I Am Stronger Because of All I've Been Through
Earl’s Garage - Part 1
"The Theory of Barternomics . . ."
In my freshman year of college , I quickly learned that I was not dorm material. I already knew this of course. I'm a private person, a recluse, an introvert - a loner. During Christmas vacation I told my father I was moving out of the dorm, and renting a room in town. He was furious. He then told me freshman have to stay in the dorm the first year. I told him I didn't have to stay in the dorm if I was a commuting student, or a towny. My father answered by telling me I didn't live in town. I then told him I paid the first month's rent on a one room apartment making me a towny, and put a deposit on a car since there was no bus line in the part of town I was in.
This further infuriated my father but after a few days, he finally relented and agreed to my wishes. After an argument with my father, regardless of who came out on top, we often did our traditional boxing performance where we would dance around the living room like two boxers in a ring, throwing fake punches at each other. We would weave and bob, duck and jab, and then - he would take me in his arms and hug me.
The room I rented was in a bad part of town. I didn't tell my Dad that, but I thought I might find a better place later, or if I found another loner more introverted than myself, we could share an apartment. The car I bought was a used Volkswagen for $200. It wasn't long before I began to have mechanical problems. The day came when it sputtered and back fired and I barely managed to get it to a repair shop.
I rolled into Earl's Garage, owned by who else, Earl and his wife Doris. In the office, they listened to my tale of misery. I held back tears about convincing my father I could do this on my own and I used up all my savings. Earl took pity on me and told me I could make payments. The worst news was that I had to replace the engine. I made the appointment and showed up on a day when I didn't have classes. Earl had found a used engine that ran. "How do you know it runs?" I asked. The engine was sitting on the work bench. Earl hooked a battery to it, poured in some fuel from a rubber hose, and hit the switch. Vroom! "It works!" I cried with glee clapping my hands.
While Earl worked away at swapping the engine, I sat in his office, read, and studied a little, but then couldn't help but notice his cluttered office. The desk was covered with papers haphazardly scattered around. Dust and dirt was everywhere. Engine parts were placed either on the floor or on the desk. Book shelves were sagging under the weight of catalogues and repair manuals.
"Earl, how do you work in this mess?" I called. "What mess?" he answered. "This mess, your office, it's disgusting." I said. He fell silent ignoring me. Finally, I could stand it no more, and I began to sort through the papers on the desk, separating bills and receipts. Once done, I paper clipped them all together in groups, stacked them in piles, found a rag, and cleaned off the top of the desk. Then I laid them all out in nice neat piles.
Within two hours, Earl had swapped out the engine and I was back in business. He stepped into his office to find the papers on his desk neatly arranged. I had moved all the parts to the floor by the window or on the sill. "Wow, I can't believe that's my desk, haven't seen it for years!" he laughed.
I climbed into the driver seat and with Earl beside me we took a test drive to make sure the new, or shall I say the used engine worked to my satisfaction. It did. "You're going to need some rear tires soon," he said. My joy was slightly dampened at the thought of another expense.
We got back to the garage and his wife Doris brought out some sandwiches. We all sat together in the office and ate while Doris chuckled over the cleanliness of Earl's desk. Earl spoke. "You know Monique, I could use some office help, can't afford anyone full time, but it would be a help if you could come in a few hours each week and help out. You could work off your bill." My ears perked up. "Ok," I said without thinking. "I'll do it!"
It just so happens I'd been looking for some kind of job. My parents had always stressed that work should always be a part of your life, or at least have some kind of part time job to keep your activities balanced. Between school, sports, and work, it "kept me out the back seats of cars" to quote my mother. She was right of course.
I showed up on a Thursday morning, and immediately began sorting, and cleaning. A moment later, Earl asked me to call in an order for parts.
"Rear brake shoes for a 1975 Plymouth Duster," he called. I scribbled the order down and called the parts store.
"Hello, this is Earl's Garage, I have an order to call in," I said.
"Who's this?" the called asked.
"It's Monique, I am Earl's new office assistant."
The man laughed.
