Then my radiator blew in his driveway… and I found out how wrong I was.
White smoke poured from under my hood as I slammed my hands against the steering wheel.
“Are you kidding me?”
Of all places, my car had to die here—right in front of Arthur’s house. The one customer I couldn’t stand.
Every Tuesday. 2:00 PM.
One item. Always cheap.
No tip.
That day, it was a $2.14 lightbulb.
I was 21, working 60 hours a week delivering groceries to pay for mechanic school. Every dollar mattered. And this house? It drained both my gas tank and my patience.
Arthur lived in a decaying Victorian at the end of a dead-end street. Overgrown yard. Peeling paint. Silence.
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