Trouble Comes Calling

I sell drain cleaning machines. As such, every now and then a guy will come into the old barn and ask me - me - for advice on the subject. Imagine that.

The other day a plumber came by and asked for my thoughts on trying to use a steel cable drain snake which was 1-1/4 inches in diameter in a pipe which was 1-1/2 inches wide. Further, said pipe had two 90 degree turns in it. Someone with no plumbing or drain cleaning experience at all can surely see there isn't anywhere near enough clearance for that to work out well.

What did I think, he asked.

I think that you're not only asking for trouble, but laying out the welcome mat and insisting it stay for dinner. Get a smaller machine with a smaller cable. 

But that's just me. I do think I talked him out of it, though.

Reminiscing

This old boy turned 66 today. I suppose technically I'm not there until 4:30 this afternoon, the time I came into this world in 1960. A few more hours of 65 won't hurt.

I can't say that I've always been happy with my life choices. If in looking back you can't find at least some regrets you're probably not looking hard enough. Yet on the whole I'm all right with what I've done. 

Staying in the family business may have been the most critical decision in my life. Financially, I could have done better for myself and my family, and that does prick at my conscience a bit. But it's one of those choices which, overall, I think has been good.

Standing just inside the door of the old barn this morning, I could see Joe holding court, cigarette in hand, from his seat by the coffee table. There was Uncle John whom we call Zeke atop his perch of steel parts boxes, reading the morning Free Press. Me Pops was on the phone handling a customer while me brother Phil toiled at a bench vise, hitting a cable fitting a few too many times in showing it who was boss. Both my sons were there doing whatever as Uncle Patrick pushed a broom. And I haven't even gotten to all the other characters, welders and sewer cleaners and various employees who came and went. They all made the Shop memorable.

Not only did I get a lot of time with family, but so did my brothers and my sons. Would my boys have known Paw Paw as well if I had not stayed? Would I know Joe and Zeke and Craig and Price and old Arthur Williams and Stanley, Willie Deal and his boys and Chuck Bias, as well? I can't say enough about late Fridays at the Shop when Dad would decide to call it a day at 3 PM and we'd nurse coffees and simply talk to each other until the more formal quitting time arrived. I wouldn't get that in an office or classroom.

You can't prove a negative, so who knows what friendships and opportunities I may have missed. But you know what? Life was just fine as it was. I wouldn't do it different.

Counting the Days

Am I stupid? Don't answer the question: it's rhetorical, no matter what witty repartee that invites. But to the point: Am I stupid or is that other guy?

That other guy - I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name - called me yesterday about dropping his machine off for repair. If you haven't already heard, it's been extremely busy at the old barn lately. 11 repairs came in on Friday alone, followed by 3 on Monday as well as some cables to fix. I'm back to where I can't walk around the Shop again. I decided I would take no new work for a few weeks until I could catch up.

Cloyce then calls about his unit. "I'm sorry, Cloyce, I'm too blocked up. I'm not taking any new work until May 1st."

"Okay, Marty, I understand," Cloyce answers.

Two hours later he arrives at the old barn, with his machine. "I know it'll be awhile, Marty, but I figured I'd drop it off to you."

Could I have explained it any better than I did? How could anyone interpret I'm not taking any new work until May 1st as I'd better drop my machine off to Marty today?  By my calendar yesterday was March 31st, a few days ahead of May 1st. Hell, a few weeks ahead of it. 

No, this is not an April Fools joke. It simply feels like one.

Nah, Nobody'll Notice

Several years ago me brother Phil had the opportunity to repair a drain snake cable. I don't recall where me or me Pops were that day, but so it goes.

The man brings in a large cage type snake to have an end installed on a cable he had broken. It's important to know that the unit was cage style, because that means you could see approximately how much cable was in it. The particular machine Phil dealt with had a capacity of 100 feet of 3/4 inch cable. This too is important to understand.

There was around 20 feet of cable in the machine, me brother guessed. "I can put an end on that, but it's really not enough to work with on main sewer lines," Phil advised the guy.

"But you can do it?" he said. Being told it can certainly be done, he instructed Phil to do it. So Phil did, and the man paid him.

Me brother went outside to help him load the machine onto his pickup truck. Then the man let the truth come out. "I rented this from a place and lost over 80 feet of cable in a sewer, so that's why I wanted you to put an end on it. Do you think they'll notice?"

