Gas, Oil and Air

In pretty near every magazine these days, they’s advertisers that tells you you’re a sucker to keep on workin’ for what your employers pays you, and why don’t you buy our correspondence course in somethin’ or other and soon you’ll be makin’ from $5,000 to $5,000,000 a year, and so forth. And they print a picture of Adolph Klauss, from Ligonier, Indiana, that slaved for years keepin’ books for the Elite Grocery and finally got hep to himself and took our course, and now look at him! General manager o’ the Peekskill Prune Company at an annual pittance o’ fifty thousand per year, not includin’ tips.

I’m not knockin’ these birds. They’s no question but that a man that’s goin’ along in a rut should ought to get out of it and get into another one, and he can learn how to do it by subscribin’ to one o’ these courses. They’re pretty reasonable, too, I guess. But still, they do cost some money, and the average man in a rut ain’t got it to spare.

Well, I’ve found a lucrative profession that you can go into without payin’ for lessons or wastin’ time on ’em. Anybody in the world can be a mechanic in a garage. You don’t have to know nothin’.

All you got to do is give your conscience a sleepin’ potion and borrow a pair of overalls.

The reason I got a car lives out in Hyde Park, but she’s thinkin’ about leavin’ there. Her name’s Alice. I ain’t alone in considerin’ her the greatest girl that ever lived; at least, they’s been others.

One o’ them was George Boles. His old man’s a plumber, so George never had to worry. His father even give him a chummy roadster last Christmas.

I and Alice was brought up in the same neighborhood. I’ve knew her ever since she was a foot high, and always liked her. After my people moved out on the West Side, and I wasn’t able to see her more’n once a week, I begun to realize that she was somethin’ more to me than just a lifelong friend; in fact, that she was more to me than any girl I ever seen. To get from where we moved to, to her house, you got to take one elevated and transfer to another and then walk about a mile. The trip back and forth uses up about half o’ the evenin’ and they’s nothin’ pleasant connected with it. So when I tell you that I made it once a week, you can see I was fond of her; especially if you stop and think that I didn’t get home from the office till after seven and I had to be there at seven a.m.

It was along in February that Alice met Boles at a dance. That was on a Tuesday night, and when I went out to see her on the Friday, Boles was amongst those present.

I and him was in love with each other from the start⁠—like a couple o’ strange gamecocks. On this evenin’ when we was introduced, Alice had to do all the talkin’ while us two set there and sized each other up. About one o’clock she give unmistakable signs that she longed for the hay. Boles had been waitin’ for me to go, and I’d been waitin’ for him to do the same thing. When I finally seen how tired Alice was, I give up and beat it. He come away soon after. I know because him and his chummy roadster passed me before I’d walked two blocks. The roadster wasn’t feelin’ chummy enough to pick me up and ride me to the elevated.

The next day I called her up.

“Alice,” I says, “my visit with you last night wasn’t what I’d call a complete success. You know, I hate crowds.”

“Well,” she says, “come out some evenin’ when they’s less traffic.”

“How about this evenin’?” I ast her.

“Nothin’ doin’,” she says. “I’m goin’ out for a ride, with Mr. Boles.”

“Tomorrow evenin’, then,” says I.

“I’m afraid not tomorrow evenin’, neither,” she says. “I’m goin’ downtown to a show, with Mr. Boles.”

“Tomorrow afternoon?” I says.

She acted kind o’ fussed.

“No,” she says. “You see, Mr. Boles is comin’ out to dinner and then he’s goin’ to take Mother and Sis and I for a ride and stay to supper, and then the show.”

“Will he be out for breakfast Monday mornin’?” says I.

“Don’t be sarcastical, Charley,” she says. “If you really want to see me, I think I can spare Tuesday evenin’.”

“I can’t,” I says, and slammed up the receiver.

The peeve lasted till Tuesday mornin’. Then I got over it and phoned again.

“If you can still spare this evenin’,” I says.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’m goin’ over on the North Side to see Julia.”

“With Mr. Boles?” says I.

“Well, yes, if you must know,” she says.

One o’ the salesmen down to the office told me that the best car he knowed of that cost less than $1,000 was the Swift Six.

“But you can’t afford no car,” he says.

“I know it,” says I, “but I can’t afford to not have one, neither.”

“Have you got the money to pay for it?” he ast me.

“No,” I says. “I got $400 in the savin’s bank, besides a month’s pay.”

“Well,” he says, “I know the boss o’ their Chicago office, and if you insist, I can get him to leave you take the car for $400 down and pay the balance in six months or so.”

“Go ahead,” I says.

So the next day⁠—it was the first o’ March⁠—I become a motorist.

The Swift Six people was mighty nice to me. Besides the car, they give me a hand pump for the tires, and five gallons o’ gasoline, and a set o’ tools that I didn’t know what any o’ them was for, and couldn’t of used ’em if I had.

