a scrap of a lad came by one day with his pony car and said he needed a battery. "I want you to put it in" he told me. He picked out one that didn't jibe with the recommendations in the literature, so my hands were tied: I had to refuse service. all I worked with then were creeps, and lo and behold, the most important of all the creeps was standing right there the whole time, watching quietly, like her mouth didn't work.
note: his pony car was a slime green that was not unlike pea soup, but more vivid. I thought the thing, if put in a dark garage, would glow.
we did battery installs/replacements. we sold automotive and lawn/garden batteries. it was all in the line of duty, I tell you, and not emblematic of anything more. we worked out of necessity, not preference. we put the batteries out: we would go in the stock room with the back of the rack open to us, and we would check the slots to see which batteries would go out. we palletized the batteries, stacking the little heavy muggers tight. we even had to neutralize acidic spills from the things, and put the sweep-up in a color-coded hazmat container, labeled with our department name and individual handle of a called-what.
my boy was there. "I know this fucker who..." he would say, and everytime I knew it was a disguised insult. every. damn. time. he was talking about a date where a girl had a vibrator under the sheets, and he didnt get wise until it was ALMOST TOO LATE. he almost tore the room door off the hinges getting out. this was the old motel on US1 near the overpass, where u can look down on the train tracks like one of the gods.
so I put the batteries out when I didn't have anything better to do. know where to put them batteries? hell yeah, I do.