Phil had to stifle a laugh. "I imagine they will," he opined, in as kindly a manner as he possible

What do you think? I bet you'd notice it was missing. Things like that are pretty obvious.

Levanrd

About 20 miles out of Detroit on I-96 is Levan Road. The sign for the exit says Levan Rd. There's nothing unusual about that, is there?

Years ago me Grandpa Joe had a delivery driver, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was a little slow on the uptake. Me Pops one day sent him out with a load of welding equipment intended for a place off Levan in western Wayne County.

About three hours after the scheduled delivery time, the company called asking where it was. This was the time before cell phones, so there was no easy way to track Cloyce. Dad had to wait to hear from him for an explanation.

Cloyce happened to walk into the old barn about ten minutes later anyway. "I couldn't make that delivery, Bill," he said.

"Why not? Pops demanded. "I wrote out exact directions." Surely the old man did, knowing Cloyce.

"Well, Bill, I drove all the way out past Ann Arbor (easily 40 miles beyond target) and I could not find Levanrd." Apparently Dad wrote the abbreviation for road too close to Levan.

With a heavy sigh Dad more precisely explained himself and sent Cloyce back out.

Old Days

Yesterday at the Shop a peculiar thing happened. We went back in time. Well, sort of anyway.

As I repaired a machine for a long time customer another voice from the past came in. He knew the guy who was already there. The three of us began talking about way back when.

Within a couple of minutes a third old hand joined us, and then a fourth. The five of us were soon talking about this and that, that guy and another whom we all knew, the advantages of this machine over a comparable one and before you knew it the old barn was once more the gathering place for local drain cleaners and plumbers which it had been, oh, in the 1970s, 80s, and 90s. One participant even remarked, "This is just like old times! This was where everyone used to gather."

It did feel like that. Sometimes you can go back.

Attracting Deer

All right, I've been enough of a curmudgeon this week. Let's get back to fun stories.

There was this fella who came in the Shop all the time who we called Beefy because, uh, well, it fit his stature. Like so many Michiganders, he looked forward to deer season. It begins November 15 every year, so as that's coming up soon I found myself thinking of him.

Beefy managed a plumbing company. There was one particular employee whom Beefy didn't like at all, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who was an old friend of the company owner. Beefy didn't care for the guy because he was a slacker. Yet he couldn't do anything but deal with Cloyce because of the guy's friendship with the boss. That didn't keep Beefy from complaining about Cloyce every time he was in the old barn though.

One November years ago Beefy walked into the Shop with a couple small repairs. While tending to one I eventually asked a rather obvious question, just making conversation, "So you going out hunting next week Beef?"

"Yep," he kind of drawled. "Taking Cloyce with me too."

"What? You hate Cloyce, and you're going to spend a couple weeks with him in deer camp?" I couldn't believe my ears.

"Oh yeah, I even bought Cloyce some clothes for it. Nice brown suits. I'm going to tell him his job is to run out into the woods and scare up the deer for the rest of us," Beefy explained.

I don't think I stopped laughing for a half an hour.

Weekend Warriors

Yesterday I spoke of the one Friday - and it was only one, I swear! - where we refused to answer the phone after 3:30. There was a reason for that, beyond the obvious ones. Me Uncle John who we call Zeke summed it up well: nothing good ever happens after 4 o'clock on Friday. That's when the Weekend Warriors come out of the woodwork.

Now, I'm not against anyone having additional income streams. Indeed most of my adult life I've worked a second job trying to make ends meet. Further, this was much more of a problem when we still rented welding equipment. Welders were much more difficult to deal with than drain snakes, for reasons I will not bore you about. My blogs can bore you well enough without added exposition, although I do readily offer that service. You're welcome.

Anyway, there were guys who we only heard from late on Fridays, and to a tee they were all nuisances. One would order a welder delivered through rush hour traffic an hour away, and want the driver to wait while he did a 15 minute weld which typically extended to 45. Another would actually bring his work to the old barn, pay Joe for use of a machine right then and there only to take two hours for a 'quick' job, leaving at least one of us to close at 7 or 7:30. A third would have a simple request: take a welder to an industrial site in the wee hours of a Sunday morning for a day job, and ask us to pick it up late, all too often very late, on that same day. And so on and so forth.

We would do it, because that's how we did it forty, fifty, and sixty years ago. It would all start with a phone call after 4 on a Friday. We will not do that anymore. Thankfully, I will add. Although I do put in enough hours on weekends myself, I at least don't affect anyone else doing it.

