Better call Saul, DAVE AND SCOTT | Everett | Washington

Sometimes it’s written in the stars. What at the outset looked like disaster turned into new friends, a couple of beers, an article, and a butt-kicking Ford F150 of your own. 
Words by Jonas Larsson | Photos by Anders Bergersen

You know that you’ve got fuel shooting out of the fuel pump directly onto the oil filter, right? No, but I know that it doesn’t sound like a good thing. Not the first time the fuel had leaked that day, either. 

Do you know how to fix a leaking fuel line from the back tank of a 1984 Ford F150? Easy peasy. Sleep until about nine in the morning, graciously receive the coffee that your cousin’s wife Tami offers, mosey out in shorts and slippers to the front yard and offer a grateful nod to your cousin Scott, your best friend Anders, under the truck, and Troy the dog. Like I said, Easy. Peasy. 

grown men doing stuff together

Tami regales me with stories of more or less obscene grunts and exclamations like, “Push it in now! No, you have to lube it up first! Harder, there it is.”

The boys were proud, I was happy, and Troy, well Troy was a dog. A boyhood dream was about to come true. I had bought my Uncle Mike’s old truck: four-wheel drive, flat bed, red and black, just the right amount of wear. ­Under the hood, a small block, 351 Windsor V8 was grumbling, the same machine that sits in Mustangs, Torinos, and other legendary Ford models. 

“I wish you boys luck!” was the last thing Uncle Mike said to us. And thus far, everything had gone fine, except for the fuel leak that is, and some wobbly steering. We say goodbye to Scott and Tami, and they wish us well, too. That’s a good start. “Drive down to Jiffy Lube and they’ll change the oil and check all the fluids,” says Scott. 

Naturally, we end up driving a few extra circles around the lush green neighborhoods of Everett before we have Tami on the phone, laughing directions at us – again. We pull into Jiffy Lube. Martin, Edward, and Jason greet us with giant smiles. We’re driving a pickup classic. 

Fiery news

This is when Martin tells us about the fuel pump. Our West Coast road trip is already delayed by a day, and now it may not happen at all. Dammit. What do we do now? You can practically see the question marks dancing above our heads. “Call Scott!” says Anders. What we don’t know is it should have been “Better call Saul!”, but we will soon enough. 

My cousin picks up after the third ring and soon shows up in the parking lot where we’re stuck. “I got a hold of my friend Dave, one of his buddies can fix it, but we need to buy a new fuel pump first.” Done and done. Quick pop over to O’Reilly across the street, where a nice guy says he can have it here in an hour. Fantastic. 

The guys at Hoglunds

“Can you fix this, Saul?” Dave’s asking. Saul nods, says, “No problem”. Dave owns Hoglund’s, a com­pany special­izing in interior fabrication for cars and boats, as well as fixing busted convertibles and any other interior work for anything with an engine. Saul gets started. I try being helpful, but I’m about as useful as I was in the morning. Instead, I sneak a glance at a 67 Corvette that’s about to be reupholstered. I find Anders and Dave discussing another Corvette. It’s older, the original model, but all the mechanics, engine, breaks, etc., are completely modern. It’s been painted in a bronze hue, and Hoglund’s has matched the interior in the same shade. It’s glorious. 

Here is where I start to think that maybe there was a meaning to all of this. This is the kind of stuff stories are made of. Dave gives us a big grin and says he worked part time here starting in high school, sweeping floors, emptying trash, helping out. “I made $4.25 an hour,” he reminisces. In 1989 he bought the place. “It was the scariest thing I’d done in all my life. It was a lot of money. But we’ve done well. In 2008 we expanded this new section where we do interiors, window tinting, and paint protection.” 

“Creating custom interiors is a dying profession. Only very particular cars come here. These are passion projects, both for us and for the owners. The interiors are all unique. We talk it over with the owners, and then we design. Everything has to be absolutely top-notch, we’re basically making art. The responsibility we feel working on these amazing cars, it’s like being a doctor operating on someone’s kid. They’re worth a fortune, and the owners have a personal relationship with the cars.”

“How did you learn the trade?” 

“I grew up with a mother and grandmother who sewed all the clothes for our family, and I started to sew as well. Now, one of my sons works here. Zac, tall guy, he’s here somewhere.” We find Zac as well as his brother Jackson. I fetch Dave, it’s time for a family portrait. Zac and Jackson are funny, well-mannered, and like to hang with their old man and the other guys at the shop, many of whom have been here a long time. Jay is one of the ones who’s been here long enough to teach Dave the trade. 

Real Craftsmanship

We make our way to the back, which is full of enormous tables to spread leather and fabric, sewing machines and fascinating tools. You immediately get the sense that this is true craftmanship. No shortcuts, no cheating. I like Dave and his crew; you can tell this is a good place to work and that he’s found the right people who are truly passionate about the craft and about quality. 