"Office Assistant you say." he replied
"Yes, Office Assistant, I have an order to place."
"Ok, shoot."
I read the note slowly. "Rear brake shoes for a 1975 Plymouth Duster."
I heard the flipping of pages while he murmured to himself.
"Slant six or V-8?"
"What?" I asked rather alarmed. The man on the other end was quiet.
"Does it have a six or eight cylinder engine?" he said slowly.
"Earl, he wants to know the number of cylinders on the Plymouth?" I shouted into the garage.
"Oh for God's sakes, it shouldn't matter. Tell him six." he barked.
"Six." I said.
"Good, we'll run em' out within the hour."
I took a breath and hung up the phone, proud of my first successful order. I dusted off Earl's ancient adding machine, and cleaned all the keys. It still spit dust every time you pulled the crank. After one morning of work, I was getting the hang of it. I was surprised at how busy the garage was. A Mr. Johansen stopped in to see about getting his tractor repaired. I asked Earl later if he could fix tractors. "I can fix anything if I can get the parts and a little instruction." Yes, Earl could fix tractors, bulldozers, trucks, and other heavy equipment.
Those waiting for repairs to be completed sat in the office with me. This was a problem, as most liked to talk, especially Mrs. Blodgett who jabbered on about everything that was going on in her life. I listened to her the best I could but her constant talking along with all the noise in the garage was distressing as I tried to learn or create a system where bills and payables could be organized.
Within the hour the parts truck pulled up as promised. A young man about my age walked in smiling. "Here's your brakes. Just initial here." he said. I checked the order carefully studying the purchase order and part numbers. I signed the order and handed it back to him. He smiled and then entered the garage to talk with Earl for a moment before driving off to another delivery.
Mrs. Blodgett prattled on for another hour before I thought I would lose my mind. Finally her car was done. Earl entered the office. "You're all set Mrs. Blodgett," he said. I was about to ask Earl about how to write the bill when Mrs. Blodgett placed a paper bag on the desk. "There dear, two dozen eggs." she said. "Thanks Mrs. Blodgett, don't forget you're due for inspection next month," Earl replied. "Oh, thank you Earl, silly me, I'd be sure to forget," she answered.
Mrs. Blodgett was finally out the door, only to be replaced by another man who drove his Buick into the bay. He talked with Earl about a problem he was having and then came into the office and sat down. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked. "Yes, I do mind." I replied. "Oh, then I'll just step outside then," he replied. He rose and exited the office. I felt triumphant that I had protected my space and avoided certain death by passive smoke.
While the man was outside having his smoke. Earl came in the office looking for a repair manual. I had also reorganized his library, although he showed slight irritation at not being able to find a particular manual in it's old familiar place amid the clutter.
"Earl, what was Mrs. Blodgett's bill?" I asked.
"Oh, you mean for the oil change?" he asked.
"Yes, the oil change." I replied.
"Two dozen eggs." he answered.
"Eggs?" I questioned.
"Yes, eggs" he answered.
"She pays you in eggs?" I asked again.
"Yes," he confirmed.
"So, oil change for eggs." I said.
"Exactly," he said. I was quiet as I pondered this transaction.
"I have to get back to work. We'll talk about his later. Ok?"
"Ok," I said.
After the man finished his smoke, he entered the office. "Well, I say, you certainly do brighten up the office. Who are you and what's Earl got you doing?" he asked. "I'm Monique, I'm helping to manage the office, sort receipts and bills, and order parts," I said. "Well Monique, such a pretty name, then you and I will be working together at some point. We should go out for a drink. What do you say, get acquainted over a gin and tonic, or what do you like to drink?" he asked.
Suddenly, I could only think of my mother. A man has invited me for a drink, an older man for that matter - no dates, no hand holding, no kiss on the cheek, or on the lips, petting etc .. on and on .. I have skipped all those stages and am invited for drinks, real alcohol drinks with an older man, and a rather distinguished one at that. I was about to say, "I'll have to ask my mother." but then caught myself realizing I am now eighteen years old, of legal drinking age, and don't need my mother's permission. This thought was both liberating and frightening at the same time. I avoided answering him, and pursued my own line of questioning.