“Go easy with her,” they says, “till the weather moderates. It don’t help a car to break it in in the cold.”

So I just run her up and down the West Side boulevards a few minutes every night, for practice, and waited for the papers to prophesy fair and warmer.

Well, I mastered the art o’ drivin’ and still they wasn’t no signs o’ Spring, so I decided to not wait no longer. One Friday noon I called Alice up. It was the first time I’d talked to her for pretty near two weeks.

“What are you doin’ Sunday?” I ast her.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’ll take a ride.”

“That’s just what you’re goin’ to do,” says I. “But you’re goin’ to take it with me.”

“What do you mean?” she says.

“A friend o’ mine’s got a new car,” I told her, “and he’s goin’ to take you and I up on the North Shore.”

“That’ll be grand!” she says. “But will you be sure and get here by one o’clock?”

“Why?” I says.

“Because I want to be gone before Mr. Boles comes,” she says. “He’s got a habit o’ comin’ round every evenin’, and on Sunday afternoons and he’s so persistent that it’s hard to refuse him. He’ll want me to go ridin’ with him, and I’d a whole lot rather be gone before he comes than have to explain why I can’t go.”

“I’ll be there at noon,” says I, “and if you ain’t ready I’ll wait for you.”

So on Saturday morning, on the way to work, I drove Mr. Swift Six down lookin’ for a garage to get him all primed up for my first real trip. I’d read the ads of this Great East Auto School where they says everything’s half price ’cause the students does the work, only perfect under the supervision of expert teachers. So in I bobs, it bein’ handy.

“Fill it up with gas,” I says, “and see if it needs oil, and that left rear tire looks like it could stand a little air. How soon can you get through with it?”

“In about twenty minutes,” says the guy.

“All right,” I says. “Make it as fast as you can.”

I didn’t have no intention o’ callin’ for it till evenin’, but I wanted to be sure.

It was pretty near seven o’clock when I come to take it out. A different student guy was on the job.

“What can I do for you?” he ast me.

“Nothin’,” says I. “Just show me where my car is and I’ll get it out o’ your way.”

“What car is it?” he says.

“A new Swift Six,” says I.

“I don’t remember seein’ it,” he says.

“Oh, yes. That’s the boat that Jerry took out.”

“What for?” I says. “He’s got no right to go joy-ridin’ in my machine.”

“He ain’t joy-ridin’,” says the guy. “He took it out for a test. Somethin’ was poundin’.”

“Nothin’ was poundin’ when I brought it in this mornin’,” I says.

“You’re new at the game, ain’t you?” he says.

“Yes,” says I.

“Well, then, you probably wouldn’t notice when somethin’ was wrong,” he says.

“When’s he comin’ back with it?” says I.

“He’d ought to be back now,” says the guy.

So I waited till ten minutes to eight and then in come Jerry with my Swift Six. She was hittin’ on all but five cylinders.

“What have you done to my car?” I says.

“Me? Nothin’,” he says. “But it’s in pretty bad shape. They’s a lot o’ carbon and she needs grease and the right front wheel acts like it had a defective bearin’.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says I. “The car’s only a couple o’ weeks old.”

“I don’t care how old it is,” says Jerry. “An automobile don’t have to be old to get somethin’ the matter with it, no more’n a person. Look at babies. Just because they’re only babies, that don’t prevent ’em from havin’ colic, does it?”

“I won’t argue with you,” says I. “What I want to know is how soon you can get this machine fixed up?”

“By tomorrow mornin’,” says Jerry.

“That won’t do,” I says. “I got to have it by midnight tonight.”

“Well, I guess we can let you have it then,” he says, “but we’ll have to hustle.”

“I’ll drop in at midnight,” says I, and beat it home. I’d told him midnight so’s to be sure she’d be ready by eleven o’clock Sunday mornin’.

I went back right after breakfast. Still another fella was on the floor.

“I come for that new Swift Six,” I says.

“I haven’t seen nothin’ of it,” says he.

“You’re a fine bunch,” says I. “I brought the car in here yesterday mornin’ with nothin’ the matter with it and now they been workin’ on it over twenty-four hours and lost it besides.”

“Oh,” says this guy, “is that the car that we had to recharge the batteries on it?”

“No,” says I, “this here car’s pretty near new.”

“It’s the same one,” says the fella. “The batteries was dead and we’re rechargin’ ’em now.”

“Let’s see the car you’re talkin’ about,” I says, and he took me back and pointed it out to me.

It was mine.

“Can you tell me,” I says, “how it comes that the batteries can die on a brand new car?”

“Sure,” he says. “The batteries is supposed to charge themself while you run, and you ain’t used the car enough to let ’em do it.”

“How long before they’ll be recharged?” I ast him.

“About three hours,” says he.

