We’re trying to sell the car so we had to remove a dent, a scrape and a scuff. A guy I know and trust wanted $350 but his schedule was too jammed, so last weekend I went with a mobile auto-body team — a couple of 30something guys from back east. One of them, a stocky, fast-talking, type-A dude, called himself “Charlie” but his phone ID read “Nicholas Grant” — a red flag.
They charged $425 and were fast and efficient, except “Charlie Grant” and his partner left the passenger side door with a kind of soapy residue over the dented area. Don’t wash it off for 48 hours, I was told. When I finally washed it off it was clear that Charlie hadn’t used the right shade of black paint — it should’ve been glossy, not flat black.
I asked Charlie when could he return and do it right. He ducked me for hours, and then finally texted back. The most I could get out of him was “I’ll let you know” and “we’ll figure it out.” He didn’t do the job right so we (he and I, the technician and the client) would have to “figure it out”?
Myron McCormick’s Sgt. King to Andy Griffith’s Pvt. Stockdale: “Stockdale, you were supposed to clean the toilets, except one of them is still filthy.” Stockdale to King: “We’ll figure it out.”
HE to Charlie: “It’s Thursday noon. Are you coming tomorrow or Saturday?”
Charlie to HE: “I said twice that I would repair the damage, but you’ve insisted on pushing me around and threatening me. Great — let’s have the sheriff’s department get involved and we’ll go to small claims over $425.”
HE to Charlie: “No, you didn’t [say you’d repair it]. You said ‘I’ll let you know’ and ‘we’ll figure it out.’ Those are shifty, snake-oil statements. Quit fucking around.”
Charlie to HE: “I was going to fix it but at this point you’re scaring me. Please call the cops & we’ll just have them deal with it.”
HE to Charlie: “Be a man, stop this shit and do the job. Behave in a professional manner. If you don’t…what do you think I’m gonna do, just give up and walk away?”
Charlie to HE: “You’re an [older guy] who wears yellow shoes and lives next to a bunch of queers. Please don’t act scary or act tough. I’m from Brooklyn — relax yourself.”
HE to Charlie: “And I’m from Westfield, New Jersey. You’re a dishonorable person. You’re not a pro. Do the professional respectable thing. You fucked up the passenger door. You need to un-fuck it.”
And so on and so forth. Who does a shitty job and then fiddle-faddles when you ask them about doing it right?