There are still a few establishments in town doing good work for reasonable prices, but they’re getting scarce. The latest casualty was the muffler shop on the highway.
Four guys who have worked together bending pipe since 1974 all retired in the same week and there were no kids left to take over the business. I knew there would be tears when they shut down but I didn’t realize the first tears shed would be my own. The tailpipe fell off my old truck the day after the doors closed. So, I went into town to explore the issue with a national muffler chain. They made me fill out a form and pay $50 for a ‘diagnostic.’ I told them I had already diagnosed the problem and handed them the tailpipe but they were having none of it. They put the truck on the hoist and announced I needed a new muffler, which would be hard to find for a late model Tundra. I noticed the other hoists were empty. They called me later that day with good news. They had found a muffler and it could be installed if I came back in today for $1600 plus the tax.
“For a muffler?” I said. “I don’t think so.” He assured me that this was the cost of a muffler these days and seemed astonished that I wanted to ask around. I called my mechanic, Jeff, another second generation independent in an industrial subdivision on the edge of town.
“No, you gotta go to Barrie for a muffler now,” he said flatly and gave me a number for Greg.
“Can’t do anything for three weeks,” said Greg. “I’ll put you down for the 19th.”
“Three weeks? But can you find a Tundra muffler?
“I’m a muffler shop. Of course, I can find a Tundra muffler. There’s one on the floor in front of me.” I was beginning to see why Jeff had given me his number. I booked the 19th.
When the day came, I organized a late breakfast with an old friend and walked six blocks from Greg’s muffler shop to meet him. Before the eggs hit the table Greg called me to say my truck would be ready in ten minutes.
“Your muffler is fine. Well, not fine, but it will go through another winter, probably two. You do need a new tailpipe. Two hundred bucks.”
When I picked up the truck I asked how much a new muffler would be when the day came. Five hundred bucks, he said. Installed? Yes, installed… with the tax.
I told him mufflers had become a lot more expensive where I came from.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “People tell me I can charge three times what I do but then you’ve got people yelling at you all day. I’m trying to quit smoking. I got a lot of stress. So, yeah…five hundred bucks.” He was very busy so I thanked him and left.
I hope Greg quits smoking because the country needs him. He is the only effective answer to inflation and governments at all levels need to make life easier for him in any way they can.
I walked away from Greg’s shop with a lighter step and fourteen hundred virtual dollars in my pocket.
A month later I was in Jeff’s shop for some front-end work. The steering was getting stiff, and I reminded him that he had just hit the tie rods with a hammer last visit but it was probably time to do some restoration. He called me twenty minutes later to say the truck was ready.
“I still have the same hammer. You’re fine. Forget it.”
It made me reflect on all the people who have helped support my farming habit over the last 40 years: the welder up the road from me, the vet who operates out of his truck and won’t look at your dog until you’ve satisfied him you’re not an idiot, the pump repair guy who solves your problem over the phone, the hydraulic guy whose shop looks like the set for the musical Cats, the mobile diesel mechanic whose truck looks like a post-apocalypse mix of three major American car manufacturers. My cell phone contact list has eighteen people like this and I can’t live without them.
Maurice Chevalier sang “Thank heaven, for little girls” in the 1960s musical Gigi. I sing thank heaven for the little guy, no matter where, no matter who. Without them what would small farmers do?