Sometimes you just need a specialist

It really wasn't a big deal at first. Just one of those minor things. One of those things noticed now and then. George wasn't even sure of its existence for the longest time. Then, others noticed. It grew, and more people noticed. Soon, they stopped to stare when he went by. Some pointed or made faces. Finally George's wife had had enough. "George," she said. Not honey, not baby, not lover, just 'George'. "George, you simply must get it fixed." And that was that. George dreaded having it fixed. He hadn't been to one of those places in years. No telling what he would have to go through. There was no denying it though, it had to be. Two weeks later, the earliest he could schedule an appointment, he went in for a check. Everyone stared at him when he arrived. A technician, in a clean, white lab coat, pointed. It was quite embarrassing. He moved into the waiting room. The room was sterile looking. In the corner, a TV played on a religious channel. George took a number and waited. When he was soothed to catatonia by the TV, a white haired lady poked him with her cane. "Sonny, that's yer number, they've called it twice." "Oh, sorry, thanks." He said and felt himself turning red. He moved slowly up to the window, one of his legs had fallen asleep. He could feel the people's eyes on him, he knew they were wondering what his problem was. "Mr. Smedley?" The receptionist asked. "Er, yes, that's me." He handed her his number. She looked at the number like it was a dead fly. Placing it on the stack beside her computer terminal, she said: "Go through that door over there and see the technician." "Thank you." Said George, but she had turned to the computer beside her and didn't hear. George went through the door. Inside, a technician stood by a rack of test equipment. Lights danced, meters jumped, but as far as George could tell, there wasn't anything hooked to the machines. "Mr. Er, ah, Smedley?" The technician looked over at him expectantly. "Yes sir." "Tell me about your problem, it's been a while since you were in hasn't it?" The Technician, wearing a tag which said "Hi! I'm Frank", seemed friendly enough. "I'm afraid so. It was about a year ago. I was in for a checkup. There weren't any problems." "More like two Mr. Smedley," Frank said after checking his computer clipboard. "That's bad you know. We simply can't have this again. These things are delicate. Every six months on the button, that's when to have check ups!" He looked at George with disapproval. "I'm sorry, I just couldn't. Everything was Okay. Then this started." "Yes, that's what they all say. Let's get on with it, I don't have all day." He tapped the edge of his computer clipboard, a small red light on its end blinked with his taps. "Well, it started about a month ago..." George tried to explain, but the horrified look the technician gave him stopped his explanation cold. "An entire month ago! My goodness Mr. Smedley, do you know what could happen in a month!" The technician scrawled something on the clipboard, it gave out a satisfied "eep". "It really wasn't much, barely noticeable." George thought he sounded meek. "Well, on with it, give me all the details." The technician waited with his clipboard and stylus ready. The red light was steady now. "Like I said, about a month ago we first started noticing it, my wife and I. Just now and then, a kind of racheta, racheta noise." "Hmm, not a clanka, clanka?" The technician looked up from the clipboard. "No, definitely a racheta." "Okay, go on." He made a few marks on the clipboard, then brushed his finger across a contact sensor on the edge. The clipboard eeped again. "It grew worse. Soon we noticed it all the time." "Noticed it all the time eh? Front, back, or both?" He held the stylus with the lighted tip in his mouth. It made his teeth appear reddish to George, who looked away. "Front, definitely front." George looked down at the spotless white tile. For no reason, he felt embarrassed. "Bill!" The technician called out. Soon, another technician, dressed in blue with a tag that only said BILL, came silently over. "Yes Frank?" "Listen to Mr. Smedley's problem, I think it's more in your specialty. We haven't seen him for nearly two years." Frank smiled. Bill rolled his eyes. Frank held his clipboard out to Bill, who glanced at its liquid crystal surface. "Go ahead Mr. Smedley." Bill said after a couple of seconds. He didn't look at all happy to George. "Really, it's not that big a deal." "Let us decide that Mr. Smedley, you're not really qualified are you?" They both looked at him sharply. "Er, no, I just program computers." He looked down from their piercing stares. "Sorry." "Well, alright then. About your problem." Prodded Bill. He began hooking up test leads as he listened. "About a month ago my wife and I started noticing a racheta, racheta from the front..." "Not a clanka, clanka?" Asked