SPRING 2003
Lou,
the Muffler Man
(Benjamin
Graber lives and writes fiction in
As far as I know, I have only met one holy man. The real ones don’t identify themselves as such.
Phil Markham, my editor at the Los Angeles Times, had been his usual oblique self when informing me of my assignment. On my desk last night was a small hand written note from him commanding cryptically:
“Interview Lou, the Muffler
Man,
I wasn’t sure what irritated me more, the lack of detail regarding the purpose of the interview or the curtness of the request. Either way, I was not happy about the deal and planned to let Phil know when I turned in the assignment.
The next morning, I was on
my way to the interview and stuck in usual traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway.
The
I bought my coveted 911 GT1 Turbo Porsche at a time when I thought my future merited the expense. Just a few years later, after several refinances, I was still in debt. Blue smoke belched out of it in an ugly trail behind me adding to the discoloration of the sky. The oil burning engine was in desperate shape. Loud, obnoxious noises emitted from the exhaust system. Rumbles, groans, and occasional sputters from the car, metaphorically described my life, but I wasn’t listening.
Once I had been a winner, a Pulitzer even, for the story about that false messiah, James Worthy. That was in the distant past, a place I wallowed in enjoying my self pity more than working hard to change its causes. I knew I was lucky to even have a job with the cheap stories I created. I knew I shouldn’t really carp about this assignment, whatever it was. At least, I hadn’t been demoted to covering the city council meetings, yet.
As I sipped at my first cup
of coffee from Starbucks near my condo in
Lou Epstein opened his muffler shop in 1971 in the same spot it was now. From the public records, he was an average Joe, married for thirty years, a couple of kids, and no record. He ran a muffler shop.
In a vain attempt at getting an angle on the story, I even did research on mufflers. It didn’t get me anywhere in regards to Lou that I could see, but I found it to be more interesting than I first imagined. I didn’t know they softened the inevitable cacophony emitted as a byproduct of internal combustion engines by using sound to deal with sound. Deflecting the gases and noise through a deceptively simple arrangement of tubes, with the elegance of a fine-tuned musical instrument, a muffler creates new sound waves which cancel out the original ones.
Again, I had the strange feeling there was a metaphor here, but it alluded me.
I was lost in the noise of
my life and that of the bustling, crazy city whose freeway traffic I was
crawling through. The traffic on the
“What the hell is he looking at?” I wondered to myself.
Lou, an unassuming fellow, simply smiled, as I entered the building. He looked clean, except for the dirt under his fingernails from handling auto parts all day long.
“What did Phil have to drink when he dreamed up this assignment?” I continued my stupor, as I approached his desk.
“Good Morning,” Lou said.
“Sam Fermish, LA Times,” I said.
“I recognized you Mr. Fermished,” Lou responded with a strange grin.
“Fermish,” I corrected.
“I know. Just having a little joke. I know you from your work at the paper.”
I was trying to get a fix on this guy. He was either a simpleton or extremely clever. He was buttering me up, and he didn’t even know why I was here. Or did he?
“Is that so?” I responded. I wondered what he would give away.
“Yes.”
Now, I was feeling a little worried. One-word answers. Trick responses. “Who was this guy?” I wondered.
“Then, I suppose you know why I’m here?” I probed.
“Yes.”
“Well, how about telling me then?” I shot back more angrily.
“By the look and sound of your automobile, things are not going well for you,” Lou replied.
“I beg your pardon?” I answered before I could stop myself.
“That’s not necessary,” Lou said. “What happened to your car?”
“I was going nowhere too fast.”
“Did you get there?”
“I never could tell. Lou, I think I need new glasses, too.”
“It isn’t what you see, but how you see it.”
“What?”
“Man, you have to learn to see with your heart.”
“It’s just a car.”
“A car is a simple machine just trying to get you from here to there. All you have to do is care a little and change the oil once in awhile.”
“Lou, I neglect a lot of important things in my life, it seems.”
“Well, stop doing that.”
“Stop what?”
“Pay attention.”
“Lou, I thought we were talking about a car.”
“I thought we were talking about your life.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Oh, brother.”
“Look, I’m not here about my car.”
“I know,” he said.
“Then why the hell are you talking about my car?”
“That is what I do,” Lou answered.
“I know that. This is a muffler shop,” I said smugly.
“A car’s condition is a mirror of its occupant. I meant no offense.”
Before I could respond, Lou got out of his chair and began to move toward the door, out to the repair area.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fermish.”
“Call me Sam.”
“Okay, Sam. I have a customer who is waiting. I was in here to look up some figures. I will be happy to continue with you when I am done. If you like, you can tag along.”
Again, before I could respond, he was out the door.
I followed him, but by the time I got through the door, he was already engaged with an angry, young, white man with a huge, curly Afro.
“It will cost $200.00 to fix your muffler,” Lou said ,as I moved to the side and listened.
“No. It will cost me nothing old man. You don’t get it. How many times do I have to explain it to you? I belong to the Sunrise Collective. Just like the 60s, pop. You gotta remember them from the looks of you. We are starting them all over, including everything free for everybody. So, one more time, here is how it works. You fix my muffler for free, and I do something for someone else for free. It’s beautiful man,” the young man preached in all earnestness.
