Quarter Ninja

  I've never been someone who depends, relies or expects any assistance from anyone who isn't named Douglas Mahn - until recently.

  You see, time is relative.
One man looks at a clock and sees hands ticking off a lunch break.
Another man looks at a clock and sees a decorative piece on a mantle.
And, yet, another man looks at a clock and sees a waste of batteries - and wonders if they're the same size as the ones in his dead TV remote, but he's too lazy to reach over and find out.

It's a discount couch.

  Me? I see time as progression.
Lost time mean lost progress. A man who can't run should still walk. You get nothing done by standing around and holding your sides and spitting onto the sidewalk.

  If you stood at the Equator and faced North you would get nowhere.
If you took one step forward, do you know where you are? One step closer to the North Pole (geophysical, not magnetic [though, actually correct on both. Don't start!]).

  Time means different things to different people.
A person who is stuck in a 9 to 5 job knows they are stuck in that building - in that cubicle - for 8 to 10 hours a day. If they get their job done; good! If not; let the next shift take it.
This is particularly obvious when it comes to unions (you know what I'm talking about).

  In the driving world, however, we don't have a "next shift". WE are the shift.
We show up. We drive. We deliver. We go home.
There is no "someone else will take care of it" (unless we run out of legal hours and have to be rescued).

  When a clock based person runs into a performance  based person... that's when things get heated. And, that's where things break down in this world.

  The clock person doesn't care how long it takes to get stuff done. He's stuck there until X o'clock. The performance person does. The faster he gets stuff done, the faster he goes home.

  This is where my story comes in. Sorry for the long intro, but I needed to add some context.
I'm a performance person. If I can find some way to cut 5 seconds off of a task I get to go home 5 seconds earlier. If it costs me 5 seconds then that is how many seconds longer it will take me to get home.

  In my many years as a performance person I have honed my skills in manipulating the clock people to conform to my way of life.

  However, there are times when the fates are against you and no matter how pre-emptive you are, you just have to take matters into your own hands.

  This is where my ninjitsu comes in handy.
My Mom was half-ninja. That makes me a quarter ninja, and the traditions passed down to me.

I really need a Wacom tablet.

  I am a legend, as I've said before. But, not only in the automotive repair world.
I'm also a well known 'entrance artist' - that no one has ever heard of... So, I guess I'm not... well... known.

  Either way; handicapped or not, I can (usually) get myself into [and out of] any facility I have ever come across. I get my job done. And I'm gone (all with no malice intended) with no required assistance from people who have no desire to get me out of there - because it doesn't affect them.

  My most famous, you ask?
Christmas Eve, 2010.

  I had a regular, dedicated run to a place I will call "ZLB" (to hide the innocent).
They were "supposed" to be working until 10PM that night before closing. I had calculated that I would get there well before 7PM.
However, roads and weather, as you can imagine, that night were not agreeable and I ended up an hour behind schedule.

  I get there and - nothing.
The building is black. The parking lot is empty. AND my trailer (it was a drop and hook) was still locked to the dock.
  Any normal citizen would give up and camp out through Christmas and New Years because they are chumps.
NOT ME!

  I did my thing; Got inside. Unlocked my trailer. Printed out my paperwork (how forgetful clock people can be when it's time for THEM to go home) and went about my way.

 

  First day back to work, after the holidays, I was asked by the shipping guy how I was able to get my trailer unlocked from the building (since he "suddenly remembered" that he forgot to do so).
I told him, naturally, that, "I climbed in through the A/C vents." and I pointed up toward said vents.
"Man! I saw some stuff up there you wouldn't believe!", I continued.

  Little did I know, the boss-man was standing nearby and heard the entire conversation.

See; Dan and I knew it was a joke. El Hefe*, on the other hand, didn't.

  The following day I showed up to find the local A/C repair company vans out in the parking lot.
They were checking the system to see if I had caused any damage...


  So, how did I really  get in?

