Three Men
Chapter One: Slim
Fletch never liked high school much. He didn't exactly hate it, but he certainly did not like it. In his final year, Fletch worked part-time at Slim's Texaco Service, a filling station on Yonge St. where Fletch pumped gas. Slim Wallrich, the garage owner was an individual nearing retirement age, still in his prime. He was a man of less than few words. Slim was a 'challenged' businessman. He would undercharge customers and occasionally work for free. He kept the cars in the neighbourhood running and on the road. Helping people hurt the bottom line. Slim kept his gas station in the black because he was a truly skilled mechanic. Slim was someone who did not lecture young people. He never sermonized. Slim listened and on occasion, he urged.
Slim bore a disquieting resemblance to Slim Whitman, the country singer. The two Slims aligned squarely in physique and attire. Their wardrobes were exclusively dark denim with black Stetsons atop charcoal 'ducktails', enabled by Grecian Formula. Each Slim was endowed with an iconic pencil thin moustache. To Fletch, the resemblance felt like the elephant in the garage. He never said anything. Fletch too was learning to be a man of few words.
After graduation, Fletch went to full time hours. He liked the job. There was a lot to learn. Fletch would assist on full tune ups. He joined Slim on highway recovery calls in the tow truck. Fletch placed the flares out on the road, forty feet behind the disabled vehicles. Oncoming traffic roared by while he worked. Some days Fletch manned the office phones and scheduled customers' appointments.
Slim told Fletch, "The most important word in the name 'Slim's Texaco Service', is 'service'."
Then it happened. Fletch had a bad day. One Friday before a long weekend they were short handed. Fletch manned the pumps all day.
"Fill it up with 'High Test'!" The command was barked from the driver's side window of an approaching 'Country Squire'. The long station wagon came to an abrupt halt. Without the parking brake set, it bounced and rolled a little. Two passengers had already exited.
"Can't smoke around the pumps." Fletch reminded them.
"We're not smoking..." chirped the shortest of the three. "...we're just lighting up."
"It's the law." explained Fletch. Popping the gas cap, he began filling the car with Texaco's premium 'Sky Chief' fuel.
Making eye contact, a flash of recognition arced across the faces of Fletch and the driver simultaneously.
"Hey! It's Predicament Kid!" crowed the driver.
"Predicament Kid! Predicament Kid!" howled the others, cynically.
Fletch remembered all three from school —'Fran's to Lunch Bunch'. They still dressed the same; Gant shirts and Weigen Penny Loafers —with pennies actually embedded in the flaps. They were royal assholes.
The floodgates of sarcasm were now wide open.
"Predicament Kid, what are you doing here? You own this place?" they badgered.
The shortest of the three shouted: "I was there. I saw the whole thing!"
Fletch had been on the high school wrestling team. He was good, but not good enough to win. The year the All-City Finals were held at the school, Fletch represented his weight class. His opponent in the final match was a stocky Portuguese kid from the west end with biceps like a bricklayer. It was no contest. Fletch managed to avoid getting pinned until his energy waned. Eventually, he got caught in a hold where he wasn't actually pinned but he also could not escape —formally known in wrestling parlance as the 'predicament'.
It became a waiting game and as the stalemate dragged on, word spread outside of the gym. The doorways jammed with rubberneckers. The rather compromising position in which Fletch was suspended was something out of the Kama Sutra. In the end, Fletch was unable to maintain his vaulted posture. He collapsed, but not before being cruelly dubbed 'Predicament Kid'.
The driver regained focus and instructed Fletch, "We're heading up to the cottage and can't afford a blowout. Check the tire pressure."
Fletch would now jump through hoops.
"OK, I can do that," he acquiesced.
"Check the transmission fluid," the driver added.
"Check it with the engine running," the third one chimed.
"And make sure it's in 'drive'," echoed the shortest one.
Fletch kept his cool as he scrutinized levels, topped up fluids, examined belt tension and inspected wiper blades.
"Check the amperage of the battery, I noticed the gauge was reading a little low," remembered the driver, conveniently.
"The important word is... service," Fletch repeated to himself.
With the novelty of the game exhausted, the driver submitted his last request.
"Check the oil in the differential."
"I'm not sure if I can do that," admitted Fletch.
"I thought you knew all about cars," burbled the shortest one smugly.
"I'm sure you can; you're a mechanic, aren't you?" insisted the third one.
"I pump gas and check oil. We have good mechanics here though; I'll see if I can find someone who can help," Fletch conceded, retreating toward the garage.
Inside, Slim was alone at the hoist working on a Vega.
"Slim? Sorry to bother you. I've got a bit of a problem."
"Uh-huh, is it one problem, or three problems?" asked Slim.
"They want me to check the oil in the differential."
"I know, I've been watching. Do you know these guys?"
"Not really, I remember them from school. They recognized me. They're older."
"Did they say why they need the differential checked? Is it grinding or slipping? Anything specific?" Slim wondered.
"They just said they're going up north and wanted me to check the differential."
Slim deliberated, put down his socket wrench and turned to Fletch with a wry grin.
"Give them a piece of free advice." said Slim. "Tell them to fuck off and book an appointment."
Slim was always well known for his kindness and generosity.