Full-Service Station
"Specialization!" Ace Muldoon spat the word out like a foul-tasting piece of rotten meat. "Specialization is killing the American businessman."
"Have another beer," Sanford, the bartender, suggested.
None of the men in Charlie's Bar was interested in hearing Ace complain about his failing business. They had heard it all before. It was the auto mechanic's favorite subject.
"When my old man owned the garage," Ace continued, oblivious to his companions' groans and obvious boredom, "customers went to him for all their automotive needs. He did everything from changing wiper blades to rebuilding engines. He also pumped enough gas to fill the Grand Canyon."
Ace stopped talking momentarily to finish off his bottle of Samuel Adams Boston Lager and order another.
"When I was a kid, I would help my dad out on weekends and after school by washing windshields, handing out free maps and giving customers their green stamps."
A drunken cry came from one of the younger men at the bar.
"Green stamps? What the hell are green stamps? Are they like food stamps or somethin'?"
"Nah. They were trading stamps. Good ol' S&H green stamps! If a customer bought five bucks worth of gas, I'd give him five bucks worth of green stamps. He'd paste the stamps in a book and trade the books in for gifts he could select from a catalog."
"Kinda like frequent flyer miles, huh?"
"Something like that. Which reminds me. When I was ten, I decided to pull a fast one on my old man. If a customer didn't ask for his stamps, I'd pocket them. I saved enough to get myself a new baseball glove and a Flexible Flyer sled. I woulda got a new bat and ball, too, except my parents found out about my little operation. My dad tanned my hide good!"
"Serves you right," Sanford laughed.
"Of course, them days are long gone," Ace declared nostalgically with a sigh, feeling another bout of self-pity coming on. "Nowadays everybody specializes. People take their cars to Midas for mufflers, Jiffy Lube for oil changes and AAMCO for transmission repairs. They buy their tires at Firestone or Goodyear. And with all the computer systems in cars these days, people have to take their vehicles back to the dealership for most other problems because your average mechanic can't afford all that fancy diagnostic equipment. Hell, very few people even come to me for gas anymore. Instead, they go down to that self-service station over on Route 692 just so they can save a few pennies on a gallon."
"More like twenty cents a gallon," Sanford corrected him.
Ignoring the bartender, Ace continued, "Where does that leave me? I had to take a second mortgage on my house so I could fix the roof on the garage. Hell! I don't know why I even bothered. The business barely covers its expenses."
"So, sell it. You can always get a job at the auto center in Walmart in Copperwell," one of the bar's patrons suggested.
"Me work for a big outfit like that? Those giant corporations are putting us small shop owners outta business. Hey, Sanford, bring me another Sam Adams."
"Haven't you had enough yet?" the bartender joked.
"Enough beer?" Ace asked morosely. "Or enough of life? The answer is no to the first one and yes to the second."
* * *
It was only after Ace's wife walked out on him that the mechanic discovered a way to save his floundering business. When word got around Puritan Falls that Falicia Muldoon had left town and Ace was soon to be available, single women began showing up at the gas station, ostensibly needing repairs done to their cars. Ace was suddenly faced with dozens of female customers claiming to hear strange noises emanating from their steering columns or smell unidentified odors from their exhaust systems, yet he could find nothing wrong with their cars. When these same women began regularly showing up to have their gas tanks filled, their oil changed and their tires rotated, the auto mechanic realized that they were hoping to win his heart, not maintain their vehicles.
After the painful breakup of his ten-year-long marriage, the last thing Ace wanted was another woman in his life, especially since he still loved Falicia. On the other hand, business had picked up considerably. It would benefit him to milk his advantage for all it was worth.
The following day Ace started dieting, and after he left the gas station each night, he went to the gym in Essex Green to work out. He figured that if he was going to dangle himself in front of the women of Puritan Falls as bait, he would be more successful if he dropped a few pounds and firmed up his flabby beer belly. Ace's thinking proved to be sound. Not only did the single women continue to flock to the garage, but several married ones came as well.
Eventually, however, these women—most of whom could no longer be considered "fresh on the vine"—grew impatient with Ace's lack of response to their flirting. They wanted quick results, so they tried more direct routes. The timid women began arriving at the shop with covered casseroles or freshly baked cakes, no doubt hoping that the old adage was true, that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. The more brazen women—who believed the route to a man's heart was a little lower—would pull into the gas station with short skirts and low-cut tops, revealing generous cleavage in some cases and flat chests in others.
Ace, however, was not tempted by either the home cooking or the glimpse of flesh. He continued to charm his customers but never asked any of them out. The dating ritual, though, had changed since his teenage days when gas stations gave out S&H green stamps and when cars were not run by computers. Most women no longer waited beside a phone for a call that never came. Liberated women often took the initiative and asked the men out.
"I can't believe it!" Ace remarked to his friends over a round of Sam Adams at Charlie's Bar. "I had four women call me up this week and ask me out on a date."
"That's hard to believe," Sanford laughed. "Let's face it, you're no George Clooney."
Ace joined in the merriment.
"Go ahead and laugh, but it's getting bad. If I don't do something soon, I'll have to start beating these women off with a stick."