  After 7 years, I knew that the side door doesn't lock if you don't pull it, really hard, into the closed position - which no one does.

  Also, there's no alarm.


*That means "the boss"

The Invisible Mentor

  I've always been mechanically inclined. I was the 8 year old kid who tore apart his dads' electric drill just to see how it worked - and was the only kid who was able to put it back together and have it still function (for a while, anyway)

Close enough.

  Even though I had a rough idea of how the internal combustion engine worked, I never really got interested in them until I was able to be at the helm. And, I really got interested after I bought my first car; A 1986 Yugo GV.

               1100ccs of raw power!           (pinterest)

                  

  I spent a whopping $175 for that car and, of course, it quickly became a mechanical dream, or nightmare - depending on whether you enjoyed working on cars, or not.

  In the beginning I went through the regular routine;

-Car breaks down.

-"DAAAAD! FIX IT!"

-?

-Profit.

  But, eventually, I took hold of the wrenches, myself and started figuring things out. Mostly by trial and error. Mostly error.

  Shortly after I began to get my head around the hows and whys I was approached by one of the "olda boys" from the area.

  He had rented a pole barn from a retired gentlemen down the road and was trying to start a small auto repair business out of it.

  Was it legal? I don't know. I was 16. He was 23. He must've had all the proper paperwork, I imagine.

  I showed up for my first day, eager and fascinated by this new venture.

We had; a huge, open space. One, beat to crap, tool box with a few china-made tools and two drip pans. One for coolant. The other for oil.

  "No jacks. No lifts. No working lights. Not a single luxury. Like Robinson Caruso. As primitive as can be." (now that song's going to be in your head all day. You're welcome.)

  I'm going to come out and say it right now;

We did not get very far in this venture. There was no empire building, brand building and I am not heading a reputable franchise out of that building today.

  My first assignment was to remove the wiring harness from under the hood of a Mazda RX7 that had experienced a small electrical fire.

A big job right out of the gate but, hey, "into the fire" and all that.

  Looking back. I'm pretty sure I could've just rewired that small part of the harness. But, like I said, I was 16. You do what you're told.

  Working with Greg was pretty neat. For all of 3 days.

I worked on the Mazda while he replaced the steering column in his own '85 Monte Carlo.

  Customers actually came in and I would help them out ...while Greg worked on his Monte Carlo.

  I would sweep up toward the end of the day ...while Greg worked on his Monte Carlo.

That's Greg.

  On the fourth day I showed up to the pole barn nice and early and noticed Gregs' Monte was gone.

I shrugged my shoulders and opened up the shop like normal.

I took in new customers. Chatted with people. Took moneys owed. All your regular shop duties.

  I did this for 3 weeks.

And, I have to say, those three weeks really brought me out of my shell. I could actually talk to people at an audible level. Related to people that were in dire need. And could make change in my head.

  And then, on the Monday of the fourth week, Greg showed up - along with an entourage of fellow 'olda boys' and pick-up trucks.

  It turns out Greg had been in jail for the last three weeks for DUI, possession of narcotics and reckless driving (he totaled his Monte).

  It would seem that, on that third night so many weeks ago, Greg, while completely inebriated, decided that he was ready to drive his Monte Carlo, whether the Monte was ready to go, or not.

So, with a steering wheel that wasn't bolted down, missing one tail light lens and only one seat, he was going to impress his girlfriend (read; "ex" girlfriend - that lived 50 miles away).

  His group of friends unceremoniously loaded up everything that belonged to Greg and the shop closed up.

  Luckily, for me, it was right after this that I became eligible to enroll into the Technical School in my area and received proper training in the craft of automotive repair.

  Was my nearly month-long experience a waste of time?

I don't really think so. I did learn a lot.

The only cars I'd had experience with before then was my Yugo and any car that my parents happened to own - while the barn opened me up to a diverse series of manufacturers and problems.

It was a good jump start to a career I eventually held for 10 years before leaving for something a little less physically demanding.

