By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
--John Deere Fundamentals of Service manual
Muffler Man--A man made of mufflers.
They are quiet. They are unassuming. They stand rigid in all weather, baking in the heat, soaking in the rains; on rare occasions, tiny orbs of hail will fall from the heavens and bounce off their heads, making a soft pinging sound. Yet their smiles--be they of Magic Marker, spray paint or welded J-hook--remain true.
Some are shiny and bright, some the natural color of raw iron. Some proffer auto parts, some gesture grandly as if to say, "Hello, my friend! Though I cannot speak, let the body language of my metal arm bid you good day, a greeting my creator would gladly bestow were he not toiling in the shop beneath someone's vehicle."
They are the Muffler Men.
Chances are you do not think about mufflers too much until it's too late. As ignored necessities go, the muffler ranks right up there with the pancreas, with toilet paper, with air itself. That's right, air--the stuff that, as we all know, not only allows all life forms to exist on this planet, but goes into the precleaner of your car, where it mixes with fuel, then swoops to the air cleaner where it hangs a sharp right through the intake manifold to the intake valve passing over the cylinder to the exhaust valve, up through the exhaust manifold and finally through the muffler and out again into our lives.
But who would think that this mere air tamer, this loyal, unheralded foot soldier of the engine, could be anthropomorphized into the image of Man? Ah, who would think it but the men among us for whom the muffler is bread and butter.
So. Just who are these mechanics, these visionaries who have taken welding torch to mufflers with brand names like Cherry Bomb, Thrush, Borla, Dyno-Max and Flo-Master and given us the Muffler Men? What feelings are within the hearts beating under workshirt nametags, prideful but cryptic emblems that tell the world only that these fellows are Gary, Tom, Carlos, Barry and Teo?
Jimmy Buffett is warbling "Margaritaville" over the radio as I enter Ron's Radiator Service & Muffler Masters. Outside, greeting drivers whether they look or not, is a smiling, dot-eyed muffler man and his muffler dog. The muffler man holds a muffler in his hand. And some scamp has recently spray-painted what appears to be a vagina on the man, whose actual name I learn is Mr. Muffler Man.
I approach the boss, the man who created Mr. Muffler Man and his companion, Muffler Dog. His name is not Ron, but Barry Vignali. (Like Ruth's Chris Steak House, I tell him his place should be called Barry's Ron's Radiator Service & Muffler Masters. He says, "Well.")
"Look at that," says Barry, shaking his head in disgust. "They're defacing my Muffler Man again. People have no respect. None at all." I find that this sort of mayhem on muffler men is not unusual; the vagina is only the tip of the iceberg.
"A few weeks ago, they put a swastika on his chest. I had to paint over it. Mr. Muffler Man, he's all-American. He's an all-American man, and this is an all-American muffler dog." In fact, this is the second generation of muffler beings Barry has made; the first was stolen some four years ago.
And there have been other indecencies.
"I had clothes on Mr. Muffler Man for a while," Barry recalls. "I put a pair of coveralls on him, and somebody must have needed them. Naturally, putting them on him in that weird configuration [of his body] tore them up, but somebody stole them anyway. That's when I figured I'd just leave him naked."
Yet there have been moments of brightness in the painful saga of Mr. Muffler Man.
"One time somebody came by and kicked them over, and broke one of the legs on the Muffler Man," says Barry. "This happened on the weekend, and by about Wednesday I get a phone call from a little boy, he sounded like he was about 10 or 12.
"He says, 'Is this the muffler shop with the Muffler Man?' I says, 'Yeah, it is.' He says, 'I go by there every day, and I haven't seen him.' I said, 'I'll tell you the truth, something happened to him. He fell down and got a broken leg.' He said, 'Are you gonna fix him?' I said, 'If you want him back up, I'll fix him.' So I did it that afternoon."
And so stand Mr. Muffler Man and loyal Muffler Dog today, naked, smiling and unashamed.
They call him Jeronimo. He is a staunch beacon in front of Teo's Auto Glass (yes, they do mufflers too), painted a bright yellow with the grand black mustache of a Mexican nobleman. Immaculate and clean, he is tended to with obvious affection by Teodore Quintero, owner of the shop and maker of Jeronimo, who has been named for the Mexican patron saint of welders, Teo tells me through a co-worker.