Twenty-four, as we often referred to our Service Manager, was safely ensconced in his cool, tiled floor office.  He seemed to have the personality that some have, which doesn’t appreciate being disturbed, or, for that matter, the re-arrangement of his office furniture.  We intrepid mechanics that worked under him tried to respect this, but at times it seemed there was something in the air that affected one or all of us, and we couldn’t help ourselves.

We all liked Sam.  He was a salesman from up front that didn’t feel like it tarnished his image too greatly to hang out with us once in a while in back.  He gave us a hard time, and occasionally, we reciprocated. 

On this particular afternoon, Sam was rather swollen with a sense of importance as he wheeled his brand-new Chevy short-bed into the shop so he could install the new decals on it, denoting it as a company sales vehicle.  He took pains to show the nifty features his latest model truck had to any who wished to see.

After Sam had installed his decals and had gone up front to get some glass cleaner, whatever was in the air settled upon a few of us, and we raced into position.  One with a floor jack, two others with jack stands, and two others to give directions for the intended process. 

Quickly the short-bed was jacked up and a jack stand placed under the right rear axle, leaving the wheel just a fraction of an inch off the cement.  The process was repeated for the left rear axle, the two fellows standing behind making sure it was just barely off and still level with the cement.  With seconds to spare, we assumed our normal positions back at our workstations.

Sam returned, still rather affected by his new truck purchase, and got ready to drive it out of the shop.  One of us offered to open the shop door for him and thus secured a position from behind in case anything went wrong, and we needed to stop the process quickly. 

Sam is vertically challenged, and the look of puzzlement that crossed his brow as he tried to get up into his now lifted truck was plan for all to see.  He actually had to make two attempts to get into his cab, finally giving a bit of a jump to get clear of his sagging britches and the overly high seat.  Why he didn’t catch on at this point is probably because it was a new truck, and he figured the springs hadn’t squashed out yet.

Once in the driver’s seat, he fired her up and shifted into reverse.  All functions were normal, and the tires began to slowly rotate as he let up on the brake and looked behind while slightly turning his front wheels to line up with the door. 

Except his truck didn’t move. 

Again, a puzzled look crossed is brow, and he quickly shifted into forward to see if it worked that way. 

Nothing doing.

He revved up a bit, and the rear tires dutifully sped up with the engine speed.  Evidently Sam never looked at his speedometer; that would have told the story, because his next move had us all a bit panicky.  He shifted straight to park while his rear wheels were still spinning right along.  A horrible clashing of gears sounded, but I don’t think Sam even heard it as he leaped from the cab of his new truck, to see what the matter was. 

He was out of the cab just in time to see the wheels slowly finish their last revolution, and the truth dawned on him. 

Everybody roared with laughter.  Then someone started beating a drumroll on their metal table with a couple of wrenches.  Soon others joined in from around the shop with their own wrenches, some playing the snare and some playing the cymbals, depending on wrench size and duration. 

One brave fellow, from the back of the shop, raised his trash can and booted it clear across to the front.  It was all of ninety feet and a good punt.  A receiving end fielder sprouted out of nowhere, catching it skillfully while the crowd went wild.  He booted it back in the direction whence it came, scoring the longest field goal ever recorded in that shop. 

Another fellow, feeling called upon to celebrate the event, ran to the restroom and peeled the wrapping paper off a brand-new roll of toilet paper.  Starting the paper trailing, he hucked it in the general direction of the previously made field goal.  A long trailing banner followed, but it was moving so fast none of us could read the advertisement, if there was one, printed on it.

Out of the corner of my eye, during the midst of all above celebrations, I saw the door to the front office slowly open. 

It was twenty-four.

He made one step into the now desecrated commons, watched briefly, slowly scratched an itch on his belly, and turned back to his hallowed ground. 

Our impromptu show sprang out of nowhere and quickly disappeared into nowhere.  It was less than five minutes from the time Sam stepped up, or tried to, into his truck to when all celebrations had ceased, and the shop was neatly put back to order. 

And twenty-four had peace and quiet again.