"We're going to work together? Why?" I asked. "Well that's because I'm Earl's accountant. Clayton Evers is the name by the way," he said. Surprised, I tried to figure out why we would work together. "So how would we be working together?" I asked. "Well at tax time of course. I do Earl's taxes. Awful mess, I can't make head nor tails of most of his paper work." he said. And then his face suddenly brightened. "Of course, that's why you're here. Poor Earl, he hates paper work. Great mechanic, but doesn't like to fuss with the details," he replied.
Earl entered the office. "Well, have you two been introduced?" he asked. "We certainly have." piped Clayton. "I think you have a right sharpish girl here, and pretty too." he added. Earl leaned over to study me. "You know I think you're right. She is pretty." he said. I didn't blush, but I was a little embarrassed, but I had to win back some territory. "I told Mr. Evers he has to smoke outside." I said. "Well, good for you Monique. Your car is ready Mr. Evers. I'll send you the bill," he said. With that, Earl abruptly left to tackle the next repair.
I sat perplexed, after several customers, no money has come in to the business. Money, money, money. I seemed obsessed with seeing green bills or checks flowing into the cash box. "You look a little confused my dear. Tell old Clayton your troubles," he said.
"Well, so far, I've got two dozen eggs, and your bill has yet to be determined." I said. "Ah, I see. You haven't figured out Earl's accounting system yet." he said. "What system?" I asked.
Clayton drew in a long breath. "Look, a lot of people may not have the money to pay Earl. But they have other means to pay, like that dodgy old lady that just left, Mrs. Blodgett. She's got chickens, and she sells eggs to restaurants or trades them for food, house repairs, you name it." he said. Lost in thought, I went silent.
Clayton interrupted my silence. "Haven't you ever heard of the barter system? That's where people trade services or products. In other words, no money is exchanged. Or, let me clarify that, often some money is exchanged as part of the barter." he said. "So does Earl actually make any money? " I had to ask.
Clayton chuckled, and while solemnly holding his hand over his heart spoke. "Of course he does. I make sure he reports enough income to not raise eye brows at the Internal Revenue Service, and yet fly under the radar if you know what I mean." winking as he answered. "But that means he doesn't report a lot of income that could be taxed," I said. "True." he said. He seemed rather unmoved by his answer, nor remorseful, or guilty for that matter.
I mulled all this over for quite some time. Clayton seemed to close his eyes as if to nod off for a nap. I began to ponder several scenarios. I suppose he could bill Mrs. Blodgett, collect the fee, and then buy the eggs with money he receives for the oil change. Both Earl and Mrs. Blodgett would then be responsible for claiming the income for tax purposes. But by trading services, they both avoid reporting any income to tax.
But then I thought, Earl has to buy the oil and trade his labor so he has to front some expense. But then, Mrs. Blodgett has to buy feed for her chickens and also donate her labor for the care and upkeep of said chickens. My mind spun out of control with all the possible implications.
But then suddenly I gasped. Startled, Clayton lurched awake. "What, what's wrong?" he asked. "Why, I just realized, I'm part of this system too! I'm trading office work for getting my engine replaced!," I cried. With that, Clayton slapped his knee and howled with laughter ending in a raspy hacking cough. "Oh I say, that's rich! Don't you see, old Earl's got you wrapped up in this too," as he continued to cough and chuckle.
I sat implicated along with all the other tax felons, drawn into a web of money laundering and tax evasion. There was no escape, my replaced engine made me part of the conspiracy, of which I could not escape.
And that's when it dawned on me. I began to see that I had discovered a vast subterranean economic river flowing completely unnoticed beneath our feet, baffling the economic experts, raising havoc with the gross national product indicators, and confounding Wall Street speculators. Yes, there in a small out of the way repair shop along with thousands of others like it through out the land, business, real business was being conducted with the exchange of favors, odd jobs, food, work, --- and sometimes just plain old good will.
