Experiences of a College Student working at an Auto Shop

Crash Test Dummy : On the road of summer jobs, there are drivers and passengers. The author doesn’t want to be either.

When I set out to find a job this summer, I had a single objective in mind — to earn more than minimum wage. After spending the previous summer scrubbing popcorn, gummi bears and unidentifiable goo from a movie theater floor, I realized the purpose of minimum wage labor is to utterly destroy the human spirit. While the same might be said for work in general, I’d rather be paid more than $5.15 an hour for the destruction of my spirit.

Intent on my noble purpose, I tried networking with every rich person I’d ever met. I used to be a Boy Scout in a fairly affluent part of town, and this guy I knew from there offered me a job in his auto shop.

I should say I know absolutely nothing about mechanics. Anything more complicated than a see-saw is beyond the realm of my comprehension.

Furthermore, I hate cars. I hate them with a passion. I hate car commercials, I hate car races, I hate it when I get trapped in one of those guy conversations about Z3s and X1000s and all of those other cars that somehow appeal to primal male desire. I don’t even have a driver’s license — I’d rather ride the city bus than mess with horrible automotive things.

But Mr. Wallace offered me more money than anyone else. So I took the auto shop job.

Actually, it was a little more than an auto shop. Like Tom Cruise’s character in “Rain Man,” Mr. Wallace imports cars from foreign countries for extremely wealthy individuals who want extremely nice cars. Mr. Wallace’s auto shop modifies them to conform to all kinds of U.S. standards for emissions, instrumentation, door beams, etc. so the cars can be legally driven on the street.

My job responsibilities consisted of vacuuming in the morning, getting the mail in the afternoon and locking the place up at night. Sometimes I got to call the pizza guy, too. Between these exciting tasks, I played a lot of Solitaire.

The other workers who actually worked on the cars quickly realized I had no aptitude for cars. The fact that I was earning the same wage didn’t help my popularity either. It took Mr. Wallace a little bit longer to realize his horrible hiring mistake, but he kept me on because he’s a pretty nice guy.

The one real perk of my job was bringing in the cars from the lot at night. Though I still hate cars, I must admit that driving a Lamborghini is something everyone should experience at least once.

Amid the boredom of the day, I looked forward to that magic moment when, if only for a moment, I was transformed from a broke college kid into the millionaire driver of an awe-inspiring fleet of Porsches, Ferraris, BMW’s and other luxury cars.

Being luxury cars, they were high maintenance in many ways; even looking at them funny would damage them. I was almost murdered by this guy who thought I had dented his Ferrari, which I barely touched.

Actually, my first victim was a lowly Honda Civic. Sadly, it belonged a massive co-worker named Lan who resembles the Incredible Hulk in every physical way but color. Ignoring geometry, physics and common sense, I attempted to force two objects — the bumper of the Honda and the shop wall — to occupy the same space at the same time. Lan’s a busy guy breaking and smashing things, so I thought to save him the trouble by killing myself on the spot. Fortunately, Lan was calm enough to spare my life for the cost of fixing his bumper.

To my amazement, Mr. Wallace continued to let me drive his cars. A few weeks after the incident, I had just brought in my boss’s Jaguar when a co-worker started lecturing me about the proper way to back up a car. George, my co-worker, is the nagging kind of guy who derives great pleasure from annoying people and is quite successful in that pursuit.

Brushing him and his useless advice off, I got in a Mercedes-Benz, threw it in reverse and expertly floored it into the shop. Only I didn’t make it; a wall got in the way.

With a loud crash, my entire summer earnings folded like a Volvo’s crumple zone. It costs about two thousand dollars to undo driving a Mercedes in reverse into the side of a building. Sitting behind the wheel of a compacted Mercedes, I felt a sinking feeling James Cameron never even dreamt of.

As I collected myself and Mercedes bits after the accident, I forgot to return the keys to Mr. Wallace’s Jaguar, which remained happily unscathed through the commotion. After a very long day, I received an unpleasant late night call from Mr. Wallace asking where the hell his keys were. They were of course, safely in my pocket where I’d left them.

I had to get my dad to drive me across town to give them back. Neither my dad or Mr. Wallace recognized the value of the humor in the situation.

Even after that disaster, I somehow managed to keep my job. I didn’t crash anymore cars that summer, but as nice a guy as Mr. Wallace is, I doubt he’d let me near his cars again.

Next summer, I think I’ll work at Burger King — even if it’s for minimum wage.

By Justin Tice
AskStudent Guest Correspondent

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