“I can’t wait,” says I.

“O’ course,” he says, “you could take it now, the way it is, but you ought to bring it back and let us finish the batteries.”

“That’s what I’ll do,” says I. “You can turn the juice off.”

So he disconnected the charger or whatever you call it, and I jumped in the seat to back her out. I pushed the starter down, and down she stayed.

“See!” he says. “She’s as dead as Napoleon.”

“What am I goin’ to do?” I ast him. “I got to drive out on the South Side.”

“They’s nothin’ to prevent you from crankin’ her,” he says. “I’ll turn it over if you want me to.”

“That’s mighty friendly of you,” I says. So he turned it over and sure enough, the engine begun to hum. I put her in reverse and pressed down the accelerator. They wasn’t no response. I pressed down harder and harder and harder, and finally all the way down. Nothin’ doin’. Then I took my foot off, but the pedal stayed down.

“Here!” I says. “What’s happened now?”

The guy leaned over and looked at the pedal.

“Turn your dash light on,” he says.

Well, I turned the dash light switch without no results. This scared me into tryin’ the whole lightin’ system. Nowheres did I get a rise.

“You’re in tough luck,” says the mechanical genius. “Your starter won’t work and your accelerator won’t work and you got no lights. Looks like the South Side trip was off.”

“You think it does?” says I. “Well, listen: I’m goin’ to make it if I have to be towed. And between now and eleven o’clock, you got to have this car so’s it’ll run.”

“I can’t promise,” he says. “They’s a lot of other rush jobs round here.”

“They ain’t no job that’s rusher than this,” says I.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “I’ll do the best I can. Nobody can do better than that.”

“You certainly pull some original remarks,” says I. “Now, get busy! Because I’m comin’ back here at eleven o’clock, and if you ain’t ready for me they’ll be trouble.”

“If they wasn’t no trouble,” he says, “they wouldn’t be no garages.”

“Good!” says I. “You can pull cute ones when you try.”

I and eleven o’clock arrived at the same time.

“All set!” says the fella when he seen me come in. “I’ve even got the starter workin’.”

“How about the accelerator?” says I.

“It’s OK,” he says. “It was just disconnected.”

I climbed in, or started to, and come within a ace o’ breakin’ a leg or somethin’. The floor board was missin’ and they wasn’t nothin’ but Nature and machinery between me and the ground. I happened to be hangin’ on to the seat and the dash with my hands or it’d of been good night.

“Well!” says the mechanic, lookin’ astounded. “Somebody’s ran off with your floor board. Oh, yes, I remember,” he says. “I took it out when I was monkeyin’ with the clutch.”

“Why was you monkeyin’ with the clutch?” I ast him.

“It seemed to stick,” he says. “It’s all right now.”

“And where’s the floor board?” I says.

“It can’t be very far away,” says he. “I ain’t been out o’ the place, so I couldn’t of carried it nowheres.”

At 11:20 he found the floor board. At a quarter to twelve, he had it squeezed into place. At five minutes to one, I pulled up in front of Alice’s, just behind the chummy roadster.

Alice answered the doorbell.

“Where’s your friend?” she ast me.

“Out in the car,” says I.

“Bring him in,” she says. “I won’t be ready for five or ten minutes.”

“He never goes in anywheres,” I told her. “He’s an outdoor bug.”

“Well,” she says, “I’ll hurry as fast as I can. But Mr. Boles is here and it don’t seem right to dash off and leave him.”

“Why not?” I says. “He’s just like one o’ the family.”

“He’s no such a thing,” says she. “But we all like him because he’s such a gentleman and so good about takin’ us out for rides.”

“I guess,” I says, “that a man’s got to have a machine to make a hit with you.”

“It does help,” she says, laughin’. “But I do like some people for themself; you, for instance; that is, when you’re not mean and sarcastical.”

“If I had a car, though,” says I, “you’d like me a whole lot better.”

“O’ course,” she says, laughin’ again. “Why, I’d like you enough to marry you.”

“Do you mean that?” says I.

“Certainly,” she says, and led me into the house.

Mr. Boles was settin’ on the lounge in the livin’ room.

“Don’t get up,” I says to him. It was like tellin’ Mr. Bryan not to get stewed.

Alice left us together while she went to put on her things. If I had a nickel for every word that was spoke, I’d ask you for carfare.

When she come back, he says:

“I guess I’ll stay and talk to your mother a while. How soon do you expect to be home?”

“That’s up to Charley,” she says.

“Never,” says I.

And I left him to chew on that.

Alice pretty near fainted, when I sprung my surprise. “Why, Charley Graham!” she says. “Where did you get it?”

“I forget now,” says I. “Kresge’s or Woolworth’s.”

“And can you drive it?” she ast me.

“I don’t know,” I says. “When I come here from home today, I brought it in my pocket, on the elevated.”