"The Theory of Barternomics . . ."
In my freshman year of college , I quickly learned that I was not dorm material. I already knew this of course. I'm a private person, a recluse, an introvert - a loner. During Christmas vacation I told my father I was moving out of the dorm, and renting a room in town. He was furious. He then told me freshman have to stay in the dorm the first year. I told him I didn't have to stay in the dorm if I was a commuting student, or a towny. My father answered by telling me I didn't live in town. I then told him I paid the first month's rent on a one room apartment making me a towny, and put a deposit on a car since there was no bus line in the part of town I was in.
This further infuriated my father but after a few days, he finally relented and agreed to my wishes. After an argument with my father, regardless of who came out on top, we often did our traditional boxing performance where we would dance around the living room like two boxers in a ring, throwing fake punches at each other. We would weave and bob, duck and jab, and then - he would take me in his arms and hug me.
The room I rented was in a bad part of town. I didn't tell my Dad that, but I thought I might find a better place later, or if I found another loner more introverted than myself, we could share an apartment. The car I bought was a used Volkswagen for $200. It wasn't long before I began to have mechanical problems. The day came when it sputtered and back fired and I barely managed to get it to a repair shop.
I rolled into Earl's Garage, owned by who else, Earl and his wife Doris. In the office, they listened to my tale of misery. I held back tears about convincing my father I could do this on my own and I used up all my savings. Earl took pity on me and told me I could make payments. The worst news was that I had to replace the engine. I made the appointment and showed up on a day when I didn't have classes. Earl had found a used engine that ran. "How do you know it runs?" I asked. The engine was sitting on the work bench. Earl hooked a battery to it, poured in some fuel from a rubber hose, and hit the switch. Vroom! "It works!" I cried with glee clapping my hands.
While Earl worked away at swapping the engine, I sat in his office, read, and studied a little, but then couldn't help but notice his cluttered office. The desk was covered with papers haphazardly scattered around. Dust and dirt was everywhere. Engine parts were placed either on the floor or on the desk. Book shelves were sagging under the weight of catalogues and repair manuals.
"Earl, how do you work in this mess?" I called. "What mess?" he answered. "This mess, your office, it's disgusting." I said. He fell silent ignoring me. Finally, I could stand it no more, and I began to sort through the papers on the desk, separating bills and receipts. Once done, I paper clipped them all together in groups, stacked them in piles, found a rag, and cleaned off the top of the desk. Then I laid them all out in nice neat piles.
Within two hours, Earl had swapped out the engine and I was back in business. He stepped into his office to find the papers on his desk neatly arranged. I had moved all the parts to the floor by the window or on the sill. "Wow, I can't believe that's my desk, haven't seen it for years!" he laughed.
I climbed into the driver seat and with Earl beside me we took a test drive to make sure the new, or shall I say the used engine worked to my satisfaction. It did. "You're going to need some rear tires soon," he said. My joy was slightly dampened at the thought of another expense.
We got back to the garage and his wife Doris brought out some sandwiches. We all sat together in the office and ate while Doris chuckled over the cleanliness of Earl's desk. Earl spoke. "You know Monique, I could use some office help, can't afford anyone full time, but it would be a help if you could come in a few hours each week and help out. You could work off your bill." My ears perked up. "Ok," I said without thinking. "I'll do it!"
It just so happens I'd been looking for some kind of job. My parents had always stressed that work should always be a part of your life, or at least have some kind of part time job to keep your activities balanced. Between school, sports, and work, it "kept me out the back seats of cars" to quote my mother. She was right of course.
I showed up on a Thursday morning, and immediately began sorting, and cleaning. A moment later, Earl asked me to call in an order for parts.
"Rear brake shoes for a 1975 Plymouth Duster," he called. I scribbled the order down and called the parts store.
"Hello, this is Earl's Garage, I have an order to call in," I said.
"Who's this?" the called asked.
"It's Monique, I am Earl's new office assistant."
The man laughed.
