East Atlanta Village

The short, staccato, nubs of language flailing out of the mechanic's mouth should have been a warning.  This was going to take a while.

The village must have been much more like him at one time... rigging $1500 dollar engines in 20 year old trucks, jeans ripped at the knees from kneeling, skin bronzed in grease.  Now a mini cooper, a volkswagen rabbit, and my camry sit in the parking lot waiting to be serviced.  Now faded 501s sit in the waiting room with frappes in hand and iPads in laps.

The owner promised a 45 minute oil change.  I knew better.   Even if the places around it have been replaced by an East Coast scooter gear boutique, a West Coast fusion burrito spot and an uptown smoothie shop, Armor Tire and Service is still the south.  Things proceed slowly, if at all.   And so I had planned several runs that would take about an hour and a half.

I took my djembe to get tuned at the music shop.  The man there said come back in an hour.  Perfect.  I walked over to the record store to flip through oldies, then to the cafe across the street to work.  An hour later I walked back to Armor Tire and Service and my car was sitting where I left it.

I asked him about the oil change... on the Camry.  Then he spat some sort of new gaelic yap from the Adirondacks at me.  Something loud about a tire and all this shit that popped up while fixing it.  The mechanic poked his head through a window and said something else about the damn tire, and that my car would be done in 30 minutes.  I'm running out of time, I told them.  I have a job interview in an hour, I said.  I showed my displeasure, but was careful not to express it.  This is still the south.



I picked up the djembe and walked to the empty back patio of the cafe to drum a bit.  When someone came outside to work, I left to pick up the car.  I walked in with the Djembe on my shoulder.  The owner stared at it suspiciously, then asked me what I needed like he had never seen me before.  The Camry...  the oil change on the Camry, I reminded him.  I heard another series of banjo twangs about the damn tire and all the shit that popped up, paid, got in my car and left.

I got my djembe tuned, browsed for records, and drummed the djembe at a cafe all while getting my car fixed by the Dukes of Hazzard.  East Atlanta Village.