I had worked at the shop for about five weeks. Daily I was beset by the sharp whir of impact drivers and the high pitched clicking of ratchets, each improvising over the vehicle lift’s steady mechanical clank. Though jarring at first, I soon came to welcome this industrial background music, the harsh notes blending over time to create a blue-collar symphony of toil, sung by instruments of steel.
I was an apprentice to the musicians, a band of five. The section players, David and Tommy, the concertmasters, Sirius and Andrzej, and the conductor himself, Walker. Each was a master in his own right, yet if left unchecked the collective sound threatened discord. It was under Walker's direction that the metallic pounding of the shop was transformed into a rhythmic beat.
To the untrained eye, David and Tommy called to mind the archetypal description of the “grease monkey.” Sirius and Andrzej were different. As the foremen of the shop, they were responsible for solving those difficult problems whose solutions eluded the others. Andrzej was especially intimidating, a towering figure whose antipathy I could sense from my first day. Most distant of all was Walker, the owner of the shop, the maestro.
I found it curiously unsettling when I noticed the tools in my hands joining in the concert, their cadence creating new riffs in the cacophony of repair. I had found my rhythm, or so I thought. Unbeknownst to me on that fifth week, disaster would strike.
I was pulling the SUV into the service bay when I heard that sickening crunch. Like a scratch in a record, the sound of metal on concrete pierced the air and reverberated through my entire body, bringing the music to a screeching halt.
I got out to inspect the damage. Hoping to God it was a minor scrape, my heart sank when it came into view. It was deeper than the clearcoat. Hints of dread crept around me as I traced my fingers along the black gashes in the alabaster paint. In shock, I scoured my mind for solutions. Nobody had seen me do it. Maybe I could play it off as pre-existing damage? No, my conscience wouldn’t allow me. The dread thickened into a pit in my stomach as I resolved to tell the truth.
To my dismay Andrzej was in charge that day. His gaze imparted disappointment and frustration as I recounted my mistake, and though his countenance refused to reveal it, I sensed he took a certain satisfaction from my discomfort. Walker was out that day, he said. I would have to face my boss the next morning.
For the next 24 hours all I could hear was that grating sound, and when I went home that night a mix of shame and fear overwhelmed me. The magnitude of my mistake felt like abject failure. After all, there were only six of us, and in our newly formed ensemble my wrong note had upset the tempo of the entire group.
I walked into the shop the next day expecting it to be my last. I entered Walker's office and asked if he had a moment to speak. As I recounted my actions, apologized, and offered to pay for the damages, he listened silently. To my surprise, he thanked me for being forthcoming and told me not to repeat the mistake. As penance, I would be the one to make repairs, but after that short conversation the issue was resolved.
I won’t forget the lesson I learned that day. Honesty and mercy can always stand alone like single notes in a scale, but in the right combination, they can transform discord into melody. Walker's mercy in reaction to my candor restored harmony to the shop. Pondering this as I walked out, I heard the mechanical symphony begin once again.