It was a Body Shop on a Hill, With its Own Version of Jackie Rohr...

Back in the spring of 1976, just after returning from a winter in Florida, I got a job working in a body shop at a busy Ford dealership in Needham, Massachusetts. It was only a three-minute walk from my uncle’s house, where I was staying. At the time, I had aspirations of becoming a custom painter specializing in high-end motorcycles and cars.

The shop was huge and located in a separate building in the rear of the property, a good distance from the main building, and in order to get the cars and trucks inside, they had to be driven up a rather steep concrete ramp. In a lot of ways, it was a Body Shop on a Hill, with its own version of Jackie Rohr. 

The guys in the body shop all hated the boss. He was a tall, heavy-set older guy with short gray hair and a noticeable limp who didn’t do any actual bodywork, but he took in, assigned, and invoiced the jobs. He was the one who hired me. All the jobs were flat rate, meaning each job paid a set price for labor, and it seemed none of the mechanics were ever happy with the jobs they got or the pay they received.

I was the shop's only apprentice, and I was paid by the hour. I did a lot of grinding and sanding, all the labor-intensive stuff the experienced body guys didn’t wanna do themselves. I remember going home with paint dust packed in my nostrils, usually the same color as the last car or truck I sanded. I’d blow colored snot rockets for an hour before my nose cleared, and I could breathe normally again.

The guys in the shop were absolute rebels, and on Fridays, after we cashed our paychecks at a local bank, we immediately went to a nearby pub for lunch and got hammered. We got a longer lunch on Fridays so we could cash our checks, but we’d still get back to the shop late, and when the boss got on our case, one of the guys argued for all of us, and we never got in any trouble. His name was Ray, and he definitely wasn’t intimidated by anyone, even the boss. And he was always making wisecracks no one else could get away with. It helped that he was the best painter in the shop, a real talent, and the dealership couldn’t afford to lose him.

Ray was in his late 30s, about 5 foot 9, razor-thin with dark skin, green eyes, a thin mustache that looked like it took forever to grow, and medium-length, straight, light brown hair parted down the middle that changed direction with the slightest movement. 

Looking back and remembering Ray, he looked a lot like a younger version of Jackie Rohr (City on a Hill), played by Kevin Bacon, my favorite character in one of my favorite television series (Showtime). He acted a lot like him, too.

When I noticed my gloss black motorcycle tank had some light scratches, I asked Ray what I could do to get ‘em out. He told me to drain the tank, remove it, and bring it in, and he’d show me how to wet sand it, and then he’d help me clear coat it afterward. I did the work under Ray’s supervision, and my tank came out perfect. After that, I thought the world of him…

One Friday afternoon, just after we got back from cashing our paychecks and drinking our lunch, a middle-aged guy came in with his ‘68 Dodge Charger. It was a great-looking muscle car that only needed paint to be pristine. It had a built-up motor, beefed-up suspension, and wide tires mounted on Cragar wheels. It had headers and a free flowing dual exhaust that sounded really nice, especially idling inside the shop. 

Phil Talbot. Shutterstock Images.

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I knew Ray would be the one assigned to paint the Charger and that I’d be doing the sanding and prep work with him.

You could tell this was the owner’s pride ‘n’ joy. He walked over to where we were all standing and told us about all the mechanical work he had done to the motor himself. He said a couple of years ago, a friend of his had a ‘65 Mustang painted in this body shop, and it came out great, and that’s why he decided to have his car prepped and painted here. I found out later it was Ray who painted that Mustang.

Before the car’s owner left, with a cordial smile, he said, “Take good care of my baby, guys. Thanks!” You could see that he trusted us with his baby…

Immediately after he left and was out of sight, Ray jumped in the Charger, and once behind the wheel, he shouted so we could all hear, “Yup, we’ll take good care of your baby!” Then he gave us the wink-wink, started it up, and proceeded to do what the guys in the body shop referred to as dust donuts. He nailed it and began spinning the car in the middle of the shop, revving the piss out of it and spewing a lethal combination of burning rubber and paint dust throughout the shop, laughing hysterically the entire time.

It looked something like this…

I could tell this wasn’t Ray’s first rodeo, and all the guys got a big kick out of it, except me and the boss, who ran out of his small, well-lit office in the far corner of the shop, and persuaded Ray to stop.

At that moment, my opinion of Ray changed completely, and I lost all respect for him. I mean, really, who the fuck does something like that?

Sometimes, the coolest guys turn out to be the biggest a-holes. It can take a while to get to the big reveal, but eventually, it happens…

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It wasn’t long before I changed jobs, because when it comes to where you work, it’s all about the culture…