Paul's Cyclery :: Shop Notes

shop notes : May
Bike Shop Chronicles

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May 16, 2005

A man brought in three bicycles for the usual: tune-ups, thorn resistant tubes, miscellaneous repairs, etc. I give him the estimate. He wants to know how soon he can have them back. Tuesday, I say. OK, do it, he says. Monday end of day they’re done, and I call to inform the customer.

A week passes. I call again.

Another week passes. I call again.

I’m thinking, this is one of those “hurry up and wait” deals.

Finally one day a woman drives comes in, says she’s here to pick up the bikes. She gets out her checkbook, I give her the total amount.

Silence.

“What’s wrong,” I say.

“Do you think I’m made of money?” she says.

“I did the repairs as agreed upon,” says I.

“What the F*** kind of rip-off is that?” she says, “I can’t afford all these f***ing bills, you people all want my money and I Just Can’t Take It!”
I didn’t have an answer ready for that one, so I just went into the back room, pulled out the bikes, removed the repair warrant copies and showed her that the amount agreed to the estimate. (it was actually a few dollars less).

“I don’t know what kind of a f***ing a**hole you are, but that’s a f***ing rotten deal and I’m never coming back here again, and what’s more, I’m going to tell all my friends what a son of a b**** you are and f***ing a***hole you are f*** you f***you,” etc. etc. (proceeding to the complete meltdown, tears, red faced, waving arms in the air).

I didn’t mention, while all this was transpiring a kid walks in. He’s maybe 16 years old, and I found out later that he’d just come in to buy a tube, which I sold him. He’s sitting on a stool at this moment watching the scene play out. And he has the most amazed look on his face, I can still see it today. Later, he said, “that lady’s having a bad day.”

“I think you’d better pay your bill and get out of here,” I say. I may have said “hell out of here,” actually.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I’m just trying to do my job, the job your family asked me to do, I gave them an accurate estimate, and I did the job. If you have a problem with that, I’m not the one to get down on,” says I.

“F*** you, A**hole, you f***ing a**hole, I just tried to apologize and now you’re being an a**hole to me, I’m never coming back here ever again, you male chauvenist piece of s*** blah blah blah blah blah!” and she reaches for the bike.

“Don’t touch that bike,” says I, “you need to pay your damned bill before you touch any of those bikes, then you can take them and go away and DON’T come back! And furthermore, whatever so-called friends you have that will listen to your swill, I don’t want them as customers, tell them to stay away!” (so there!) And those were my last words, regretting them as they are coming out.

And as she’s writing the check, a continuous stream of profanity is pouring out, increasingly worse and awful, dirty, and disgusting, and full of hatred and vile, and I’m so embarrased that the kid on the stool has to hear it all, and I’m doing my best and managing to just sit there and shut up, and she’s starting to sweat, and shes screaming, and shaking, and at one point I thought she would actually fall down, and it’s just AMAZING! She is just TOTALLY LOSING IT!

I should say here that I never smelled alcohol on her or her breath.
After a couple of rough drafts she finally finished an accurate check, and as she was rolling the last bike out the front door she screams one finality that explained it all:

“I JUST FOUND OUT I HAVE CANCER!!!”

The check didn’t bounce.

A man came in one day last spring. Said he was thinking about buying a bicycle, had one when he was a kid, has a cheap mountain bike right now, and wants to get an expensive road bike.

I showed him around some, asked him some questions, had a nice discussion and qualified him for a $1500 cyclocross bike in about ten minutes.

I showed him the bike, and he says, “that’s the one, I want that one.”
I’m thinking, “that was easy,”

“I need to take it on a test ride,” he says.

“I’ll need to forms of ID, one with a picture,” says I.

“I’ve got them here in my wallet in the pocket of my jacket, I’ll leave you the jacket,” he says. Imagine a dirty, scuffed-up imitation leather jacket.

“I need you to get the IDs out and hand them to me,” says I.

“I’ve got them right here (patting his breast) in my wallet,” and you can hold onto the coat while I test-ride the bicycle,”” he says.
I repeat the request.

“Look, I have enough cash here in my wallet to buy this bike right now, and if you don’t let me test-ride the bike, I’m not going to buy it..”

“Show me the money,” I say.

My son John is with me at the moment, which means it’s about 4:00 on a Saturday. He’s three years old and I’m thinking, if this guy wants to run off on a test ride with a $1500 bike, there’s no way that I will be able to just grab another bike and chase him down. And he knows that.

“I’m telling you, I got Fifteen Hundred Dollars right here in my pocket and if you don’t let me test ride this bike right now I’m gonna go somewhere else and buy a bike,” he says.

“I can’t let you take a fifteen-hundred-dollar bike for a test ride without corroborating identification, sir, I just can’t. If you have two forms of ID, or $1500 cash, bring it out right now and hand it over, and then I’ll let you test ride the bike.”

“Well, uh, well, uh...I’m never coming back here again, I’m gonna take my money SOMEWHERE ELSE and buy a bike!” he said. And starts backing away. And I stood there with my arms crossed and looked him right in the eyes and didn’t say a word.

And he keeps backing away, he won’t turn his back on me. Bumps into the door, wheels around, and he can’t get across the parking lot fast enough. Shoots into the walkway in front of the supermarket, jogs up the siding and disappears around the corner.

I knew what he meant by “somewhere else.” Right away I called another of the area bike shops to give them the heads-up. “Dingy leather jacket, white shoes, about 5-10?” they ask. “Thats him, he hit us yesterday.”

Same story with the second shop I called.

Most shops lose a bike every year through scams of one sort or another. This guy was an amateur, and had (to me, anyway) a pretty obvious ploy, but for an inexperienced salesperson who really, really, wants to make a big sale, the temptation to give a guy (or gal) the benefit of the doubt can be a real disaster. And it’s not just the financial blow that is tough-all of us in the bike industry work because of our passion for the sport-to us, a bicycle is more than just a machine, it’s more than just a commodity or a product, it’s, well, it’s, just a lot more. A few years ago one of my co-workers got suckered by a false ID, and it really broke the guy up. He offered to pay for the bike ($2500) and quit his job (luckily our employer was understanding, and he didn’t do either). I have a vivid memory of seeing him sitting on the back steps of the shop weeping.

Most of the people who steal bikes, I think, end up selling them for a hundredth of their actual value, often just to pay for their next fix. They have no idea. What a shame.

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