"Why should I take time out of my work to get a windshield?" David inquired, greasy elbows staining the doorway to my office. He had just been told by my co-worker, Sandy, that the Ranger he was working on would not start. It had to be jump started before it could go to service for an alignment. While holding the keys in one hand and the jump box in the other, he expressed was not this was not job either. We had been invited on a discourse of what and wasn't the body man's job. "I don't get paid for that. Why should I do things on a job that I don't get paid for?"

Sandi, trying to get her customer's truck to the alignment rack, wrestles the jumpbox and keys out of his hands so she can do it her fucking self. "Because the whole job is your fucking job. That's why. When we give you an estimate, that car becomes your job, from start to finish. We handle the customers, you handle the car." I sat back in my office chair and tried my best to keep my voice at an even keel, even light, as though I was joking about the whole thing. David was good at one thing, never letting the argument force him to raise his voice.

I seriously doubt using that word accomplished much. But it did feel good.