Reporter’s Notebook—

Just A Little Compassion, Please

By Shannon Hicks

If there is anyone in this world who should be schooled in bedside manner, it’s mechanics.

I recently had an automobile trauma. I had to have my car towed from the side of the highway one recent evening, and then left it at a local auto shop until the new work week began and someone had a chance to look at the damage. It turned out a rod had come undone and shot its way right through the head gasket, leaving a hole in the engine that was larger than my forearm.

Of course I had no idea the extent of the damage to my car when it was towed that chilly evening. All I knew was I had been driving along I-84 and I heard a rattling start. Then there was a boom, smoke started billowing out behind the car (I couldn’t see the headlights of the cars behind me for a few moments), something went flying out from under the car, the engine stalled out, and I managed to get the car into the shoulder before it came to a stop. A dead stop. That was Saturday night.

When I finally had time mid-Monday afternoon to stop in at the garage where my car had been towed, the girl behind the desk gave me a careful look and said “Uhh, let me get the mechanic out here to explain everything to you.” That was a good tip-off that my day was going downhill faster than a snowball gathering momentum.

A minute or two later this man came from the work area of the garage into the waiting/reception/customer service center and told me, quite bluntly, “Your car is gone.”

Nothing calm, nothing gentle, not even a nice, “I’m sorry but your car isn’t going to ever be the same again.” No, this man had to announce in front of a few strangers that my car was history.

“It’s gone. It isn’t worth fixing. And if you try to sell it to a junkyard, you’ll get about $10,” he continued with the smug tone of someone who will never have to worry about his car if it ever stops running. He knows he’s in the safety zone – the side of the counter that is out of reach to anyone who wants to slug someone for being harsh – so he can ruin someone’s day with impunity.

And he wasn’t even finished.

He couldn’t tell me how this amazing damage had occurred, but he wouldn’t stop telling me what kind of damage had been done.

He told me a few more times that the car wasn’t going to be the same. “The engine is gone,” he repeated to me as if I was an illiterate half-wit who doesn’t understand lay terms. As if I was, well, a girl, in a garage.

I had the urge to tell him that if he repeated himself one more time he was going to be on the receiving end of a realignment.

When I told him I wanted to see the damage he looked at me like I wasn’t even a half-wit but a no- wit. A twit. An idiot. The Mechanic has spoken, after all. Who dares question the great and powerful Mechanic?

I do. I wanted to see what had happened to this vehicle of mine, to the pretty silver hatchback that has taken me around town, across the state, up to Maine a dozen times, and to the homes of friends and families countless times without a hitch. I wanted to see the wound that took out my baby for life.

And then the second round of snide remarks and comments began. The mechanic pulled my car back into the garage so that it could be put onto a lift, and of course the boy working in the bay next to us had to start with comments. My car at that point was leaking oil like a sieve. Apparently the monkey wrench next to me felt there was a need to say, “Boy, that doesn’t look good.”

No kidding, Dipstick!

The car was lifted and a light was pointed toward the gaping hole in the engine for me to see, which of course was followed by more comments from mechanics who began circling my car like vultures over a carcass.

“Wow!” was one remark.

“I’ve seen holes in engines before, but it’s been a long time and they’ve never been that big,” came from another direction.

“Cool,” came the voice from the next bay.

That’s when I refused to stay quiet any longer.

“I’m glad you think so,” I snapped at him. Who asked these people to open their yaps anyway?

Who teaches mechanics to make such lousy remarks not only near but right in front of customers? Isn’t it obvious to them that it is obvious to us that we know our cars are terminal? Do we look that stupid? Do we look like we need to have this thrown at us again and again, especially within the first few minutes after hearing there is nothing that can be done for the car?

We Americans have strong bonds to our cars. They are like our children. We name them, we talk to them, we sing along with them, we even bathe them. We baby them. And when we have to drop them off with strangers, we are expected to trust these strangers with the well-being of our babies.

Mechanics – any people who have to speak to the public, really, especially when delivering bad news or anything that has to do with money that is about to be spent unexpectedly – need to be taught bedside manners. Just like doctors and nurses are trained, these men and women should be told how fragile the state of a customer’s mind is when a car has to be towed, or dropped off whether for routine service or a repair.

When it’s time to hear bad news about our vehicles, I think it should come from someone who can deliver that news with some kind of compassion. Sit us down, put a hand on our shoulder, look us in the eye. Tell us you have done all you can, but…

And leave the backroom talk in the back room. Don’t let everyone under the sun offer his or her opinion while your customer is standing right next to you. Don’t offer painful opinions concerning things that can’t be fixed, and don’t let customers overhear things that should be left unsaid. The injuries that happen to our cars are not “cool” or “amazing.” They are painful. We don’t want to overhear your plans for turning our vehicles into a science experiment.

Just treat us like the anguished parents that we are. Give it to us straight, but don’t be blunt. Don’t announce in front of a room of people that a vehicle is gone, gone, gone.

And whatever you do, don’t look surprised when we snap at you for your lousy bedside manner.