The Story of Deetz and Stud
As part of my daughter’s dance training, I had to get her on stage as much as possible. That often meant signing her up for those dreadful dance competitions. This time, she was competing in Orlando. We live in Pennsylvania. Money was tight, so we packed up our aging Mercedes SUV — affectionately named “Queen” — and hit the road.
It was the end of June, and the heat was relentless. Somewhere in Virginia, I noticed water dripping beneath the car. By the time we reached Raleigh, North Carolina, I figured I should check it out. I knelt down, dipped my fingers into the puddle, and brought them to my nose.
Gasoline.
Damn.
It was a Sunday. Firestone was open, but the guy at the counter shook his head. “I only do tires,” he said apologetically, wiping his hands on a rag. “But you might want to check across the street. Ask for Deetz.”
Across the street, there was an open garage — more like a carport — filled with guys lounging around. A man was under a car, legs sticking out. As we approached, the group exchanged knowing looks, silently acknowledging the lost white lady with the sweating teenage daughter in tow.
“We’re looking for Deetz,” I said.
Every finger pointed to the man under the car. He slid out, wiped his hands on his jeans, and gave us a long, professional look.
“How can I help?”
I explained the situation. Deetz crouched, ran his hand along the passenger side, then brought his fingers to his nose. He sniffed, frowned, wiped his hands on his pants, and asked, “You got any enemies?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Enemies,” he repeated, looking me dead in the eye.
I glanced at my daughter. She was staring at him, her face slick with sweat or maybe anxiety.
“No,” I stammered. “I — I don’t think so.”
Deetz straightened up. “What do you do?”
“I — I’m a teacher.”
The guys exchanged glances.
“A math teacher?” one of them asked.
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They all groaned. “Man, I hated my math teacher,” one said. The others nodded in agreement.
“No,” I corrected quickly. “Spanish.”
“Oh,” they said in unison. “That should be okay.”
Deetz shook his head. “It’s your fuel line, but I don’t know why it’s in this bad shape.” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “I don’t mess much with Mercedes. But go two blocks down. Ask for Stud.”
We got back in Queen — our car now a rolling Molotov cocktail — and crawled the two blocks to another garage. More guys hanging out, another man under a car.
I hesitated before speaking. “I’m looking for Stud.”
One of the guys hollered, “Yo, Stud! This white lady’s here to see you!”
Everyone laughed, including my daughter and me.
Stud was… well, aptly named. Not conventionally handsome, but kind, with a big grin and a presence that put me at ease. He slid out from under the car, his smile widening as he wiped his hands.
“What’s up?”
I explained, and he got right to work. As he poked around under Queen, he muttered, “Huh.”
“Huh?” I repeated. “What ‘huh’?”
“You got any enemies?”
I groaned. “That’s what Deetz asked!”
Stud chuckled. “Yeah, well, cutting a fuel line’s an old trick people pull on their enemies. But looks like you just got salt buildup in the housing. Probably corroded the line over time.” He grinned. “Guess you ain’t got enemies after all.”
For $200, he patched up Queen, and we were back on the road.
We made it to the competition. My daughter, still rattled by the whole ordeal, was a nervous wreck.
The trip home? Uneventful.
My daughter was mad at me for being poor. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. It remains one of the best adventures I’ve ever had.
