(Some of the names in this story have been changed to protect the guilty – and they would be me.)
I’m pleased to say I have very few regrets. But I do have some. And one in particular stands out. It happened when I was 14.
No
two ways about it, as a teenager I was a hothead. I had a hair-trigger temper and
a big mouth. A bad combination. It was something my mom chided me about and my
dad, Ed O’Connor, simply didn’t tolerate – especially at work.
At
the top of the list of rules at O’Connor’s Standard Service were: 1. The
customer’s always right; and 2. Ed is always right. Ed didn’t care what you thought. Your job was to serve customers
with a smile and keep your opinions to yourself.
My
understanding of those rules was put to the test on a very cold Saturday in
January. The temperature was well below zero, so both wreckers and the pickup were
fully deployed jump-starting cars all over town. Back at the station, both
service bays saw a constant flow of cars that were simply frozen stiff and needed
a mechanic’s help to start.
Everyone
had arrived early that day to tackle the backlog of service calls. By 8 a.m. we
already had three hours under our belts and the list of calls continued to
grow.
A frozen moment in time
At
8:15 Sam (not his real name) arrived to drop off his car for its routine
grease, oil and filter servicing. Sam was the patriarch of a very successful
Osage family that ran a large business that was a major employer for the town.
In short, he was a big deal in Osage and a valued customer. My assessment
should stop there, but I have to admit my teenage self never liked the guy. My
teenage self thought he was a pompous jerk.
Sam
parked his gleaming, off-white late-model Cadillac just outside the station’s
front door and stepped into the office. He met Curt, one of my dad’s most
trusted full-time employees, at the front desk and handed over the keys. He said
he’d be back around 3 p.m. to pick it up. Curt tried to explain that with the weather we might not be able to get to it as planned, but Sam just dismissed
Curt with a wave of his hand.
“I’ll
be back at three,” he announced, as he turned to exit the room.
“We’ll
do our best,” said Curt as Sam opened the door.
“I’ll
be back at 3 p.m. Have it ready,” said Sam over his shoulder as he stepped out
into the cold.
The
rest of the morning and early afternoon was a frozen blur. We didn’t have
self-service pumps in those days. So every time a car crossed the rubber hose
that bisected the drive, the station bell would ring and I'd trudge out
into the cold to pump gas, check oil levels and check tire pressure. It was a
busy day on the drive. I found people don’t mind stopping for gas when it’s
below zero – when someone else is pumping the gas. I was outside more than in
and felt like a popsicle.
We
finally caught up with all the jump-starting calls around 2:30 p.m. We’d been
working since 5 a.m. It was time for a break. Ed called uptown and had the
local diner deliver a box of 20 hamburgers to the station. Just as the food
arrived we got a call about a gravel truck in the ditch north of town. Ed
grabbed a hamburger and took off in the big wrecker.
That
left about eight of us in the station. To a man we were bone tired and half frozen.
The formerly frantic office was almost silent, save for the sound of a
hamburger being unwrapped from wax paper or the occasional slurp as someone
drained a Coke can.
Just
then the driveway bell dinged to life. Through the floor-to-ceiling office
windows we saw Sam being dropped off by his son. He had returned to pick up his
car – which hadn’t moved. We hadn’t yet had time or a free-up service bay in which
to work on it.
Sam
strode into the room like a conquering general. Curt was standing behind the
desk.
“I’m
here to pick up my car,” Sam said.
“I’m
really sorry, but we haven’t been able to get to it yet,” replied Curt.
Sam
paused and looked around the room. While I saw a room of overworked,
half-frozen heroes of the Great White North, I’m sure Sam saw eight guys standing
around stuffing their faces with hamburgers instead of busily working on his car.
Upon
completing his survey of the situation, Sam snapped, “I’ll speak to Ed about
this,” and turned on his heel.
As
he opened the door he heard from behind him, “Eat it, buddy!” He stopped, let
go of the door and spun to face the room.
“Who
said that?” he demanded.
No
one moved, except me. I took a step forward, looked him square in the eye and
said, “I did.”
The
stress of the day, my temper and my big mouth had gotten the best of me. I had
just fired all guns across his bow.
