Feb. 05, 2007
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

MR. BAD WRENCH

Imagine this, after completing the job we learn our reporter has a screw loose

Watch the video MOV | FLASH   Jim Barrier, left, owner of Allstate Auto & Marine Electric, shows a transmission-pan gasket to Corey Levitan before repairs commence. Photos by Ralph Fountain. With Barrier providing instructions, Levitan begins ratcheting loose the bolts of the transmission pan. The foul-smelling used transmission fluid originally in this pan was supposed to be deposited in a receptacle. However, a good quart was collected by the floor, as well as Levitan's arms, shirt, hair and face.

I should have figured something was wrong when Jim Barrier began slowly backing away from me and snickering.

I'm ratcheting loose the last of 16 bolts connecting a 1990 Ford Ranger to its transmission pan. The pan holds four quarts of transmission fluid directly above my head. Actually, it's more like three quarts, since my arms and hair are now wearing one of them. The bottom of the pan is leaking like the ceiling at the Desert Passage rain storm.

"Because of your slow speed, this is the messiest transmission service I've ever seen," says Barrier, owner of Allstate Auto & Marine Electric, 2478 Industrial Road. "We're gonna just dump you into the recycle barrel when you're finished."

The pickup belongs to an actual Allstate client, Las Vegas attorney Robert Lueck.

"Jim asked me to volunteer the use of my truck," Lueck explained earlier. "He's been my mechanic for 30 years, and he said you would be supervised.

"Besides," Lueck adds, "(Barrier) said he would buy me a Toyota Tundra if anything went wrong."

Barrier, 53, has been a mechanic since relocating from Cleveland in 1970 — although most Las Vegans know him better for his moonlighting career. Buffalo Jim was a wrestler of considerable renown in the late '70s and early '80s, when he battled opponents such as Ted "Million Dollar Man" DiBiase, Terry "Sabu" Brunk and Charles "The Goodfather" Wright. In 1998, he opened Buffalo Jim's Wrestling School, which operated next door to Allstate until 2003.

"But I got out of it and stayed with the auto repair business because I'm getting older," Barrier said earlier, "and I've always been into cars and helping people fix them."

Me, I'm from the "Seinfeld" school of auto repair. When something goes wrong with my car, to paraphrase Jerry, I pop the hood to look for a giant On/Off switch.

"Don't worry," Barrier says as the fluid continues to coat me like an Exxon penguin, "it's not flammable or anything."

That's actually inconvenient, because the only thing that can get my arms clean at this point is fire. For the next five days, everything I smell will remind me of this assignment.

"It smells bad because it is bad," Barrier says. "You're not doing this too soon." (Tranny fluid is supposed to be changed every two years; Lueck waited three.)

When asked if the fluid is toxic, Barrier replies, "You've got health insurance, right?"

Working for prolonged periods in uncomfortable positions around toxic chemicals are some of the better parts of this job. The hours are long (10 a day), the injuries frequent, and the pay not as great as people assume when they make out $1,000 checks for brake jobs.

At Allstate, mechanics start at $500 a week. They can make as much as $1,500, but only if they master the car computers that make auto mechanics seem more like quantum mechanics. (No formal training or certification is required for the job, but many mechanics attend technical school and get certified by Automotive Service Excellence.)

"Now unscrew all the bolts with your fingers," Barrier tells me.

The used fluid is supposed to gently release into the receptacle below, which collects it for recycling. But I'm unscrewing with my right hand, leaving my weaker left one unprepared for what transpires next — entirely in slow motion.

As the pan crashes into the receptacle, transmission fluid so vigorously sloshes out that it blankets the floor like blood from that elevator in "The Shining."

Despite having stepped significantly backward, Barrier is splattered red.

"I'm shot!" he screams, clutching his "Live to Ride, Ride to Live" denim jacket in a fit of melodrama that proves why no wrestler has ever won an Academy Award.

"I've never seen it done quite that way before," Barrier tells me, laughing.

For the next hour, Barrier has me clean and polish the pan, which looks like a Swanson's dinner tray, then strip off the old gasket (the seal placed between the transmission and the pan to ensure a snug, no-drip fit). I also replace the filter, slide the pan over it, then line up and tighten the transmission bolts by (permanently soiled) hand.

The problem is that this was not supposed to take an hour — only 20 minutes.

"I have to pick up my kid from my ex-wife tonight," says Lueck, staring at his watch. "It's my weekend."

"Tonight or tomorrow morning?" Barrier asks him.

But Lueck's nightmare has only hit the halfway mark. After I fill the reconnected pan with new transmission fluid and hoist the car back above us, Barrier discovers a leak.

"I don't understand this," he says. He's not laughing anymore.

"I was giving you a hard time about doing a bad job, but I corrected all of your mistakes," Barrier tells me.

"The gasket is not sealed properly," mechanic Gus Murillo chimes in.

I think I understand. When I removed the bolts, I placed all 16 in a pile on the floor. But one must have rolled, or been kicked, away, because there were only 15 when I collected them. Several feet away, I found one and assumed it was from my pile. It was too large to fit, so I screwed it in harder before giving up.

"That must have unseated it," says Barrier, who is about to blow the figurative kind of gasket. He glowers at me like he once did his archest wrestling rivals.

Barrier instructs Murillo to remove the pan, drain the fluid and re-seat the gasket. Lueck ponders the add-ons for his brand new Tundra.

Eventually, the problem is fixed. But it takes 40 more minutes, transforming an hourlong job into 2.5 hours.

Barrier apologizes profusely to Lueck, who is surprisingly understanding.

"It's only my ex-wife," he says, "so don't worry about it."

Fear and Loafing appears every Monday in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures can be found at www.fearandloafing.com.