For some peculiar reason, the starter worked. We was soon tearin’ northwards, twelve miles an hour. It was a swell day, and the first Sunday that had been really decent. The boulevards was jammed with cars, and I’ll admit I was nervous. I guess Alice was, too, but she was game enough to keep it to herself.

But the only danger was that somethin’ would hit us from behind, and nothin’ did.

I’m gettin’ so now that I can talk when I drive; then I was scared to open my mouth. Alice made a couple o’ starts about the weather, but her heart wasn’t in it. What she wanted to say was “Look out!” or “Be careful!” and I liked her all the better for not sayin’ it.

At five p.m., we’d got as far as Lake Forest, havin’ drove forty miles in a fraction under four hours.

“My! It’s pretty out here,” says Alice. “I wisht I could stay here a while.”

She got her wish.

The Swift Six liked Lake Forest, too. Between five and dark, I done nothin’ but crank and cuss, crank and cuss. When the daylight was gone, I’d lost some o’ my independence, and I stopped a guy that was goin’ past.

“Mister,” I says to him, “what I know about automobiles you could write on the back of a small flea. Will you see if you can spot the trouble with this masterpiece o’ human ingenuity?”

He looked her all over.

“For one thing,” he says, “your left rear tire is down.”

“But that wouldn’t keep me from startin’, would it?” I ast him.

“No,” he says, “but I thought I’d mention it before I forgot it. It’s another thing that keeps you from startin’. You’re out o’ gasoline!”

Who that guy was I don’t know. But if he ever runs out o’ cigarettes, I’ll loan him the rollin’s. First he drove to the nearest garage and brought us back enough gas so’s we could get there and fill our tank. Then he blowed up the tire with his engine drove pump. (They wasn’t nothin’ the matter with it, only the valve was loose.) And finally he rode ahead of us to the garage, so’s we’d be sure and find it.

“Alice,” I says, when he’d left us, “there’s the best fella I ever met.”

“I know one I like better,” says she.

“Don’t tell me it’s Boles,” I says.

“I won’t tell you nothin’,” she says. “I ain’t goin’ to bother you while you’re drivin’ ”

“But I want to hear it,” I says, and I stopped the Swift Six in the middle o’ the road.

“Well,” she says, “I always like people that likes me. And anybody that likes me well enough to go head over ears in debt to buy a car, because he thinks he’ll make good with me that way⁠—well⁠—”

Well.

I hadn’t kissed her more’n twenty-nine times when we was interrupted. The brightest lights I ever seen was shinin’ right in our face. And the guy behind the lights was George Boles.

“I’ve found you,” he says, runnin’ up beside us. “Your mother’s worried to death.”

“What for?” says Alice.

“Because you didn’t come home,” says Boles.

“Didn’t Charley tell you that I was never comin’ home?” says Alice. “We thought o’ course you’d tell mother.”

“Now,” I says, “we’ll have to go there and tell her ourself.”

It’s a good thing we telephoned her from Evanston. Because, owin’ to the fact that I wasn’t sure of the road and that my drivin’ was bein’ seriously interfered with, it wasn’t so darn far from breakfast time when we landed.

The old lady didn’t take it very hard.

“All I wonder,” she says, “is what you’re goin’ to live on.”

“Charley makes enough,” says Alice, “and o’ course our furniture will be all paid for.”

“What with?” I ast her.

“Whatever you can get for your car,” she says.

I was lucky in findin’ the whole school force in that evenin’. “Listen,” I says, to the one I’d seen first, “when I brought this ship in Saturday, what did I say I wanted done?”

“How do I know?” says he.

“Oh, I forgot,” I says. “O’ course you don’t know. I told you,” I says, “to pump up the left rear tire and to give me some gas and oil. I didn’t tell you to kill my batteries or take out my floor board or monkey with my clutch or gum up my cylinders or put my starter on the hummer or douse my lights. I just wanted gas and oil and air, them three.”

“And didn’t you get gas and oil and air?” says the one they called Jerry.

“I did not,” says I, “and you know it.”

“Well,” says Jerry, “I’ll tell you why: Pumpin’ a tire or fillin’ a tank with gasoline or pourin’ in oil, all that stuff’s a cinch; anybody can do it. But if we don’t take a few cars apart and put ’em together again, why, how’ll we ever learn?”

“And are you goin’ to charge me for the job?” I says.

“Only twenty dollars even,” says Jerry. “That’s twenty-five hours o’ labor at eighty cents an hour.”

“Boys,” I says, “I ought to murder all three of you, and the unwritten law’d acquit me. But I’m feelin’ too good.

“And besides, boys,” I says, “you’ve got me out o’ the rut. No more will I strain my eyes and benumb my brain with columns on columns o’ figures. From now on, I’m a carefree mechanic.”