"We have a new mechanic" were the fatal words that greeted me at the door of the Vespa shop, a new location, cramped and chic in the frou-frou world of Miami Beach, where the cool people live. I met a really cool person right round the corner in the cavernous, air conditioned shop.
Victor is even shorter than me, younger than me and weighs about 100 pounds when wearing body armor. We sized each other up across the saddle of my non functioning GTS as I explained the symptoms. "I ride" I said, " I'm not a Miami Beach dilettante." I fired the first shot figuring I needed him to know I wasn't wanting a line in bullshit.
Victor is even shorter than me, younger than me and weighs about 100 pounds when wearing body armor. We sized each other up across the saddle of my non functioning GTS as I explained the symptoms. "I ride" I said, " I'm not a Miami Beach dilettante." I fired the first shot figuring I needed him to know I wasn't wanting a line in bullshit.Victor spared his bullshit for someone else yesterday, he and I nattered for over two hours about Vespas in our lives and while we did he taught me more about the mysterious fuel injected innards of my Modern Vespa than I ever feared to know. My fear is he won't last in Vespa Miami's rarefied bourgeois atmosphere because genuine people never do survive in worlds like that.
Poor Eddie the salesman was hopping around trying to talk me into a "service" ($300) until Victor and I in unison turned on him, like twins: "There will be no service till the scooter's running!" we snapped. Eddie retired hurt. Victor and I bent our heads over the patient.
As Victor poked and I watched, a continuous stream of people passed through the shop's door. There would a respectful, brisk tap followed by a smiling brown face peering round the door. I understood their greetings in Spanish, the Spanglish discussion of scooter parts and the polite introduction I got from Victor in English. I had no idea there is a whole scooter shop subculture in Miami. Real scooters Victor said, for real people.
Victor introduced me to them so I have cheaper options for scooter maintenance. Perhaps too so I can keep in touch after he had the Vespa Miami Boutique part ways. Perhaps he just liked that I mumble Spanish, I'm an immigrant too and best of all I have a history with Vespas.
"I respect people who work," he announced emphatically and proceeded to tell me the story of the guy who just shuffled out of the shop loaded with sound advice from the Master. Stories of immigrant struggle and workers deprivations in the Land of Milk and Honey. I wanted to pull in a few of those self satisfied Gringos who bitch all the time about the shiftless migrants seeking welfare.
He told me stories of meeting wealthy Mexicans rendered prostrate by recalcitrant scooters. They were stories, parables really, about how mechanics makes us all equals, especially in this land that lacks proper social boundaries. "In Mexico, a guy like that, why he'd never even notice me!" Victor marveled as he wrapped up another story about a flat footed Mexican millionaire limping into Victor's life with a broken scoot. I never enjoyed a broken Vespa so much.
We don't yet know exactly whats wrong but Victor showed me how to purge the fuel line when the scooter stalls and I tried it this morning on the way home from work when she died at the Sugarloaf Fire Department. I rode home with a paradoxical smile on my face. I must be bonding with the broken Vespa bitch from hell.
I'm hoping to avoid hauling the scooter back to Miami for a second go round but Eddie is jealous and won't let me talk to Victor. I'm in love with Victor right now, his white bread wife notwithstanding, so I'll have to get his cell phone number to let me whisper sweet nothings in his ear without Eddie knowing.
Poor Eddie the salesman was hopping around trying to talk me into a "service" ($300) until Victor and I in unison turned on him, like twins: "There will be no service till the scooter's running!" we snapped. Eddie retired hurt. Victor and I bent our heads over the patient.
As Victor poked and I watched, a continuous stream of people passed through the shop's door. There would a respectful, brisk tap followed by a smiling brown face peering round the door. I understood their greetings in Spanish, the Spanglish discussion of scooter parts and the polite introduction I got from Victor in English. I had no idea there is a whole scooter shop subculture in Miami. Real scooters Victor said, for real people.
Victor introduced me to them so I have cheaper options for scooter maintenance. Perhaps too so I can keep in touch after he had the Vespa Miami Boutique part ways. Perhaps he just liked that I mumble Spanish, I'm an immigrant too and best of all I have a history with Vespas.
"I respect people who work," he announced emphatically and proceeded to tell me the story of the guy who just shuffled out of the shop loaded with sound advice from the Master. Stories of immigrant struggle and workers deprivations in the Land of Milk and Honey. I wanted to pull in a few of those self satisfied Gringos who bitch all the time about the shiftless migrants seeking welfare.
He told me stories of meeting wealthy Mexicans rendered prostrate by recalcitrant scooters. They were stories, parables really, about how mechanics makes us all equals, especially in this land that lacks proper social boundaries. "In Mexico, a guy like that, why he'd never even notice me!" Victor marveled as he wrapped up another story about a flat footed Mexican millionaire limping into Victor's life with a broken scoot. I never enjoyed a broken Vespa so much.
We don't yet know exactly whats wrong but Victor showed me how to purge the fuel line when the scooter stalls and I tried it this morning on the way home from work when she died at the Sugarloaf Fire Department. I rode home with a paradoxical smile on my face. I must be bonding with the broken Vespa bitch from hell.
I'm hoping to avoid hauling the scooter back to Miami for a second go round but Eddie is jealous and won't let me talk to Victor. I'm in love with Victor right now, his white bread wife notwithstanding, so I'll have to get his cell phone number to let me whisper sweet nothings in his ear without Eddie knowing.
I miss carefree riding but I do like knowing a little more about this complicated Italian beauty, and the fact that when she stalls I can now whip her back onto the road. Hah!
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