"Office Assistant you say." he replied
"Yes, Office Assistant, I have an order to place."
"Ok, shoot."
I read the note slowly. "Rear brake shoes for a 1975 Plymouth Duster."
I heard the flipping of pages while he murmured to himself.
"Slant six or V-8?"
"What?" I asked rather alarmed. The man on the other end was quiet.
"Does it have a six or eight cylinder engine?" he said slowly.
"Earl, he wants to know the number of cylinders on the Plymouth?" I shouted into the garage.
"Oh for God's sakes, it shouldn't matter. Tell him six." he barked.
"Six." I said.
"Good, we'll run em' out within the hour."
I took a breath and hung up the phone, proud of my first successful order. I dusted off Earl's ancient adding machine, and cleaned all the keys. It still spit dust every time you pulled the crank. After one morning of work, I was getting the hang of it. I was surprised at how busy the garage was. A Mr. Johansen stopped in to see about getting his tractor repaired. I asked Earl later if he could fix tractors. "I can fix anything if I can get the parts and a little instruction." Yes, Earl could fix tractors, bulldozers, trucks, and other heavy equipment.
Those waiting for repairs to be completed sat in the office with me. This was a problem, as most liked to talk, especially Mrs. Blodgett who jabbered on about everything that was going on in her life. I listened to her the best I could but her constant talking along with all the noise in the garage was distressing as I tried to learn or create a system where bills and payables could be organized.
Within the hour the parts truck pulled up as promised. A young man about my age walked in smiling. "Here's your brakes. Just initial here." he said. I checked the order carefully studying the purchase order and part numbers. I signed the order and handed it back to him. He smiled and then entered the garage to talk with Earl for a moment before driving off to another delivery.
Mrs. Blodgett prattled on for another hour before I thought I would lose my mind. Finally her car was done. Earl entered the office. "You're all set Mrs. Blodgett," he said. I was about to ask Earl about how to write the bill when Mrs. Blodgett placed a paper bag on the desk. "There dear, two dozen eggs." she said. "Thanks Mrs. Blodgett, don't forget you're due for inspection next month," Earl replied. "Oh, thank you Earl, silly me, I'd be sure to forget," she answered.
Mrs. Blodgett was finally out the door, only to be replaced by another man who drove his Buick into the bay. He talked with Earl about a problem he was having and then came into the office and sat down. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked. "Yes, I do mind." I replied. "Oh, then I'll just step outside then," he replied. He rose and exited the office. I felt triumphant that I had protected my space and avoided certain death by passive smoke.
While the man was outside having his smoke. Earl came in the office looking for a repair manual. I had also reorganized his library, although he showed slight irritation at not being able to find a particular manual in it's old familiar place amid the clutter.
"Earl, what was Mrs. Blodgett's bill?" I asked.
"Oh, you mean for the oil change?" he asked.
"Yes, the oil change." I replied.
"Two dozen eggs." he answered.
"Eggs?" I questioned.
"Yes, eggs" he answered.
"She pays you in eggs?" I asked again.
"Yes," he confirmed.
"So, oil change for eggs." I said.
"Exactly," he said. I was quiet as I pondered this transaction.
"I have to get back to work. We'll talk about his later. Ok?"
"Ok," I said.
After the man finished his smoke, he entered the office. "Well, I say, you certainly do brighten up the office. Who are you and what's Earl got you doing?" he asked. "I'm Monique, I'm helping to manage the office, sort receipts and bills, and order parts," I said. "Well Monique, such a pretty name, then you and I will be working together at some point. We should go out for a drink. What do you say, get acquainted over a gin and tonic, or what do you like to drink?" he asked.
Suddenly, I could only think of my mother. A man has invited me for a drink, an older man for that matter - no dates, no hand holding, no kiss on the cheek, or on the lips, petting etc .. on and on .. I have skipped all those stages and am invited for drinks, real alcohol drinks with an older man, and a rather distinguished one at that. I was about to say, "I'll have to ask my mother." but then caught myself realizing I am now eighteen years old, of legal drinking age, and don't need my mother's permission. This thought was both liberating and frightening at the same time. I avoided answering him, and pursued my own line of questioning.
