AN OPEN LETTER

Dear Tony:

You may not remember me. I'm the gal who rolled up into your Norfolk, VA garage in the big black Suburban this past weekend. You remember? The one who was fighting back tears because of the unbelievable sound that was coming from under my vehicle? Yeah. That's me. The one with the look-alike sister in the car who was equally as out of sorts.

I appreciate the fact that you took the time to crawl under the car to search for the source of the horrible grinding. Sure, you were a little rough around the edges. You almost seemed to take glee in getting to tell me that I was "in big trouble" and if my wheel came off I "was toast" or would be "done for." I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't waste my time (or yours) with niceties. I don't suppose that psychology courses were part of your mechanic training. I don't fault you for that.

I appreciate you bottom-lining the situation and explaining just how important wheel bearings are. You were most helpful.

I wanted you to know that after a long and tedious drive cross-town (with my hazard lights furiously blinking the whole way) I was able to finally reach the dealership that you suggested.

They confirmed your expert diagnosis --my right front wheel was hanging on by a thread! After salivating over my bright and shiny credit card, they remedied the situation.

I don't know if you have a wife or daughters...but I hope that if you do, an anonymous "grease monkey angel" will also help them out if they're ever stranded in a strange city seven hours from home.

Thanks to you, we made it home safely and didn't end up as a tragic news story in the next day's paper. We'll always be grateful.

Sincerely,
L