“Yes, the 60s. It was a wonderful time. Peace and Love are very important,” Lou responded to the young man with a concerned smile.
“Great, so you get it now?”
“I understand what you are saying. I will need for you to pay the two hundred dollars, though.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what it costs to repair the hole in your muffler.”
“But you said you understood.”
“I do,” Lou reassured him. “I would like to hear more about your collective and your ideas.”
“That’s great,” said the young man.
As I watched, this unusual conversation continued. The young man told him everything about the collective, and before he realized it, he was telling him everything about his life, his worries, his hopes, anything, and everything. Lou rarely asked a specific question and never gave an opinion. To this day, I can’t tell exactly what happened.
I can relate what I saw. A late middle-aged man talked to an angry young man about his life and a bit about mufflers. That was really it. Within twenty minutes, the young man calmed down, paid Lou the money in advance to have his car fixed, and left. My last view of him was walking down the street, whistling!
After instructing one of his employees what to do with the car, he turned his attention to me. He thought he had me turned around, but I hadn’t been an investigative reporter this long to be fooled so easily.
I knew now why Phil sent me. We had another phony, world savior, and it was my job to debunk him. I turned on my tape recorder right in front of him, watching him carefully for a reaction.
“That was pretty neat,” I said trying to lure him in.
“Excuse me?” Lou responded.
“This is rich. You are really going to act like nothing just happened.”
“I just sold a repair job to a young man with a hole in his muffler.”
“Yeah, and mesmerized him in the process. What’s your trick Lou, hypnosis? I didn’t see any sleight of hand, but you were doing something, I know.”
“Focusing on what is happening right now helps,” Lou answered.
“See, I knew it. You do think you have the answers.”
I had him going.
“Sam, I don’t even know the questions,” Lou said with a chuckle.
I didn’t get it. He knew my reputation.
“Did he really think he can use some kind of psychological, Zen jujitsu on me and get away with it?” I asked myself glaring at him.
“Come clean, Lou.” I said directly.
“Excuse me?” he answered.
“You’re acting like nothing is going on here, like you don’t know why I am here interviewing you.”
“I know,” Lou said.
“Whoa. Now, it’s my turn. Excuse me? You know what?”
“I am not trying to be mysterious. I know about what happens here, and since you have reported on similar things, I know that was why you are here.”
“Then why did you act like you didn’t?” I challenged.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I get it,” I accused. “You are going to play the Zen thing with me. Even though you know, I have been down that path before. Well, by the time I am through with you, every one will know that you are a fraud, and I can get on to a more serious story.”
“Do you have some other stories you’re working on?” Lou asked.
“Oh, that’s rich. That may work with some displaced, longhaired kid thinking the 60s are still alive, but it won’t work with me holy man. Bring it on, give it your best shot.”
“I don’t want to make you angry,” Lou answered. “I thought it would be interesting to hear about the other things you were investigating. I would be happy to talk about me, if that’s what you want to do.”
“Look, Lou. Quit the nice stuff. It’s early in the morning, and I haven’t even had my second cup of coffee.”
“Would you like a cup?” he asked.
“Stop that!”
“I’m sorry.”
“There you go again,” I almost screamed at him.
“Remember, when Reagan said that during the debates with Mondale. He was a pretty funny guy,” Lou said.
“Nice try, Lou. Get me going on Reagan and shift the story from you. It ain’t going to work my friend,” I answered, softening more than I intended to.
“I’m sorry,” he answered.
“Very funny.”
“I thought you might like it.”
“Well, that was kind of clever,” I said, and at last, I began to sense what Lou was saying to me.
“Why thank you. Would you like that cup of coffee now?”
“Yes, I would. But let me turn off the tape first. I want to really enjoy it and this beautiful morning.”
And I did. Then I wrote the story, but my boss thought I had lost my reporter’s edge when I used two paragraphs to describe how the Los Angeles smog was not as thick in Lou, the Muffler Man’s, neighborhood, and if people brought their cars to his shop early in the morning, they, too, could see patches of blue sky.
When the article ran, it was
quickly buried on page 47. Phil didn’t want blue skies and the elimination of
smog in his paper. Those topics don’t sell. After sending out two more
reporters with similar results, he gave
up on the whole idea and went back to reporting easier, southern
Lou wasn’t just a clever salesman. He repaired mufflers and helped take the edge out of the world’s auto noise. That was just where he happened to be. He could have done his work anywhere, and the results would have been the same.
He changed my life, and I am writing this story as an epilog for the novel I just finished. Thanks to Lou, I was able to focus on what was happening with me now, and what I really wanted to do with my life. That’s all that really counts. I’ll leave the “why” to another person trying to get his Pulitzer.
Lou is still doing his thing, but in case people go
looking, I changed his name and location. If “Lou” wants publicity, that’s up
to him. For my part, I just hope people stumble onto him or their own holy man.
When they do, they will know.