Open Writing

Much to my parents' concern I was thoroughly enjoying my carefree year at the White Spot and showed no intention of being ready to marry and settle down.

The congenial atmosphere created by my boss and the other carhops was a very welcome change to my cheerless and lonely time in Toronto. I enjoyed the good-natured battle of wits in trying to be the top tip earner of the week, and I was finally able to save enough money to consider buying my own car.

I had become besotted with a black Morris Minor convertible that I had seen at a nearby second-hand car dealership. My parents' tried to warn me that running a car was not economical, with many expenses other than gasoline and oil. However my ingenuous youthful optimism led me to block out this valuable information and I put down the deposit on my new toy.
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It was a wonderful feeling once again, like my bicycling days, I was free to go wherever and whenever I pleased.

By this time I had become friends' with Joe, a swarthy South African fellow carhop whose sense of the absurd and wit had me laughing most of the time we were together. On our nights off we would sometimes go to a drive-in movie. We would get the strangest looks from the other patrons when they saw us roaring with laughter at one of Joe's ribald asides, particularly at the most tragic, scary or dramatic moments of the film.

One night after our shift ended at about eleven pm Joe jokingly said, "Feel like a hamburger? I know where there's an all-night drive-in in Bellingham."

"Okay. Let's go, “I said immediately taking up his ludicrous suggestion.

We took off in high spirits for our one hundred-mile journey each way across to the US/Canada border town. On our way back I was convulsed with laughter at one of his jokes when he turned to me and very quietly and calmly said, "What are you trying to do, climb up his exhaust?" The shake of his head indicated for me to look ahead. I had to jam on my brakes to avoid smashing into the rear of a semi-trailer only a few feet ahead.

My beloved car was to cause me some very embarrassing moments.

It was equipped with an electrically operated gasoline pump. Not being mechanically inclined, I often neglected to keep the pump's points clean. As a stopgap measure I would open and slam the driver's door to jar the pump back into action.

One evening during the rush-hour traffic the pump stopped working while I was in the middle of the main intersections of Granville and Georgia Street's in the centre of Vancouver.

There I was blocking the traffic from all directions slamming and slamming my door to no avail. The pump simply refused to work. A police sergeant strolled up to me through the irate horn-tooting drivers.

"Having trouble, Son?"

With great embarrassment I explained the reason for my peculiar behaviour.

He helped me push the car to the side of the road and issued me with a dire warning that if I did not have the problem fixed properly post haste, I would be in serious trouble.

This was only one of many mechanical problems I was experiencing with my overworked car. The financially crippling costs of registration, insurance and maintenance were more than I could manage and the bailiff arrived at our home one afternoon and repossessed the car. I had conveniently forgotten this embarrassing episode when my ‘dear’ sister reminded me of it in company a few years ago.

My year with the White Spot taught me the very important lesson of customer service. Good customer service has proved a very valuable asset for me in my working life. I have never considered it as either demeaning or as kowtowing to others. I truly believe that I would not have achieved what I have today without that year's grounding. I also believe that I have learned important lessons from whatever I have done or wherever I have been in my life.

© Clement 2006