"If you're so popular all of a sudden," one of the customers called out, "how come you're in here on a Saturday night with these Neanderthals instead of out with one of your girlfriends?"
"I can't go out with one of my customers. How do you think the other women would react if they found out? I'll tell you what they'd do. They'd go back to getting their gas at the Hess Express and taking their cars to Jiffy Lube for oil changes."
* * *
The weeks passed, and still Ace did not accept any of the invitations he received from his love-hungry customers. Eventually, the number of chicken noodle casseroles and chocolate Bundt cakes dwindled, and the frequency of telephone calls decreased. Worst of all, his business started to slack off. Fortunately, there were still a good number of women desperately clinging to the hope of landing a husband, and they continued to patronize Muldoon's Garage. But, even given the outrageous price of gasoline, Ace made little profit.
"It's all those damned Japanese cars!" he cursed over his bottle of beer at Charlie's Bar one night. "They rarely need any repairs. Hell, I can't get through a month without my old Chevy needing something fixed. If I wasn't a mechanic, that hunk of junk would have nickel-and-dimed me to death long ago. But these damned Subarus, Toyotas and Hondas! How's an old-fashioned grease monkey like me supposed to make a living?"
At this point in his life, it was time to prove the veracity of an old proverb, Mater atrium necessitas: necessity is the mother of invention. In order to keep his sinking business afloat, Ace found it necessary to invent or, more accurately, create problems in his customers' cars. When Alma Lanier brought her Outback in for an oil change, the mechanic convinced her to replace the car's fuel pump. Ivory Hinkle, who needed only a new muffler, had to pay for an entire exhaust system and catalytic converter. With Sophie Van Pelt, it was replacing perfectly good shock absorbers, and Mona Sanborn was charged for a brand new alternator even though the mechanic had simply made an inexpensive repair to the old one.
Women, God bless them! Ace often thought. They got no clue when it comes to the workings of an automobile. They can no more understand the internal combustion engine than a dog can perform open heart surgery.
Once again, the station's profits were on the rise. Business was so good that Ace began to get greedy. When cash flow was tight, he would guarantee future business by sabotaging his customer's cars: a little dirt in the fuel line or a tear in the CV boot was sure to bring a customer back. Unfortunately for Ace, he would eventually go too far in his unscrupulous attempts to line his pockets.
* * *
When Falicia Muldoon learned that her husband's business was finally making money, she quit her job in New Jersey and returned to Puritan Falls. One afternoon she pulled into the service station and tooted her horn. Ace looked up from beneath the hood of a Honda Accord and was shocked to see his wife's Celica at the pump.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, wiping the grease from his hands with an old rag.
Falicia got out of the car to stretch her long, shapely legs.
"What do you think I'm doing here? After driving all the way up here from New Jersey, I need gas."
She eyed the service station with distaste.
"Still the same old place, I see. Don't you think it's about time you put self-serve tanks in here?"
Conflicting emotions leapfrogged through Ace's mind, suspicion being the most dominant.
"What do you want? Money?" he asked.
That was precisely what Falicia wanted, but she thought that telling him so would hurt her chances of success.
"I missed you," she lied. "You look really good. I see you've lost some weight, and it looks to me like you've been working out."
A sudden fear crept over Falicia. Was her husband involved with another woman already? The thought hadn't crossed her mind.
"I missed you, too," Ace reluctantly admitted.
"So, what do you say? Should we give our marriage another try?"
Ace's initial response was an enthusiastic yes. Falicia was drop-dead gorgeous, and he had always considered himself the luckiest man alive when they were together. But she always wanted more than Ace could afford to give her, and when the service station began to fail, she left him and went in search of greener pastures. Now that the business was making a decent profit she turned up again.
But what would happen if his female customers learned that his wife was back in town and reconciliation was imminent? Ace knew exactly what would happen: the women would take their business back to Midas, Meineke, AAMCO and Jiffy Lube. Still—with a great deal of pressure from Falicia—he chose to save his marriage, even if it was at the expense of his business.
* * *
As Ace had feared, once word spread through the Puritan Falls grapevine that Falicia Muldoon had returned, fewer customers showed up at the service station. Ace had to take drastic measures with those customers who remained loyal to him. He went to extraordinary ends to create problems in their cars so that they would be forced to return weeks or even days later for repairs. His corrupt business practices paid off once more, and the gas station continued to make money. Ace was happy, and, more importantly, Falicia was happy.
Then one day in June, fate—or perhaps divine justice—stepped in and demanded a reckoning. It was a warm Sunday morning, a day custom-made for walking, gardening, fishing and playing outdoors. Ace woke late that morning, nearly 9:30. After a bowl of Cheerios—Falicia never cooked him breakfast, or dinner for that matter—he took his newspaper and went into the living room.
"What are you planning on doing today?" his wife asked when she woke up twenty minutes later.
"I thought I'd watch the ballgame. The Red Sox are playing the Yankees."
"But it's a beautiful day out. Why would you want to stay cooped up inside?"
"It's Sunday, my only day off. I'm on my feet all week, so I want to sit here in my recliner and watch the game."
