sputter croak fizzle

Crucifixes of tires on telephone posts adorning roadside garages, serve as signals for those suffering by impromptu punctures and engine failures. A mechanic almost always in a navy blue shirt and dark grey trousers with a greased napkin dangling from his pocket, a spanner in hand, and a motor-oil branded cap worn backward will step up to help you out.

A lifted bonnet and a quick survey later, he briefs you in your engine's shortcoming(s) and suggests alternatives to put you out of your misery. Fix this, turn that, spike this, pour that, blow this, push that, exchange this, refill that. Once he's done with his under-the-hood shenanigans, he asks you to start the ignition and a healthy rumble later, he triumphantly shuts the hood, always a little harder than necessary, maybe to punctuate his efforts and squeeze out an extra tip.

Then, before you ask him how much that little session had cost you, he retreats to his 'shop' and gets his air tube and analyzes each tire's health. You sit back, waiting. And after short hisses and spurts, he creeps back into your rear view window, whistling some 90's Hindi movie song.

Retreat he does into his shop, and wipes his greasy hands on his greasy napkin, and with quick mental maths that you could never calculate or understand, he throws a 3 digit number at you, and even if you object to it, seeing his oiled burrows and stained cap, you rethink and decide to part with the said sum plus tip. A 'thank you boss' later, you're on your way, inevitably waiting to be serviced by the next mechanic a few hundred miles later.