Tale of the Lug Nut, Part the Second

The Epilogue of the Wal-Mart Tire Trip and Damaged Lug Nut Story. Lotsa words with very little significance, but at least the admission price is free. So, to begin…

I called the Pontiac dealership near my house yesterday afternoon to see just how much this replacement lug nut was going to set my good friends at the House of Sam back. The service lady first said the tab would be $60 or $80 or so, and I explained I only needed (or hoped I needed) a lug nut put back on, not a complete replacement of the stud. “Oh, well that should be around $20.” Not looking like an excellent adventure at all for Bill and Ted.

On the way home I stopped at AutoZone and bought a lug nut. 99 cents. $1.07 with tax. Took it home, spun it on and torqued it down. Fixed. Took five minutes, three of which were spent getting the lug wrench out of the trunk.

Now several things start running through my mind—why didn’t THEY just go get a lug nut and put it on? Is it worth it to take back a receipt for $1.07 just to make a point? How will this sound as a blog entry?

I rehearsed the potential exchange in my head—I would show up at the service desk and very seriously say that I had my lug nut replaced and I had the bill and remind the manager that he said they would pay for it. The manager I imagined would be an older guy, a bit heavyset with glasses, and would have a certain gravitas that said “boss;” maybe he even had his own shop before succumbing to the lure of steady Wally World work. He would have a stern but harried look on his face, a look of resignation at having to spend all of the store’s profit from four cheapo tires on some goober on a quest to be a big man. He might try to protest, or not. Hard to say.

Then I would plonk down my receipt for $1.07 and grin a bit, and he would loosen up and I would tell him he dodged a bullet because the dealership wanted 20 bucks to put it on. He would finally chuckle and say something like even though he thought this was too much, and he wasn’t really responsible for the damage, that he would pay it anyway just to keep a good customer, and then he would ask me if I wanted that credited to my credit card or as a store credit, and I would laugh and say cash would be fine and he would crack the register and hand me a dollar and a nickel and two pennies. Then we would chat a bit about the technicians and I would say I knew they didn’t mean to mess it up and how hard it is to get guys who really cared about their work, and he would say that he has tried to get them to be sure and tell customers when something like this happens, and we would have a little side chat about how Keanu Dude was just a little too much of a loose cannon—nice guy but squirrely, and finally I would bid him good-bye to let him finish up.

Quite the little fantasy land I had constructed for myself there, folks.

I called first to make sure they were open. It was about 7:30. I got the manager on the phone, but only asked him what time they closed—“7:00 p.m.” I figured he was just finishing up for the day and would be there a bit longer, so I gathered up my receipt and hit the road. I got there a few minutes later and there were stacks of customers still waiting for their cars. Spicoli was at the register ignoring the couple in front of him. He was chatting very intently with a guy behind the counter who was as skinny and wrinkled as a Slim Jim. Short, sunburnt, long stringy blonde mullet, wrap-around shades on top of his head (remembering that it is now nearly 8 p.m. and he is indoors), homemade tattoos running up both ropey arms, hollow rheumy eyes, pack of smokes in his hand. Looked about fifty, was probably thirty. I saw his name tag. He was the manager.

They finally figured out what was wrong with the customers’ bill in front of me and sent them on their way. I moved up and they went back to working on damage control from the last customers. Talk, talk, point at computer, talk, cough up a lung, talk, shake head, peer, mumble, cough. I stand there. Take one more step forward. Am studiously ignored. Finally, they give up trying to read the entrails and decide to figure out what the fat guy wants.

They turn toward me. “You waiting on a car?”

“Uh, no, I talked to you on the phone Saturday. I had the car in for four tires and one of the lug nuts got damaged and you said to bring you the receipt and I would be reimbursed.”

Blank, dead look, right about at my collar button. “You got your receipt?”

“Yes, right here, for a whopping dollar and seven cents.”

Spicoli broke into a huge grin, and I could hear him thinking “EX-cellennnnnt!” The manager laid his smokes down, picked up the receipt and started walking toward the front—“I’ve gotta go get this from The Front.” It could have been a receipt for a fifty, a hundred, or a thousand, it didn’t seem to make a difference one way or the other. One dollar, fifty dollars—it only meant having to go to The Front.

Another customer asked for his car, Spicoli pointed the way, and we spend a couple of uncomfortable minutes waiting for the Return of The Manager. “Yeah, he like, had to go up to The Front for that.” Wait. “Oh, cool, there he is!” I look over and the manager is back, for some reason looking at stuff on one of the aisles. He turns and walks back over and mumbles something to Keanu, who digs out his wallet and produces a dollar bill. “They take forever up at The Front. Here’s a dollar, and…” The manager digs out two pennies from the pocket of his jeans…“and two cents. That all?” Same blank eyes, now fixed somewhere about three feet behind me.

“Yeah. That’s all. Thanks.”

I figure there is absolutely no use in stretching this out any longer to explain that two cents is not equal to seven cents. There is no jovial give and take, no small talk about the value of good service, no wink and nudge about Spicoli being such a doof (having reached the conclusion that he is the smart one—that old ‘one-eyed man in the land of the blind’ thing), no commiserating about the good old days when cars were simple and you could fix one in your yard, no thanks for not screwing the store for $60. Nothing. Meaning what, exactly? Got me, there, pal. Had I known my attempt to make a point about a matter of principle would have gotten no response, I would have just forgotten about it. I guess I just had to go see if it would make a difference. Here, meet my friend Sancho Panza.

(By the way, don’t feel sorry that I took out my useless it’s-the-principle-of-the-thing on the counter guys. I worked in a grocery store long, long ago—I know all about shrinkage and I guarantee you that Wal-Mart lost a whole lot more than a dollar over this.)

Oh well. If nothing else, it gave me something to vent about. Next time I think I need tires, maybe I’ll reread this.

Nahhh.
posted by Terry at 10:47:00 AM