How Can I Help You?

When I was in the Navy and my ship went overseas, the Philippines, Japan, Hong Kong, I wrote a couple of letters to Brodie S. Griffith, editor of The Charlotte News, the newspaper where I worked the summer after I graduated from Garinger High School in 1960.

I wanted to keep that door open.

Brodie S. Griffith, Editor, The Charlotte News
Brodie S. Griffith, Editor, The Charlotte News

I came home on leave for the last time in the summer of 1962, just before I was released from active duty and started school at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.  I went by the paper to see Mr. Griffith and say hello, a courtesy call.

We talked a few minutes and, as I was about to leave, he asked if there was anything he could do for me.

Normally when someone says something like that I think they’re just being polite and I wave it off.  I say, “No, but thanks anyway.” But for some reason I didn’t do that; I did just the opposite.

“You could get me a job and a scholarship,” I said.

So he did.

Pee Ivey, director, UNC News Bureau
Pee Ivey, director, UNC News Bureau

While I sat there in his office he called the University News Bureau, talked to Pete Ivey, the director, and then told me to go around and see Mr. Ivey when I started school. I did, and Mr. Ivey hired me.

And then Mr. Griffith called the UNC School of Journalism. I don’t know who he talked to but I heard what he told them, words to this effect:

“You know we’ve sent a lot of money up there over the years. Uh-huh. Well, now I want some of it back. I have a fine young man sitting here in my office and he needs a scholarship.”

When I enrolled in the School of Journalism, a scholarship was waiting for me.

Coming Friday: “Get A Gun,” Part 1

Bob Quincy
Bob Quincy, director, UNC Sports Information

NOTE: I didn’t work very long for the UNC News Bureau before Bob Quincy, director of the UNC Office of Sports Information, hired me.  Bob had been sports editor of The Charlotte News when I worked there in the summer of 1960, just before I went on active duty in the Navy.

Bob was a pro, through and through — a good mentor. But he had a temper, and I’ve written about it, twice. See “Quincy The Terrible,” Part I and Part II, posted on Dec. 12-13, 2016.

The Truck Technician

When I tried to start my old Chevy S-10 all I heard was a clicking sound, like the battery was nearly dead. But how could that be?

Don Allemann, a friends for the last 50 years.
Don Allemann, my friend for the last 50 years, at Snowbird.

Don Allemann and I had just stopped for breakfast at a fast food restaurant off of I-40 west of Winston-Salem somewhere. The truck had been running just fine until I cut it off and Don and I went inside to get sausage biscuits and coffee.  But not now.

I had no idea where I was going to find a mechanic. I didn’t even know the name of the town. Don’t know it now. I walked across the street to a convenience store to see if maybe someone there could point me in the right direction.

The only customer in the store had just paid for his cigarettes so I asked the guy at the cash register if he knew where I could find a mechanic.

The customer, still standing the the register, said to the clerk, “He’s looking for a technician.”

I wasn’t talking to him and his comment irritated me just a little.

The clerk looked like a foreigner and I wondered if had understood me. I repeated myself: “My truck won’t start and I need a mechanic.” The customer, who was looking at me now, repeated himself:  “He needs a technician.”  

This guy needed to mind his own business.

And then it dawned on me what he meant by that, and I asked, “Are you a mechanic?” He said he was, and I pointed through the convenience store window at my truck and asked him if he had time to take a look at it.  He did.

We walked out of the convenience store together but instead of turning left toward my truck, he turned the other way and walked a few feet to his shop. I had broken down across the street from a garage that fixed cars and trucks. He picked up a rubber mallet and said to two feet sticking out from under a car, “I’ll be right back.”

The technician's tool.
The technician’s tool.

As we walked across the street to my truck the “technician” told me, “I know what’s wrong with it.”

“What?” I asked.

“You got a bad fuel pump.”

He told me to get in and crank it when he gave me the go-ahead. Then he dropped to the ground, reach under my truck and started banging on the gas tank with his mallet.  My truck started right up.

Postscript: The “technician” said my truck might keep on starting for a week, a month, maybe several months. Or it might not start the next time. If that happened, get somebody to bang on the gas tank, he said.  I didn’t have to do that. It ran flawlessly until I had the fuel pump replaced a few weeks later.

Coming Monday: “How Can I Help You?”