Henry was an old-school mechanic. Good service at a fair price.
Then he sold the gas station.
And now we're part of the larger dealership service machine, pulling into the cavernous glass-walled garage as part of a dynamic assembly line, the masked children shuffling along the narrow walkway in Pink Floyd's "The Wall."
It's OK, though.
We have fond memories of Henry, his jet-black hair cut short and perfectly combed, greeting us with a smile wearing a crisp, ironed shirt with the gas station logo on the front.