Christmas Day 1982 fell in the midst of a nasty snowstorm. I was home on break from college. All of us at O’Connor’s Standard Service, 402 West Main Street in Osage, Iowa, had been working 16-hour days. And everyone looked forward to taking Christmas Day off.
The
O’Connor family was in the middle of opening presents Christmas morning when
the phone rang. Four buddies from a local factory had gone out drinking after
work and had managed to put their car in a ditch three miles north of Osage and
two miles west on the Mitchell blacktop. It was Christmas morning! And they wanted
us to come out right now and pull them out. Really?
I
could hear my dad on the phone in the kitchen. As always he was very polite,
but he was doing his best to convince the guy on the other end of the phone
that he didn’t really need us – at least not right away. Family time was really
important to Ed O’Connor. And this guy just didn’t seem to care. I heard dad
ask him if he had AAA. He didn’t.
The
negotiation continued with Dad saying, “OK, we’ll come out, but it’ll cost you
$50 cash.” I know Dad was hoping the inflated price tag would be the deal
breaker. But instead of the flat, “no way” he expected, the guy agreed.
The
verbal battle was lost. Dad had capitulated, and with a frustrated sigh of
defeat, hung up.
I’d
had a feeling that’s how things were going go, so I was already in the back
entryway layering up for yet another dicey trip into the teeth of the storm.
On
a normal day, Dad would send one guy and the little wrecker to handle a job
like this. But he always like to send a two-man crew in the big wrecker when
the weather was bad. There was just something about the height, the weight and
the power of the big wrecker that gave you a sense of confidence as you drove
into dangerous conditions.
Ten
minutes later we were headed north on U.S. Highway 218. The good news was the wind was dying down
and the temperature was rising. The bad
news was the wind was dying down and the temperature was rising. That meant
dense fog and very slippery conditions.
We
didn’t talk much as we turned west onto the Mitchell blacktop. Dad was concentrating
hard, steering as much with the accelerator as the steering wheel. The big
engine purred as we slowly but steadily made our way into the fog.
We
were only about a mile down the road when we saw an old sea-foam green Ford
Falcon four-door stopped in the oncoming lane. The car was what the local
factory workers liked to call a “work car.” Work cars were sacrificial beasts
of burden -- old junkers driven in the wintertime when salt and sand would take
a heavy toll on a car’s paint job.
The
driver was flashing his lights and waving out the window. As we pulled up it
was obvious these were the four drunks we were looking for.
Like
a giant white curtain, the fog enveloped us as we pulled to a stop. The big
wrecker dwarfed the little Ford.
The
driver stuck his out his window, craned his neck to look up at my dad and proceeded
in slightly slurred English to thank us for the effort but he no longer needed
us. A passing farmer had taken pity on them and used his tractor to extricate
them from the ditch.
A
side note. My dad had a temper like a steam engine. When the pressure reached a
certain level he blew. But the only people he ever yelled at were his employees
and his kids. Never a customer. Dad was old school. The customer was always
right. It was always “please” and “thank you very much.” No matter how wrong
the customer was they were still right.
I
sat quietly and listened as my dad leaned out his window and spoke to the
driver. I could tell by his voice he was starting to get uptight. You knew he
was heating up when his voice would go up in pitch and he’d start to respond
with very clipped responses, “Yeah,” “Uh-huh.”
He
patiently explained he was glad they were out of the ditch, but they’d still
need to pay for the service call. That was the deal they had agreed to, and it
was Christmas morning for goodness sake.
I
heard nervous laughter from the car below. The driver started to argue that
since we didn’t actually have to do anything they shouldn’t have to pay.
Another
side note. Back then I had a serious temper problem. Something my dad had
warned me about on numerous occasions. I’d been doing well, sitting quietly.
Now I could feel my pulse quicken. My blood began to boil.
Here
was my dad, trying to do the right thing and help these goobers. And now they
had the gall to interrupt our family Christmas, ask us to risk our safety, argue
with my dad, and to cap it off, now they were trying to stiff us!
A
switch flipped in my head. I quietly opened my door and climbed down from the
cab. Once on the ground I opened the first utility door and found what I was
looking for, a six-foot, heavy-duty towing chain.
With
practiced ease, I deftly pulled the heavy chain from its resting place and
proceeded to walk around the front of the wrecker. I quietly moved into
position between the wrecker and car, stopping next to the car’s rear door.
Dad
and the driver didn’t notice me in the midst of their intense banter. I looked
into the car. Through a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke I could see from the
looks on their faces, the passengers thought the situation was funny. I didn’t.
I
stood silent and motionless. But the look on my face must have made my point.
The
first person to notice me was seated directly behind the driver. With a
cigarette perched between his lips he turned and looked up at me. His initial
reaction was a cocky sneer. Then he saw the towing chain.
The
subsequent reaction was right out of a Three Stooges film. Without a word, the
guy behind the driver started hitting the guy next to
him get his attention and show him what he saw looming outside his window.
That
guy in turn reached forward and punched the front-seat passenger’s arm to get
his attention. Lit cigarettes fell as hands were jammed into pockets.
Previously hidden wallets sprang forth. Ones, fives and tens started flying
into the front seat.
The
guy riding shotgun interrupted the driver with urgent tapping to the shoulder
as he pointed at me. His pantomimed message was clear. “Look at the guy
standing by the car!”
The
driver stuck his head back out the window and turned aft. Our eyes met. The
cigarette fell from his lips and hit the pavement. He spun in his seat, turning
to his buddies for support.
Instead
his troops were in full-out surrender mode. All three held their hands up like
I was Jesse James and this was an old-fashioned hold-up. Deciding a tactical
retreat was in order, the driver gathered the cash and thrust it into my hand.
And with a hasty “Sorry, Ed. Thanks!” They sped off.
I
slowly retraced my steps, replaced the chain and climbed back into my seat in
the cab. Dad was speechless.
A
good minute passed as we sat silently, staring straight ahead into the
fog. The only sound was the wrecker’s
engine.
Dad
finally broke the silence and started to count the money. I began pondering what
the penalty was for extortion. I suddenly became very concerned that not only
had I committed a felony, but also I’d committed the cardinal sin of
confronting a customer -- and even worse -- had embarrassed my dad.
I
think he too was concerned. Then the spirit of my intentions became clear. He
smiled, handed me half of proceeds winked, and said, “Merry Christmas. Just don’t
tell your mother!”
And
I never did.
###
The last in our series of "big wreckers." Circa 1980.
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