Transmission jacks be damned, the only way to get a transmission into an old Jetta is with muscle. I do my best not to scare off my customers if I can help it. "Be with you in a sec," I said, trying not to sound snappish. My faithful office boy and tool rustler had gone off to college, and I hadn't replaced him yet-it's hard to find someone who will do all the jobs I don't want to. It made me grumpy-which isn't a good way to deal with customers. One of the drawbacks in running a one-woman garage was that I had to stop and start every time the phone rang or a customer stopped by. I was burrowed under the engine compartment of a Jetta, settling a rebuilt transmission into its new home. So when someone made a polite noise near my feet to get my attention I thought he was a customer. My nose isn't at its best when surrounded by axle grease and burnt oil-and it's not like there are a lot of stray werewolves running around. I didn't realize he was a werewolf at first.
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