Is there any reason you can think of to name your automobile repair shop Mr. Slick’s? Neither can I.
And yet a place right here in Culver City exists with that very name. And apparently is doing quite well, based on the number of referrals to the place I’ve heard since arriving. I myself have not been, having no desire to willingly hand over any portion of my bank account or credit card number to any business or individual who goes by the eponymous Mr. Slick, as upright and trustworthy as he may be. But the reason I know about it, other than hearing Mr. Slick’s praises sung from the lips of slack-jawed customers from near and far, is from my roommate John, whose 1997 Ford Taurus experienced what could be termed an “engine compression failure”–in Nick Hornby’s inimitable style, “half a broken heart”. It seems traveling up and down eight and ten degree vertical planes dragging over four hundred pounds beyond its max capacity will tend to rupture the various compartments and seals that make up the complex engine of the automobile. Sustained travel in this manner is incalculably bad (actually, it’s not incalculable–$1800 and change, according to Mr. Slick).
Still, the question still floating in the ether is similar to the query of “Why does Charlize Theron continue to get acting jobs?” Well, slightly different, I’ll allow. It is this: If you are a smart person (and I assume there are smart people here), why would you willingly choose to submit your sick vehicle to a place whose name conjures up images of poncy-eyed shoe salesmen from the 1940′s who wear Fop as if it’s a second skin? Is it morbid curiosity? Self-destructive impulse? Sleaze factor? Is it a rubbernecking phenomenon, or better yet, is it like watching a nature documentary on TV, only instead of the fruit-eating habits of the ring-tailed lemur, it’s the money-sieving ability of the local automobile scam artist?
Of course, this could all be considered slander, as Mr. Slick’s has never, to my knowledge, been guilty of anything untoward, least of all bilking hapless customers out of their hard-earned simoleons. Though technically, I’ve never accused Mr. Slick of anything other than having an unsavoury sounding name. And I think I’m well within my right to criticize such a poorly chosen name, ‘specially for an auto body shop. Imagine if you will a greasy-handed wrench jockey, a half a day’s worth of chewed gum schlocking around his mouth (which sounds like a wet dog jumping into a pool of custard), hair slicked back–the John Gotti of the auto repair world–and his grin, a gold tooth glinting out from around slightly pointed teeth, that only reminds you later of that fairy tale involving a cute debutante and her encounter with a forest lycanth. Do I paint a picture that’s at least mildly disturbing?
This was my very first picture when John announced he had taken his car to Mr. Slick. At first I thought it was a joke, because no savvy businessman would name his business after such a slimy name. And I have political precedent to back up my claim. Remember a guy named “Tricky Dick”? Or does the name “Slick Willy” ring any bells? Not for nothing were these men given monikers that reflected their particular nature. Not very flattering, are they? There’s just something repulsive about the adjectives, as if some viscous, slimy fluid were permanently part and parcel with their person, and if one were to touch them, they would be reduced to the self-same goop that besotted these political paramecium–or, they would be engulfed, nevermore to emerge.
Except perhaps as lesser politicians or auto body specialists…