  I'm glad I got into the field, anyway, for the simple fact that I can repair (or understand) my own vehicles and I have never been stranded for more than a few seconds.

Also, I have become a legend to many people for my quick thinking and outside the box "repairs" that have saved people from 20 mile walks.

He drove around for three weeks like that.

"Just to get you home" meant something different to him, I guess.

  So, in the end; Thank you, Greg.

Thank you for taking me under your wing.

And, thank you for not being there.

You were my Obi-Wan - minus the coming back as a force ghost.

It's Just A Little Arson...

Did I ever tell any of you about all the houses I burned down as a kid? No? Well, it was great! And, let me tell you how I went about doing it. [Put your phone down. There's no reward for my capture.]

At around the age of 10 I would wake up early in the morning and get some Fruity Pebbles in me, cuz a kid's got to eat.
I'd arrive at a house in the mid to late morning when everything in the neighborhood had quieted down a little bit. After making sure the coast was clear I would grab a molotov cocktail and chuck it into the open kitchen window. After a few seconds - WOOF! House fire.
And high fives were given all around!

Wait. What?!

Maybe I should clarify a few things;
 I was being generous with the "open window". I should say "missing window".
The house was also clearly taped off and gutted out.
The houses were demolition burns.
Also, the person who made and lit the "molotov cocktail" was the Fire Chief.

You see; back in the mid to late 80s, you could "donate" your house to a fire department and/or police department so they could train in them before you tore them down to rebuild.
The police would practice take downs while later the fire department would come in and set small fires to practice putting them out. When a house got too close to the "condemned" area of the spectrum then they would go all 'Mythbusters' on it and bring it down to the ground. That's where I came in.
I don't know if they still do that, today, but, it was a great asset to both departments when they did.

I was also involved in quite a few brush and field fires in other districts around the area.
It wasn't uncommon for a fire department to want to burn certain hazards as a preventative measure but, most of the time said department had to get permits and what-not from the citys' Mayor or board - and that could take years.
Some may find it odd that, mysteriously, a fire would suddenly break out in those exact spots.
Yeah. That was me and grandpa. Sometimes other guys from other departments who would, how you say, trespass and start a small "campfire" and then leave.
Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

To bring a lot of you up on this peculiar situation; I was raised a barn brat. From 1918 to 2004 there was never not a Mahn or Lange (Mom's side) in the fire department. I was born. I got wrapped in a little blue blanket and given to my Mom. And, then we went to the fire barn so I could be tossed around - literally (they ignored the "Handle With Care" sticker).

The second ever vehicle powered by me was a fire truck. I was maybe 9 years old and me and grandpa went out to fill the tanker. Gramps pulled about 5ft too far away from the hydrant and, instead of dragging out another hose he told me to back the truck up a couple feet. I was a God for 4 whole seconds!

Another time I was on a fire run and, while hooking a hose up to a hydrant a cop drove up and said "How about you get away from there". My grandpa came around the engine and told the cop, "How about you shut your trap! Now get down there and keep traffic off this road!" The cop immediately ducked down and drove to the intersection. (My grandpa was quite a big deal with the FD)

I have personally, with these two hands, saved 7 peoples' lives between the time I was 14 to 27 years old. I never panicked. I've never puked. I've never sought praise. (PRAISE MEEE!) It was who I am. It's what you do when someone needs you.

I grew up as a hanger-out and graduated to broom pusher and, eventually, truck wash boy (as high as I could reach, anyway) and, as a reward I got to throw the igniter into a few houses that were to be brought down [of course, the house was laden with other incendiary devices].
I was groomed by the entire fire department to be a fireman as I grew up. I was 12 years old and sweeping up glass and, sometimes, small pieces of human body parts on the highway. I was molded to step into the job when I became of age.

I fell out, eventually. A different life story called me.
Sometimes I wish that I'd stayed on.
Either way, I'd be medically unqualified today.