"We're going to work together? Why?" I asked. "Well that's because I'm Earl's accountant. Clayton Evers is the name by the way," he said. Surprised, I tried to figure out why we would work together. "So how would we be working together?" I asked. "Well at tax time of course. I do Earl's taxes. Awful mess, I can't make head nor tails of most of his paper work." he said. And then his face suddenly brightened. "Of course, that's why you're here. Poor Earl, he hates paper work. Great mechanic, but doesn't like to fuss with the details," he replied.
Earl entered the office. "Well, have you two been introduced?" he asked. "We certainly have." piped Clayton. "I think you have a right sharpish girl here, and pretty too." he added. Earl leaned over to study me. "You know I think you're right. She is pretty." he said. I didn't blush, but I was a little embarrassed, but I had to win back some territory. "I told Mr. Evers he has to smoke outside." I said. "Well, good for you Monique. Your car is ready Mr. Evers. I'll send you the bill," he said. With that, Earl abruptly left to tackle the next repair.
I sat perplexed, after several customers, no money has come in to the business. Money, money, money. I seemed obsessed with seeing green bills or checks flowing into the cash box. "You look a little confused my dear. Tell old Clayton your troubles," he said.
"Well, so far, I've got two dozen eggs, and your bill has yet to be determined." I said. "Ah, I see. You haven't figured out Earl's accounting system yet." he said. "What system?" I asked.
Clayton drew in a long breath. "Look, a lot of people may not have the money to pay Earl. But they have other means to pay, like that dodgy old lady that just left, Mrs. Blodgett. She's got chickens, and she sells eggs to restaurants or trades them for food, house repairs, you name it." he said. Lost in thought, I went silent.
Clayton interrupted my silence. "Haven't you ever heard of the barter system? That's where people trade services or products. In other words, no money is exchanged. Or, let me clarify that, often some money is exchanged as part of the barter." he said. "So does Earl actually make any money? " I had to ask.
Clayton chuckled, and while solemnly holding his hand over his heart spoke. "Of course he does. I make sure he reports enough income to not raise eye brows at the Internal Revenue Service, and yet fly under the radar if you know what I mean." winking as he answered. "But that means he doesn't report a lot of income that could be taxed," I said. "True." he said. He seemed rather unmoved by his answer, nor remorseful, or guilty for that matter.
I mulled all this over for quite some time. Clayton seemed to close his eyes as if to nod off for a nap. I began to ponder several scenarios. I suppose he could bill Mrs. Blodgett, collect the fee, and then buy the eggs with money he receives for the oil change. Both Earl and Mrs. Blodgett would then be responsible for claiming the income for tax purposes. But by trading services, they both avoid reporting any income to tax.
But then I thought, Earl has to buy the oil and trade his labor so he has to front some expense. But then, Mrs. Blodgett has to buy feed for her chickens and also donate her labor for the care and upkeep of said chickens. My mind spun out of control with all the possible implications.
But then suddenly I gasped. Startled, Clayton lurched awake. "What, what's wrong?" he asked. "Why, I just realized, I'm part of this system too! I'm trading office work for getting my engine replaced!," I cried. With that, Clayton slapped his knee and howled with laughter ending in a raspy hacking cough. "Oh I say, that's rich! Don't you see, old Earl's got you wrapped up in this too," as he continued to cough and chuckle.
I sat implicated along with all the other tax felons, drawn into a web of money laundering and tax evasion. There was no escape, my replaced engine made me part of the conspiracy, of which I could not escape.
And that's when it dawned on me. I began to see that I had discovered a vast subterranean economic river flowing completely unnoticed beneath our feet, baffling the economic experts, raising havoc with the gross national product indicators, and confounding Wall Street speculators. Yes, there in a small out of the way repair shop along with thousands of others like it through out the land, business, real business was being conducted with the exchange of favors, odd jobs, food, work, --- and sometimes just plain old good will.
51-55, F
