Rip-off Rednecks From Utah
I just got back from a road trip. A long one. A stupid workmate (who shall remain nameless) got me really drunk and said we were going out for burgers. Before I knew it, we were in Vegas. But we didn’t stop there, oh no. He hauled my ass all the way to Pennsylvania (from Los Angeles), sold his truck, and paid for us to fly back. But this isn’t about someone wasting a week of my life (without pay or permission), it’s about what happened in Utah.
We pulled into this shitty little gas station right outside of St. George. A spindly little grease monkey ran out of a garage and started washing our windshield. Pretty soon he looks at the truck tire. “There’s something wrong with your tire.” The words came out of his crusty mouth, thick as pus (sorry about that last line). “Gimme the keys while you pay for your gas. I’ll make sure it’s on right. No charge.” He seemed stupid and harmless so we said OK and gave him the keys while we paid the $30 gas bill (fucking oil companies).
So we walk into the garage to see if Joe Bob is done playing with our truck. We’re greeted by 4 big Utah mechanics with mean looks on their faces. The truck is about 5 feet off the ground on one of those huge truck lifting pedestals. “Bad news, guys (those bastards always say that), you’ve got a bad piston cylinder compressor in your front tire unit. We have to replace it if you wanna make it home.”
So nameless BigGun employee says, “show me.” The mechanic starts speaking in some strange dialect about broken joints and exploding tires. Nameless BigGun employee says, “I understand that you want to fix my truck. Show me why.” The other mechanics start to slink away, leaving Bubba to use his one wit. “We have the parts in stock. They’re $49 each and you need two. I’ll tell you what. I’ll even do the work for half price, seeing how you guys have a long way to go.”
Nameless BigGun employee says, “There’s no way you have the exact parts here. Every part on this thing is special ordered. Everything.” My brain slowly alerts the rest of my body that the dude’s trying to rip us off. I wanted to go into the pulp fiction “do I look like a bitch, why you trying to fuck me” routine, but I was afraid he and his greezy buddies would indeed try to fuck me with any provocation, so I just said, “Thanks for putting our truck up high. Can you put it back on the ground so we can get the hell out of Utah.”
“I don’t feel comfortable letting you guys leave with your truck like this,” mechanic slurs, “when your tire blows, I’m held legally responsible.” Nameless BigGun employee counters with, “since you have not and will not work on this truck you are responsible for nothing but wasting our time. I don’t feel comfortable paying you $150 I don’t have for work I don’t need. Give me my fucking keys.” Bubba was obviously not used to getting sweared (sworn?) at. Nevertheless, he put our truck down (hard), gave us the keys, and let us leave.
We made it to Pennsylvania just fine. The guy who bought the car had his mechanic check it out. The tire was fine. I’ll be posting the phone number of the Utah mechanics as soon as I can find it in our receipt pile.
I think this might be “Fuck Utah” week, so stay tuned for details on the Salt Lake City restaurant where I ate worst meal ever eaten anywhere ever by anybody.