I first met Jamie the summer after my sophomore year in college. My roommate's Geo Prizm had unspecified problems and needed unspecified repairs, and Jamie's repair shop happened to be pushing distance away. To begin with, I had no idea there was a repair shop within pushing distance, as the street was lined with trees, junk, and a shady used car dealership - the concept of a reputable business existing in that environment seemed foreign to me.
Jamie's shop was tucked away in the back of said dealership, adjacent to a paint 'n spray and many heaping piles of what used to be trash. The area directly surrounding the garage entrance contained a number of vehicles in various states of disrepair and validity. I say validity, because I'm not quite sure some of them were vehicles to begin with - more likely some form of potting for the local plant life. I wanted to suggest that we retreat, but I was transfixed by the idea of secretly trying to grow some car tomatoes (I envisioned a bountiful plant poking through the sunroof of a 1986 Pontiac 6000). The day dream came to an abrupt end when I looked back to the car and noticed it had gained an additional pusher.
The man I was looking at was straight out of Appalachia, and was sporting a rather odd form of a mullet. Your typical mullet can be described as, "business up front, party in the rear." Whatever business this man's head used to partake in had long been shuttered and vandalized, but the party was raging just fine. If you were the party's neighbor, your only complaint might be that the party really ought to move out of 1977, and lay off the acid. In any case, I began to rethink my clandestine tomato garden.
Despite the mullet, my gaze was actually drawn to his teeth. Glorious they were not, in fact the words to describe then was "mostly missing." By my count I saw 8, though I dared only guess if there were a few hidden molars - I was in no position to find out. In my attempt to rationalize such a maw, I imagined that he lost his teeth cleaning spark plugs a la Beldar Conehead. Eventually, my mood was lightened by his alleged (by me) mechanic prowess.
Once the car was safely out of view of any police or neighborhood watch, we began our introductions.
He said his name is Jamie, and he's the "Auto Doctor". We said that we were Elia and Gabe, and we're "students." Now technically, this is a very huge mistake because most mechanics see students as a quick way to affording half a year's beer supply. You see, a car at college is basically a status symbol - most students don't keep cars, but still need to get to places like the airport, the grocery store, and all the bars in Boston, so many people make friends with the few people who own cars in exchange for $3.75 towards gas (see: Road Trip). This sort of attention is akin to crack cocaine, so many car-owning students have been known to... well, let's just say they can find money for repairs. Fortunately, declaring our status as students was just another "technical" mistake I've made over a long a glorious career as a dude.
Gabe and I spent the next 3 hours being informed of the production history, technical history, and aesthetic history of the Geo Prizm. It wasn't simply a knock-off of the Toyota Corolla, Jamie said, but many minor nuances existed. Jamie preceded to list off those minor nuances in graphic detail, and this was promptly followed by a detail explanation of all the minor nuances that exist between every car between 1923 and 2003. Eventually evening rolled around, and Gabe and I weren't sure if we had just skipped classes, or if we had spent all day being schooled. In either case, we began our slow, 2 hour retreat back home to have a beer.
The next day, Jamie called Gabe and informed him that his Geo was now operational, and that he owes Jamie $65 cash. The problem, Jamie said, needed about 45 minutes of diagnostic work, and 30 minutes of repair labor, and that the diagnostic work was free of charge this time around, because he had figured the problem out 10 minutes into the diagnosis, and had spent the remaining 35 minutes smoking some cigarettes. Gabe left the couch immediately, and came back 5.5 hours later with his car, and an intimate knowledge of common faults exhibited by the BCM module found in 93-97 BMW sedans.
The above described our relationship with Jamie, the Auto Doctor. Our cars would die, he would diagnose, fix, and talk our ears off about cars and motorcycles. We would typically allot 3-5 hours for dropoff and pickup, because it was literally impossible to end a conversation with him.
After a number of years, Jamie felt comfortable giving us (and the large group of people we attracted to him) his personal cell phone number. He made it abundantly clear that we can call him at any time with any problem, and if he can help diagnose it over the phone, then so be it. I can't begin to tell you how many times he's lead me through a simple problem at his own expense. He even fixed my friend's bleeder valve, rather than try to sell her a whole new clutch job. This man was truly a diamond in the rough.
Only twice in my life did I stray to another mechanic. The first time was just a little after I had first met Jamie. This mechanic ended up replacing the entire engine in my Nissan Maxima. Jamie examined the old engine (which I kept) and determined that it was likely a crankshaft position sensor. The second time was 6 months ago. My Chevy Blazer broke down on the highway, and I decided against having it towed 60 miles to Jamie's shop. The new mechanic threw on a new fuel pump and injector assembly, and after informing me that he "thinks" he knows what the problem is, I fired him. Jaime found the problem within 20 minutes of diagnosis - a worn out distributor shaft.
Today my girlfriend called Jamie to schedule an appointment to have her brakes fixed. He didn't return her call, and didn't answer his cell phone.
James "Jamie" Ellis, 51,
died while riding his Harley Davidson on a well lit, large road. He was hit and killed by a young woman who was attempting (or was in the process of making) a left turn. He was an avid motorcycle enthusiast, and was out on an evening ride near his shop and his home. The young lady had likely mistaken Jamie's motorcycle headlight for a car's, and misjudged the vehicle's distance.
In my eyes and my heart, Jamie is a legend. He has always been honest, has never overcharged, and maintained an encyclopedic knowledge of everything vehicular. Never once did he blow off anyone's concerns, and never once did he blow off anyone's repair. The man chose to be an auto mechanic, and he did it with pride, dedication, and pleasure. More than that, he was an excellent, trustworthy friend. I'm sad that my only encounters with Jamie was over worn out brakes, burnt out computers, and rusty mufflers.
Jamie, you will be sorely missed. You've touched the lives of countless people with your warm personality, great sense of humor, and dedication to the art of auto repair. I have a 1987 Ford Escort up in Car Heaven that could use a good set of hands, please leave the keys under the floor matt - I'll toss the repair money under your garage door.
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Originally Posted by JohnnyV
Re: RIP - Rider killed in Grafton
searching for a new ride.