Listeners

Bill Newman was a fella who used to come into the Shop a lot. He was a plumber and a gregarious sort. Mr. Newman liked to talk. Perhaps the best word to describe him was raconteur, a teller of fanciful stories. 

Now, me Grandpa Joe liked to talk too. I remember many days where Mr. Newman would come in and Joe would stop his work to visit. And, no doubt, swap tales with his cohort.

One day they were off to the side talking and things became animated. Not because they were mad or upset with one another, no. It was due to the fact they were each so wanting to tell their stories that they were constantly interrupting one another, making it hard for either to finish what they was sayin.

Finally Bill Newman, who was about a head taller than Joe, grabbed me Grandpa by his lapels and lifted him off the floor just enough that Grandpa's toes were all that was left touching the ground. He pulled Joe's face in close to his own. "Joe! Joe! Joe! We got a problem here!"

"What's that?" me Grandpa asked, actually laughing at his predicament.

"We're both talkers! We gotta find us a couple'a listeners!"

Maybe you had to be there, but it was funny watching Joe being held by the lapels like that, and him just laughing along with it.

Air Head

There was once an employee at the the old barn, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, who sometimes couldn't grasp simple ideas. One such concept was the difference between weight and pressure.

We had a lot of trailer mounted welding machines which had pneumatic, that is, air filled, tires. The typical pressure in a properly inflated tire was 32 psi, or 32 pounds of air pressure per square inch. 

One day I had my bicycle at the Shop. The tires were low, so I turned on the air compressor to fill them. "What do they take?" Cloyce asked me.

"50 psi," I answered.

"What?" a stunned Cloyce demanded. "How can those small tires take more air than a welder tire?"

"They don't take more air," I responded. "They have a higher air pressure."

"But we put 32 pounds of air in the welder tires. You just said you put 50 pounds of air in the ones on your bike."

"There's a difference between the volume of the air in something and the pressure the air creates within it, Cloyce."

He pondered that a moment, but it was obvious he didn't get it. Cloyce walked away shaking his head. "How can you put 50 pounds of air in a small tire but only 32 in one a lot bigger?" he was asking himself.

We would talk about it from time to time, and he even asked me Pops to explain it, but Dad couldn't get through to him either. I guess science just wasn't Cloyce's strong suit.

Ferengi Plumber

All types of customers have crossed the threshold of the old barn. There's Eeyore, who was always gloomy. Cash Adams, to quote me Grandpa Joe, lived by the axiom of Get Cash, Pay Cash. Joe actually nicknamed Adams that because he didn't trust him; by labelling him 'Cash' Adams he shamed the man into paying up front for everything. California was a plumber who sounded exactly like, and I mean exactly like, Huckleberry Hound. And then there was the Ferengi Drain Cleaner.

For those of you not familiar with the Ferengi, they were meant to be the villains in Star Trek: The Next Generation. They were a race of the future, and supremely, bizarrely capitalist, childishly obsessed with money making. They were the epitome of buy low, sell high. They were short, with oversized heads, ears, and bad teeth. They quickly proved too comic to be formidable adversaries for the Starship Enterprise and crew. 

One of them was somehow transported through a time warp to the late Twentieth Century, to become a plumber in Detroit and environs. He had an oversized head, massive ears, and was rather short. He was not bald, however, as our Star Trek, um, enemies were. Ferengi Drain Cleaner had quite a head of hair. So all you Trekkies out there, imagine Quark with an Elvis wig.

He also was manically concerned with getting things on the cheap. Ferengi guy constantly hassled me Pops and me for better prices. We learned through the grapevine though that his own prices were significantly above the curve. All, of course, for his own profit, as any caricature of capitalism would have it.

Ferengi Plumber. He was out of this world. He was out of his mind, too, if you ask me.

No Real Help

I don't mind assisting people. I really don't. If you need help, I will aid you if I can. But holding your hand is a whole 'nuther story.

Awhile back, a customer called for advice. That's cool; perfectly fine. Indeed it's part of the job, and I readily accept it on that level. Shoot. Tell me how I can help.

He described the problem exactly; indeed his diagnosis was spot on. I told him what he needed and that I could sent it right out. He offered thanks, but explained that he had the part I described, knew its application and that it could be used to solve the issue he had (which, I remind you, he understood thoroughly). He simply wanted to make sure how to employ the tool before he tried it.

