B's stout refusal to gouge the unlucky passerby had won the place a "Best in Philly" award one time, when Tony and Bart helped a magazine writer whose car had had the good sense to break down right in front of their shop. The other sign, with its tough talk, wasn't remotely true. Nope, no exceptions allowed - except for the 100 or so people Tony trusted to bring in the check some time in the next month.
Tony worked his way through the row of bills with keys attached, easing customers out the door: "Uh-oh, here comes the man with all the money. Ya know, if I had your money, Bill, I'd just throw all my money away. Wouldn't need it. Why I charge you only 30 bucks for an oil change, I'll never know."
As his master talked, Ziti the chocolate Labrador slept behind the counter. Ziti had a neurotic fear of the vacuum cleaner, so he'd been banished from home for the day so Colleen could clean in peace.
The phone rang. Tony snatched it on the second ring: "R&B, Tony talking. Yeah, hey, Tshaka, Merry Christmas. How's that little girl of yours? . . . So what you driving these days? Lord, Tshaka, you change cars like I change underwear! . . . Sure, bring it in day after the holiday, we'll take a look."
A thin, bald fellow in a camel coat fidgeted, waiting for Tony to catch his eye.
"Sir," Tony said, tilting his chin upward, trying his best to look clairvoyant. "I'm going to show you how smart I am. I know what you want to ask and here's your answer: No, this isn't 545 West on the Pike. It's 545 East. Where you want, the medical office building, that's five lights that way on the Pike. You're welcome, sir, Merry Christmas, and I hope your test goes OK."
As Camel Coat left, a striking redhead dressed all in black stepped forward, clutching a laptop. She began nervously: "Hi, don't know if we've met. My husband and I just moved in to the house across the street. And, well, this is so embarrassing, but I've locked my keys in the car with the engine running, and I've got no clue where the spare keys are and I called the cops but they won't come unless I go to the station and sign some waiver . . . "
Tony held up his hand, tugged on the ballcap that barely contained his unruly salt-and-pepper hair, and said, deadpan: "You're in luck, miss. Before I was an auto mechanic, I was an auto thief."
The woman blinked, bewildered. Tony took pity. "Not to worry, Miss . . . ?"
"Weeb. My name's Weeb. Louise, actually, but everyone calls me Weeb."
"Weeb, nice to have you for a neighbor and I guess that's your Xterra there idling to beat the band?" Tony reached behind him and grabbed a thin, steel implement, curved like a shepherd's crook at one end, with a small, sharp bend at the other. "Don't worry, this little baby'll get your door open, no problem. . . . Bart! Can you come take the front for a bit while I solve a predicament for our new neighbor here?"
Bart Brewer - angular as Tony was round, blond hair slicked back, eyes brilliant blue - poked his head through the door that linked the office to the shop floor: "Miriam show yet?"
"Not yet, but she'll be here soon. Count on it. Bart, this here's Weeb, our new neighbor with her keys locked in her car. Gonna help her out. Be back in a minute."
