Mechanic May Retire--Someday
It is a scene reminiscent of “The Twilight Zone.”
A map of Woodland Hills, without its present maze of streets, hangs above a swirl of leaves and old spark plugs in a cavernous automotive shop. A yellowed and torn 1977 auto parts calendar that never made it past July is posted nearby. An official wheel alignment chart dated 1967 hangs on another wall.
And the 78-year-old mechanic who inhabits the oily shop is revered by neighbors and customers for his skill, honesty and fair prices.
It might seem as if Porter Weldon Crooks belongs to another era, but his automotive skills have carried him into the 1980s.
Neighbor and customer Bob Hare, 56, first saw the faded “Crooks’ Ford Clinic” sign in Woodland Hills 10 years ago when he needed work done on his 1951 Hudson. “I had tried everyone else and I just saw this curious sign that didn’t even belong in this century,” Hare said. “He’s priceless.”
Hare said another mechanic wanted $300 to remove the engine of the Hudson to reach a rusted stud bolt. “Mr. Crooks just crawled underneath the car and tapped out the stud with a little hammer and put in a new one for six bucks,” Hare said. “I thought I was back in 1959. It was a time warp.”
Crooks began building his concrete-block shop in 1946 after working as a mechanic at several car dealerships in Los Angeles. He eventually added an apartment on top where he and Rosa, his wife of 47 years, now live. In its 42 years of operation, Crooks’ Ford Clinic has provided its owner with a steady stream of customers, many of whom have become friends.
“We might as well set in the car,” Crooks said one afternoon as he puzzled over the notion that someone was interested in him . “You trying to convict me or somethin’?”
But Crooks eventually overcame his reluctance to discuss his life and launched into a tale about his ancestors and the origin of his ironic name.
“In the 11th Century, the Vikings, which was all the Nordic tribes, were consolidated by Harold Fine Hair.” Crooks tilted his square chin back and paused to recall more of the story.
Fifteen minutes later, he delivered the punch line. “. . . and we settled in England down on the flats where the river is really crooked. So that’s where we got our name. Crooks.”
Smoothing his derelict eyebrows, Crooks began a discourse on his trade. “Automobile manufacturers are trying to reinvent the sled,” he said. “They ought to be a law against building this junk they’re building today. It gets worse all the time. There’s more and more ignorance in design and manufacture.”
Although Crooks has tramped down to his shop weekday mornings for the past 42 years, he said there’s no joy in his work. “It’s just a fight. It’s hard work. We have got to do a lot of thinking. It takes a lot of brains and usually we’re not literary geniuses.”
But the work seems to inspire pride.
“We do everything from upholstery to welding to machine work in the dirt and grease and people want their work done for nothing,” Crooks said, digging out some oil beneath a fingernail. “We always have been run down.
“We’re classed as a bunch of bandits and that’s not the truth. No way.”
“ Mi amor !” Rosa yelled from an upstairs window.
“Coming! In a little bit!” her husband shouted into the concrete ceiling. “My wife’s riding me to come to lunch so I have to go.”
Upstairs in the couple’s neat apartment, which is decorated with tidy stacks of early National Geographic magazines, Crooks propped his feet up.
Simon, a deaf and blind 15-year-old Siamese cat, curled on a cushion at his side. A directional heater was aimed at the cat’s balding back, which was covered with a red felt coat.
A photograph of Crooks’ Cessna airplane indicates an interest in all things mechanical. Although he no longer pilots the plane, Crooks has flown over most of the Western United States with his wife and has made several trips to El Salvador, his wife’s native country.
“Anyone who knows how to fix and fly his own airplane to Central America can fly my car,” said neighbor John McLiam. “He’s one of the most honest mechanics I ever met. He’s a straight-on guy.”
Hare said Crooks is “an island of sanity. The world is really out of joint and you see him and you think, maybe this is the way the world should be.”
The mechanic once showed up at the Hares’ door to personally deliver a car. “There he was, wonderful Mr. Crooks, and I said, ‘Come on in, and he said, ‘No, I’m too dirty,’ ” Hare’s wife, Karen, said. “We need more people that would dare to do that kind of neighborhood enterprise.
“We’re just all clumps of people living by the same credo and this man is just Mr. Crooks--a unique American individual.”
Although Crooks charges less than many of his contemporaries ($35 an hour compared to $40 or $45), business has dropped in the past year and he is contemplating retirement. “It’s partly my fault because I’m 78 years old,” he said. “I’ve had some trouble collecting bills and bad checks and so forth.”
Crooks posted a handmade “for sale” sign on the empty lot next to his shop a few weeks back and Crooks’ Ford Clinic is for sale, too. “Oh, since ’72 I’ve just been rockin’ along, not doing very much, just jobs that come in with trouble,” Crooks said. “After more than 60 years of working automobiles, it’s time to quit. You’re supposed to get tired after 60 years.”