I
could tell by the look on his face he didn’t really know what to do. This guy wasn’t
accustomed to being talked back to, certainly not by a 14-year-old kid, and
certainly not in front of a crowd. He was flustered. And that made him mad.
His
response was a bewildered, yet terse, “Very well then!”— whatever that was
supposed to mean. With that he stomped out.
For
about five seconds no one moved. Then it was pandemonium. The office cleared
out like the place was on fire. Everyone suddenly had someplace else to be.
More precisely, they didn’t want to be there when Ed got back.
I
turned to look at Curt. All the color had left his face.
“I’ll
need to tell your dad,” he said quietly.
Curt
was like my big brother. As much as he wanted to protect me, he knew he had a
duty to turn me in.
All
I could do was nod my head. I walked out of the office and into the back room
to continue fixing a tire I was working on. As I went through the motions of
putting the tire back on its rim, the impact of my blurted rebuttal was
beginning to set in. I’d been frozen all day, but now I was sweating. I felt
sick to my stomach and there was a whooshing sound in my ears.
About
10 minutes later I heard the big wrecker pull up outside. Curt stopped working
on the car in the first service bay and began walking to the office. He glanced
at me as he walked past. I assumed it was the same look the guards gave the
condemned before they were escorted to the gallows.
I
heard the side-door to the office open and shut. I couldn’t make out the
specific words but I could hear the conversation. It started slow and soft. Then
I heard my Dad.
“What!?”
“He did what!?”
“He said what!?”
“Get him in here!”
Curt
came flying out of the office and into the back room. He didn’t speak. The
color was gone from his face again. He simply hooked his thumb toward the
office indicating I’d been summoned.
My
dad met me in front of the desk as I entered the office. He was fuming. His
face was red and his eyes were bulging. He made me wait. After what seemed like
an eternity, he finally spoke. But instead of yelling like I expected, he
almost whispered.
“What
you did was stupid and wrong,” he said. “That man is one of our best customers.
Nobody who works for me treats a customer that way – no matter what. You were
wrong. And if you want to work here you won’t ever do that again.”
I
looked down and nodded my head.
“You’re
damn right!” he barked.
I
looked up and saw tears start to form in his eyes. That’s when the gravity of
the situation truly began to hit home for me. Not only had I offended a
customer, but I also had totally let down and embarrassed my dad.
“Now
I’ve got to apologize to Sam,” Dad said. “The next time he’s in here, you’re
going to walk straight up to him and apologize. Do you understand?”
“Yes,”
I said.
Hat in hand
Dad
grabbed his stocking hat from the desk and walked out. I heard the big wrecker
start up and leave as I slowly made my way back to the service bay.
Dad
drove to Sam’s house and apologized for my behavior. Sam, for his part, said he
understood how teenagers could get out of line sometimes. He didn’t blame Ed.
And yes, despite my rude behavior, he and his family would still do business
with us.
My day of reckoning
The
following Saturday was much like the previous – clear and cold. I was almost at
the end of my shift when the drive bell rang, summoning me out into the
elements. As I cleared the door I immediately saw the familiar off-white
Cadillac parked by the blue unleaded pump.
Sam
stepped out of the car as I approached. He looked at me. I returned the gaze.
“Fill
‘er up,” he said.
“OK,”
I said.
There
was a pregnant pause. It was like time stood still. And in that vacuum of time,
we both analyzed our own behavior from the prior week. Neither of us was proud
of our performance. But neither of us was willing to admit it either.
The
moment ended. He got back in his car and I busily filled its tank with gas.
When
I was done he simply said, “OK,” through the driver’s window.
I
responded with an equally eloquent, “OK,” as he started the engine and drove
off.
It’s
been almost 40 years since that day, and I still feel guilt, regret and remorse
for not taking the opportunity to make things right. Especially when I consider
that’s the last time I ever saw Sam.
You
see, that very next week he had a heart attack and died while on a skiing
vacation in Vermont.
The
moral of the story? You don’t always get a second chance to say, “I’m sorry.”
So don’t waste the first one.
###
O'Connor's Standard Service, circa 1978.
From left to right: Marilyn O'Connor, Ed O'Connor, Dave Dierks, Curt Harris, me.
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