THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, September 10, 1995 TAG: 9509070043
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY EARL SWIFT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 131 lines
MELVIN DECKER'S settled into his big, burnt-orange easy chair, legs crossed, one oxblood wingtip propped atop a knee. He's had his hands full all morning - happens at the end of every month, when his regular customers parade in for last-minute inspections. For the moment, though, all is quiet.
Melvin rests his elbows on the chair's grease- and oil-stained arms. A few cars roll by on Killam Avenue, past the big garage door that opens into Decker's Norfolk shop. Past a small sign identifying it as Decker Auto Service. Past another calling it Decker's Auto Service.
The shop's address, 4105, gleams in shiny brass a foot over the door. Just in case, the numbers are repeated on the door itself.
Minutes pass. Decker sits.
``I got customers been dealing with me for 20, 30, 40 years,'' he says. ``But they're dying off.'' He shrugs. ``I got a lot of old people.''
He uncrosses his legs, leans farther back into the chair. A weak breeze reaches him from a box fan across the shop.
``My business is 100 percent regular customers,'' he says matter-of-factly. ``In the short five years I've been over here, I've seen half of them die or move away or stop driving.''
If he's worried by the trend, he doesn't show it. He is 65 years old. He's on Social Security. He can earn only so much.
Besides, he's realistic: He knows there's finite demand for an old-time, nuts-and-bolts mechanic, the kind of guy who treats his customers' cars like old friends, who'll pop the hood without an appointment, who lets his regulars run a tab. The kind of mechanic who uses his ear, not a computer, to diagnose automotive ailments.
``A pair of pliers, a screwdriver and baling wire - that's how you repaired cars in the '40s,'' he says. ``If it wouldn't start, you just checked to see if it was getting gas or fire. It was as simple as that.
``Some of these new cars, you raise the hood and it's all Greek to me. Each year they get more complicated and sophisticated. You have to have the computer scopes and the know-how and the experience to work on the new ones. Otherwise it's trial-and-error.
``Now, you can do trial-and-error, and you'll eventually fix it. But you're in business to make money. You're not in business to experiment.''
So he helps the long-timers who straggle in with older cars.
In between, he sits.
Melvin Decker has spent most of his life within a few blocks of his shop. From his easy chair he can gaze across the stainless, swept-bare concrete floor and out a side door and across a weedy lot to 42nd Street, where he was born.
A few blocks west is Lamberts Point, the neighborhood in which he grew up. Two blocks north and one block over, at 43rd and Hampton Boulevard, is the empty square of property where he spent most of his career.
His father bought a gas station and repair shop there in 1939, and over the next half-century, until a road-widening project took it away, it was a bastion of expertise and good cheer.
Brothers Al and George ruled the filling station. Melvin ran the bays. Atop the counter, along with the Nabs, sat a large spike, on which the Deckers would impale the tabs of customers shy of cash when they filled their tanks or had a tune-up performed. Kids rarely left the place without candy or a bag of chips.
It was a far cry from modern gas stations, from transactions through thick glass and sliding steel drawers.
``Life is different nowadays,'' Melvin says. ``You got so many specialty shops now where you're just a number. Know what I mean? You're just a number. They're like assembly lines. I'm a throwback, I guess, to the old school. Personalized service. You're not a number when you come in here.''
A late-model Olds Cutlass turns off Killam and jolts up the ramp into the shop. Alan Goldblatt, a second-generation customer, is at the wheel. His father, Sam, sits beside him. The car purrs; the Goldblatts are here for a chat, not service.
``Know where I can find a floating craps game around here?'' Sam asks.
Melvin laughs as he leans against the Olds. ``Is that what you're looking for? Can't help you.''
Sam, Alan announces, just turned 90. Melvin congratulates him. The Goldblatts back out, waving.
Melvin returns to the chair.
Most days, Melvin isn't alone in the shop. Among the people who followed him to his Killam Avenue location was Wilbur, a retired machinist who lives over on 38th Street.
``I knew him at the old place,'' Melvin says. ``I wasn't a close friend, but he'd come in. Then one day over here, he came around and he said, `Do you mind if I hang around here?'
``And I said, `No, I don't mind if you hang around here.' ''
So Wilbur hangs around. ``He gives me a hand with the cars if I need it,'' Melvin says. ``Answers the phone. He gives me a lot of company.'' He and Melvin talk cars. They talk about the changes they've witnessed. They talk a little politics. Often, they don't say much at all.
Wilbur isn't here now. Melvin doesn't have to wait long for company, however. A '78 Malibu wagon creaks up the ramp and idles noisily a few feet from the chair. Inside is a regular of 20 years or better. She yells even before she shuts down the engine: ``Do you think I need an oil change, or just some oil?''
Melvin is well-acquainted with the car. It's among the oldest he services, and he's bought a lot of General Motors products himself - among them a chrome-laden '52 Pontiac Chieftain, a '62 Bonneville, two Caddies, two Oldmobiles, a Buick and a squadron of Chevys. He lifts the Malibu's hood, hangs a shop light over the motor, checks the dipstick twice. ``You're a quart low.''
Does it need changing, the customer wonders. Decker suggests she wait until the following week. ``I have to go to the Beach next week,'' she says.
``What day you going to the Beach?''
``Tuesday.''
``Well, I think you ought to get that oil changed before you go to the Beach.''
``You do?''
``What time Tuesday you going to the Beach?''
She sighs. ``Whatever time you tell me to.''
Melvin nods. ``Bring it in early.''
The Malibu backs out.
Above the chair, fan belts dangle from hooks in the wall. Elsewhere, shelves hold oil and oil filters, headlights and bulbs, hoses. Decker Auto Repair, or Decker's Auto Repair, doesn't keep a large inventory of spare parts.
``I can still do brake work on any car - the basics, know what I mean?'' Melvin says, settling back in. ``I can tune up any car. There's nothing to tune-ups. Exhaust work. I can do exhaust work.''
The job's enough of a challenge, and his customers enough of a pleasure, to keep him coming back. And when things get slow, there's always the chair.
This one's fairly new, despite its veneer of grease. It replaced a well-worn recliner that cradled Melvin for years.
``I wore it out,'' he says. ``I must do a lot of sitting.'' ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
EARL SWIFT
Melvin Decker runs an auto-repair shop in Norfolk. ``I'm a
throwback, I guess, to the old school. Personalized service.''
by CNB