Oh-kay. You understood the issue. You had the part which you knew would address it, and fully comprehended how to employ it. But you called me to be even more certain. 

Why not? I have nothing else to do. Take five minutes of my time. Ask my advice when you are already 100% sure of the answer. Don't think twice about it.

Of course I did not express such sentiments to the man. That doesn't mean I can't think them.

Actively Listening

Bill Newman was a fella who used to come into the Shop a lot. He was a plumber and a gregarious sort. Mr. Newman liked to talk. Perhaps the best word to describe him was raconteur, a teller of fanciful stories. 

Now, me Grandpa Joe liked to talk too. I remember many days where Mr. Newman would come in and Joe would stop his work to visit. And, no doubt, swap tales with his cohort.

One day they were off to the side talking and things became animated. Not because they were mad or upset with one another, no. It was due to the fact they were each wanting to tell their stories so much so that they were constantly interrupting one another, making it hard for either to finish what they was sayin.

Finally Bill Newman, who was about a head taller than Joe and quite strong, grabbed me Grandpa by his lapels and lifted him off the floor just enough that Grandpa's toes were all that was left touching the ground. He pulled Joe's face in close to his own. "Joe! Joe! Joe! We got a problem here!"

"What's that?" me Grandpa asked, actually, believe it or not, laughing at his predicament.

"We're both talkers! We gotta find us a couple'a listeners!"

Maybe you had to be there, but it was funny watching Joe being held by the lapels like that, and him just laughing along with it. Yet it was all between friends, right? 

No Quarter From Phil

Without express permission, me brother Phil will not negotiate price. A part cost what it costs, period, and that's that.

A customer once tried to talk him down on a cutter. "You can knock a couple dollars off, man."

"Nope," Phil replied.

"How bout a dollar?" 

Me brother still refused.

"Come on, man, a quarter?"

"No."

"Are you telling me a quarter means that much to you?"

Phil drolly responded, "It means that much to you."

Touche.

Just Say No?

There are people who seem to sense it, aren't there? They know when they've pushed you exactly far enough, and back off.

A customer picked up a repair yesterday. He had given me a terrible amount of grief over it, changing the order, asking for this, demanding that, begging for alterations which were a damned chore (to say the least) and so on. I told me brother Phil, "That guy better appreciate this job, because the next time he calls I'm telling him I don't want his business."

Of course when he picks it up, he can't help but gush over it. "Man, Cosgriff, it looks brand new! It sounds great! You really did a bang up job on it. I can't wait to try it out. Man, I appreciate this. You guys are like brothers to me!" Then he actually hugs me, and insists I take a tip.

Maybe I'm fooling myself, but he seemed sincere. I'm going to have a hard time telling him no on his next repair. If I even can.

The Drunken Engineer

One of me Pops favorite stories involved a Scotsman from the old neighborhood, I'll call him MacCloyce just to give him a name, who worked in a production facility. And he liked to drink too.

As Dad tells it, the factory where MacCloyce earned his daily bread had trouble with a new conveyor system. It shut down completely one day, and no amount of ingenuity could get it running. Workers were lounging around, and a cadre of management suits and pocket protected engineers assembled to determine what was wrong.

They studied and questioned and ciphered and looked over sections of the conveyor and could not figure out the problem. Meanwhile, MacCloyce arrived on the scene. Drunk.

MacCloyce began to pester the suits and engineers, mostly in garbled dialogue which was just the same quite insistent: he knew how to fix what ailed them. Everyone tried their best to ignore him, yet that only made MacCloyce all the more certain of himself. Finally someone said, "Let Mac talk and then maybe we can get on with things!"

MacCloyce barked, "Gimme a chalk!" When one was produced, MacCloyce formed the group into a large circle, leaving a wide area on the concrete floor of the plant as his canvas for all to see. He began to draw a likeness of the conveyor system, pointing out key areas with arrows as he went along. Soon he was altering parts of his artwork to show how to adjust the system so that it'd work. In ten minutes he stood up and triumphantly tossed the piece of chalk aside.

The engineers began pouring over the diagram, and were soon nodding their heads in agreement. They told the suits, "This will work." MacCloyce just smiled.

"How do you like that?" one of the higher ups remarked, "Our best engineers are stumped, and a drunk Scotsman gets us out of trouble." 

Both me Pops and me Grandpa Joe always laughed at that tale.