Falicia's exaggerated pout clearly conveyed her disapproval.
"It's also the only day we get to spend together," she whined. "But if you'd rather watch baseball—fine! I'll go out by myself."
Ace sighed with resignation, put down his newspaper and went to the bedroom to get dressed.
* * *
Shortly after one that afternoon Ace pulled out of the parking lot of the Puritan Falls Mall and headed north. After spending an exorbitant amount of his hard-earned money on clothes and shoes, his wife decided that she wanted to stop for Sunday brunch on the way home. Naturally, she chose one of the most expensive restaurants in the area.
At the traffic light, Ace turned onto Old Bridge Road. He passed the Pine Grove Cemetery and made a left onto Gloucester Street, which took a steep climb into the Naumkeag Hills. The Sons of Liberty Tavern was an old pre-Revolutionary War hostelry that stood just beyond Old Mill Pond and the falls of the Puritan River. It was rumored that men such as Samuel Adams, John Hancock and Josiah Quincy ate, drank and plotted the end of British rule of the American Colonies beneath the tavern's roof. After a succession of owners and several renovations, it was sold once again, and Josiah Barnard, the current owner completely restored it to its eighteenth-century splendor.
"I love this place," Falicia said. "They have the best brunch north of Boston."
"It looks as though most of Puritan Falls agrees with you," her husband said when he saw the crowd of people waiting to be seated.
Ace gave his name to the hostess, who told him there would be at least a forty-minute wait. He suggested to his wife that they go elsewhere, but she insisted they stay.
"Here," she said, "you can read the menu while we wait."
Ace's eyes bulged when he saw that the prices had risen considerably since the last time he and his wife had eaten there. He did a quick mental calculation, adding the sum Falicia spent at the mall to the estimated amount of the check at the Sons of Liberty. He would have to rebuild a transmission to cover the expense.
"I'm going to go have a smoke," he told Falicia and handed the menu back to her.
Ace walked outside, took his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket and lit up. As he puffed on the cigarette, he looked down the hill toward Pine Grove Cemetery. His parents were both buried there. His father had died at forty-eight of emphysema—an occupational hazard. Of course, the two packs of Camels he'd smoked each day hadn't helped.
Ace looked at the glowing end of his Marlboro and considered kicking the habit.
"Oh, hell! You gotta die from something," he laughed and took another long, satisfying drag on his cigarette.
It had been years since he had visited his parents' graves, he realized with a pang of guilt. A sudden longing for his childhood came over him. Life had been so simple when he lived at home. Those were truly the good old days. Mom and Dad paid the bills. There were double features every Saturday night at the old Puritan Falls Drive-in. People drank water that came from their taps, not bottled by Coke and Pepsi. Gas was less than fifty cents a gallon, maps were free, stations gave out S&H green stamps and there was no charge to put air in your tires.
As Ace stared at the graveyard at the bottom of the hill, fondly remembering better times, a green Subaru Legacy station wagon drove up the hill. It belonged to Dulcie Howland, one of his older customers. The car stopped, and Dulcie lowered the passenger side window.
"My brakes have been making a funny sound all week," she called to the mechanic.
Ace wasn't surprised. He had tampered with them more than a month earlier.
Women! he thought. Why didn't the old fool bring her car in when she first heard the noise?
"I'll tell you what. You stop by the garage first thing tomorrow morning, and I'll take care of the problem."
"Will it cost much money?" the woman asked hesitantly.
"You can't afford to ignore a problem with your brakes," he warned and flashed a smile, dazzling the woman with his charm.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow then," Dulcie said, blushing, as she raised the window and then continued up the steep hill toward her daughter's house.
* * *
At the conclusion of brunch, a young waitress brought the check to the Muldoons' table and handed it to Ace. It was even higher than he had anticipated. It was a good thing Dulcie Howland would be bringing her Subaru in the following day. Maybe he should pad her bill more than usual.
"I'm going to stop by the ladies' room while you take care of the check," Falicia told her husband. "I'll meet you out by the car."
After the waitress returned his credit card, Ace stepped outside, where he lit up another Marlboro while he waited for his wife. Once more, his eyes were drawn to the graveyard at the bottom of the hill. Thoughts of his father made him wish he could quit smoking. He certainly didn't want to die before his time like his father had.
As Ace ground the butt of the Marlboro on the sidewalk with his shoe, he heard a car coming down the hill. He turned and saw Dulcie Howland's Subaru Legacy picking up speed, its brakes squealing loudly.
Oh no! he thought, as the woman lost control of the car, jumped the curb and headed right toward him. Damned fool women shouldn't own cars.
Falicia emerged from the restaurant just in time to see Dulcie Howland run over her husband. She screamed and fainted, and by the time she was revived, she was a widow.
* * *
Falicia Muldoon quickly recovered from the shock of her husband's tragic and untimely passing. She remained in Puritan Falls, where, after the estate was settled, she had the old full-service garage torn down and a modern convenience store with self-service gas pumps built in its place. Business boomed, and the enterprising widow quickly succeeded where her conniving husband had failed.
Salem doesn't trust his Ferrari stretch limo to any mechanic.
