"Well,
thanks for meeting with me. It was good talking to you." The realtor took
out a business card and gave it to Charlie Swant who glanced at it, already
having forgotten the guy's name. He then extended his hand and Charlie reluctantly
shook it.
"Well...Ok then," he said,
not know what else to add. He certainly wasn't going to lie and tell the guy
that, Yeah, it was good to meet you,
too, or Thanks for stopping by or any other pleasantry that most people would
have responded with.
The realtor just looked at him,
getting the hint. The old man was nuts anyway. Who wouldn't want to take the
one and a half million dollars he'd offered to buy the decrepit gas station the
guy owned? Swant's Service. What a stupid name. No one he knew ever took their
cars there anyway. Why trust their precious automobiles to a grease monkey like
Charlie Swant when they could just as easily go to one of the luxury car dealerships
ten miles down the road? The realtor waved and turned away. "I'll stay in
touch," he said over his shoulder while stepping into his Cadillac.
"But I'm never bringing my car here, no matter what," he muttered as
he drove away. Charlie watched him, noting the almost inaudible high pitched
squeal in the engine was probably a bearing in the water pump starting going
out. Good riddance, he thought to himself, as he turned to go back to work. He
had an oil change to get to and the day wasn't getting any younger.
Swant's Service was built by his
dad, Clarence, in 1942, the same year Charlie was born. Clarence suffered polio
when he was young and was unable to serve in World War II so he decided to do
the next best thing, serve his country on the home front by doing all he could
to keep America's cars and trucks running. "I'll provide my customer's with
the best service I possibly can," he said when asked about the name of his
gas station. "We'll sell more than just gasoline. We'll sell reliability
and dependability. Our customers will never be dissatisfied with the service we
provide, I can promise you that. In fact, they'll probably tell their
friends." Which they did and Swant's Service was off and running.
The station stood on a small piece
of property on Willow Way, a quiet, shady street that ran one block off Orchard
Boulevard, the main road through the small town of Long Lake. Across the street
from the station was the cozy, well maintained home Charlie shared with Mary,
his wife of fifty-two years. He had a good life. Why would he consider changing
things right now by selling out to some fly-by-night realtor with a fancy car
and too high an opinion of himself? Well his daughter, Sophia, could think of a
few good reasons, telling her dad he should sell the station and use the money
to, as she put it, "Retire or travel or something," but he couldn't
see himself doing anything like that. Not now, anyway.
He had just entered the service bay when his
phone buzzed. It was a text from Larry, his oldest son. Kids on the way. Charlie texted back that he'd be waiting for them.
He went to his work bench and checked his tools. Everything was in order. The kids
were a group of eighth graders from Riverside Middle School, twenty five miles
east in downtown Minneapolis, where Larry was assistant principal. They were
considered 'high risk', having had trouble adjusting to life in Minnesota. To
try and help them Larry and Charlie had worked out a plan: Charlie would mentor
the kids and teach them about taking care of cars, sort of like the automotive
maintenance shop classes that used to be offered in junior high schools years
ago. Times were different now. Budgets were tight and shop classes weren't around
anymore. The kids were attending by their own choice having given up a study
period to learn what went into taking care of an automobile.
In the beginning Charlie was under
no illusions about what he was getting himself into. He knew most of the kids
just wanted to get away from school and "Hang out," as they were apt
to say, sneak cigarettes, and goof off. But from day one Charlie wouldn't have
any of it. Twelve had started the class. He was strict but fair yet a few just couldn't
handle the discipline. He was down to nine now, having weeded out those who
wouldn't abide by his simple rules: treat others with respect, work hard, and
don't be afraid to ask questions. He didn't admit it very often, but he
thoroughly enjoyed being with them, giving the kids a two hour block of time
every week. During the first meeting he'd written their names down, then found
he had to refer to his list often in those initial weeks, needing the extra
prompting. It had been challenging back then but he'd worked at it. Now, of
course, he knew them all by heart: Abshir, Amir, Cabdulle, Daleel, Fuaad, Gaani,
Idiris, Kaahi and Kamal. They were young Somali's living in a high rise housing
complex in the heart of Minneapolis. Today they'd help him with the oil change and then he'd
supervise the project they were working on, restoring a classic Chevrolet,
getting it ready for Long Lake's Fourth of July parade. Charlie would drive it,
and the kids were going to ride with him.
He whistled to himself, using his shop cloth
to wipe down his tools. Sell his service station for a million and a half
dollars? Never. Not on Charlie Swant's watch. Then he turned his head, hearing
a horn beeping. Jerry Larson, the school bus driver, was pulling in to drop off
the young Somali's. Charlie smiled and waved, walking out to meet them. Time to
get to work.
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