“Which cars do you own?” 

“I have a 57 Chevy – you can see it there in the garage – and a 68 Camaro. Two days ago, we had a 2019 Ford GT here, do you know it?” Do I ever, coolest racing car from the 60s, won Le Mans four years in a row 1966-1969, being the only American-made sportscar to win Le Mans, it’s a beast. The 2019 model is naturally more modern, but it’s still evocative of the same raw style of the original. A quick google search reveals that it can be yours for the low, low, price of half a million dollars. 

“You must have a pretty good reputation, considering the cars you have parked here.” 

“Yeah, people trust us and let us work on their babies. Don’t they, Jay?” Jay Steward is the tall, cool dude who dropped off the bronze Corvette. “I got the rockstar reality show treatment,” he replies. 

Jay tells us that his dad had a 55 pickup, with a V6 engine. His dad loved the car, but it was stolen. “Around his retirement, I asked him about the car. What would you do if you were going to build a new one, would you change anything or make one just like it? He said he’d put in a bigger rear window, put in a V8 engine and make it automatic. So I custom built one for him, exactly like his old one but with a bigger rear window, a V8 engine, and automatic gears. It’s the only time I’ve seen my dad cry. When he passed away, the truck came to be mine. ­
A few years later, when my son was born, we brought him home in it. I had it for years. A few years ago, I decided it was time to fix it up a bit. I brought it to my friend Rich who helped me, but he said, ‘if you’re going to fix that then you have to fix the rest too or it’ll look weird.’ One thing led to another, and I thought, alright, this’ll be a nice pickup. When I first saw it after Rich’s paint job all I could think was ‘Oh, fuck!’ because it looked so damn good.
“And that was kind of it, with that good of a paint job, I had to fix the interior too. I went to Dave, and after talking to him and seeing what they do here, I immediately knew I’d come to the right place. I came down once a week, gave him my card and said, ‘I don’t want to know what it costs, just run the card.’ I still don’t know how much it was in the end. I have all the receipts, but I don’t want to know.”

Jay shows us pictures of the pickup. I can understand that he doesn’t want to know how much it cost, it’s so nice. Rich and Jay are cool dudes. If we’d had time, we would have loved to visit and take a look at their cars. Next time, for sure. 

Saul the garage angel

I go to check on Saul. When I step into the shop, Saul is inside the engine compartment! That guy can work. 

“How’s it going?”

 “Not bad, soon finished.” He jumps down on the floor and into the car. When he goes to start the engine, it won’t start. Todd, another dude, comes by to lend Saul a pneumatic screwdriver. Now things are happening. Saul jumps up on a chair and dives down into the engine compartment with the screwdriver. 

Todd is helping from the driver’s seat. “Clear for lift-off?” “Clear,” Saul answers, the engine roars but won’t start. Saul dives back into the engine compartment and adjusts the fuel pump again. “Clear?” “Clear!” The V8 ­e­ngine ­rumbles, purrs like a cat, I don’t know who has the biggest smile, me or Saul. What a guy! 

We cool down with some car talk, and Todd says, “You get 30 miles or 30 minutes warranty, and now you’ve talked for ten , so you have 20 left, hah!”

Before we leave, Dave shows us around the rest of the shop. In one large garage, a couple of guys are working on a very, very cool Porsche. They’re applying a thin, clear protective film over the paint. “It protects against pebbles and sunlight. Lasts at least 10 years,” Dave explains. 

A Clubhouse farewell

We’re now two days late, but we’re in no mood to leave. Out of respect for Dave and his crew, however, we let them get back to work. What a good bunch. When we come back, we’ll see them again, and we want to see Dave’s Camaro, at the very least. 

Scott, who had to leave us to go to work, calls. “How’s it going?” “We’re done, about to roll out.” “Come down to The Clubhouse, I’m having a beer with some friends.” I quickly decide that Anders will drive, and soon we are parked outside a bar by a strip mall. 

Clubhouse Bar & Grill is one of those places you just have to love. Regular people, Bud Light on tap, and waitresses who make sure you’re both happy and well-behaved.

Clubhouse Bar & Grill is one of those places you just have to love. Regular people, Bud Light on tap, and waitresses who make sure you’re both happy and well-behaved. Mel, our server, knows everyone by name, save me and Anders. 

When she hears that Anders is Norwegian, she leans in, says she has Norwegian ancestry, then tells a joke so raunchy that Anders turns pink all the way up to his clean-shaven head. More friends of Scott’s show up, so we move to a bigger table. 

After a few beers, it’s time to go. We have well over 800 miles to go to San Francisco. We say goodbye to our new friends, and Scott follows us out to the car. “Next time you come here, we go crab fishing, duck hunting, and beer drinking, ok?” We nod, hug each other, and, well, looks like we’re going to be looking for return tickets as soon as we get home.