Bill. "No, definitely a racheta." "I asked him that too." Chimed in Frank, obviously pleased with himself. Bill scowled at him. "Stay in your own specialty Frank." Bill took a printout from a nearby printer. "Oh, right, sorry." Frank smiled sheepishly. "Go on with it Mr. Smedley." "Well, the ratcheta kept getting worse. Soon people started staring as we went by." "I see. Any pulling to one side or the other?" "Well, maybe a little to the right, now and then." "Ah! I thought so!" He held up the printout to punctuate his words. "Bob! Got one over here for you!" Another technician, this time in red, with no name tag at all, glided over. Bill handed the clipboard to him. "Bill, Frank, what can I do for you?" The new technician ignored George altogether. "We have a front end racheta, racheta." Explained Frank. "With a pull to the right." Added Bill. "Not a clanka, clanka?" Asked Bob, glancing at the clipboard. "Definitely not." Answered both Frank and Bill. Soon, the three technicians where discussing the diagnosis, sometimes quite heatedly. There was confusion over the printout. They punctuated their conversation with eeps from the clipboard as they passed it back and forth between them. "Ah HEM!" George cleared his throat to get their attention. They all turned and looked at him. "I have another appointment, how long is this going to take?" George felt bad about disturbing their conversation, but he really did have to be somewhere else. They conferred. Frank acted as their spokesman. "You'll have to leave it, we have to run some tests." He dropped the printout in a disposal unit. The paper disappeared in a flash of blue, the ashes sucked away to the recycle unit. "How long?" George knew he wouldn't like the answer. "Shouldn't be more than a day or so. Week at the most." "A week!" George felt the color drain from his face. "I can't leave it for a week!" The last time he had left something, a toaster, it had taken a month. Even after the month, the toaster still hadn't worked right. He had finally given it to his mother-in-law. "If you won't cooperate, we can't help you Mr. Smedley." Frank sounded quite cold. He began jerking the test leads off. "Could I get a loaner?" George knew he was grasping at straws. "Sorry, that would be against our policy Mr. Smedley. I mean, after all, had you brought the problem in earlier..." He let the sentence hang there. The other technicians nodded their agreement. The last lead came off with a pop! "I just can't be without for a week." George decided to hold his ground. "We can't help you then Mr. Smedley. See the receptionist on your way out." They turned as a group and headed silently for the break room. The test equipment sill blinked as before. George went despondently over to the receptionist's window. "All finished Mr. Smedley? When can we schedule you for work?" She smiled at him. "Er, I, er, decided to wait a bit." He smiled at her. "I see." Her face went hard. "That will be $50.00 for diagnostic consultation." She was positively glacial. George paid and left, by the back door of course. Everyone stared and pointed as he left. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. A few days later, George, at the end of his rope, entered a shabby, rundown area of town. The homes were in a state of disrepair. George had to smile at one bit of graffiti, it said "DISCO STILL SUCKS." He found the address he was looking for after only getting lost twice. The building was a mess. Grease was everywhere. Tools, long since rendered useless, littered the workbench that lined the side wall. A naked light bulb, bug speckled, gave off an yellowish light. In a dark corner, an old hydraulic jack rusted. "Now, what did ya say the problem was Mr. Smedley?" asked the aging, nearly toothless, man. He wiped his grease coated hands on an equally grease coated rag. What the grease had come from wasn't plain. "A racheta, racheta noise in the front." "Okay, go around the yard a bit." "That's hardly a modern test." George said, looking for at least one test machine. The old man fixed him with a baleful stare from a watery, rheumy looking set of eyes. "Do it." George did it. When he stopped, the old man lifted an access door, opened a concealed tool compartment, and removed a small wrench. George winced at the grease left behind. He watched as the old man went to each drive and tightened its lock screw. The old man returned the key to its place. "Try it now." George tried it. No racheta. "Have the drives aligned to fix the pull sonny." The old man told him. "Can you..." "Naw, not on these new ones. Need a new set of tools each year." He pronounced it "yea'". "How much do I owe you?" George asked, reaching for his wallet, ready to pay dearly. The man was a genius, it was obvious. "No charge Mr. Smedley." The old man smiled. "How incredible!", thought George as he glided away silently. "Treating a cyborg like he was an old VW Bug.”