Today's column is about the Invisible Everyman.

The dry cleaners, the cleaning ladies, the baby sitters, the plumbers, the alteration guys -- in-the-background folks who perform jobs that keep our lives clicking along smoothly.

Walter Williams is one of the mechanics.

Without the Walter Williamses of the world, we'd be broken down on the side of the road somewhere, unable to get to work or pick up the kids.

For 17 years, Williams has owned a grease pit on Salem Avenue called Boxy Swedish Car Center where he works almost exclusively on Volvos. In it, he has earned the devotion of Volvo drivers throughout the Roanoke Valley and far beyond.

What Williams does is more than a skill, it's a love.

"If you enjoy what you do, it has to be a love," said the soft-spoken 51-year-old, who worked at a luxury dealership for 10 years in the 1980s.

"I feel like I'm on top of the world," he said during a break from under a hood one day last week.

Boxy Swedish Cars is a family operation. Williams' stepson, Stuart Pritchett, is the other mechanic. Williams' wife, Hazel, is his business manager.

"My husband is very talented," confides the lively, likable woman whom Williams lovingly refers to as his "better half."

"He's a fast learner. He doesn't get paid what he's worth, honestly. The man can make cars from scratch."

Williams is part of an invisible class of workers in our society whose jobs aren't glamorous or daring. We notice them when we need them. At the moment of desperation, we are so thankful they could "squeeze" us in or "worked with" us on price if we're between pay periods. But otherwise, we mostly take them for granted.

Williams' customers may fall into a bit different category -- actually, they're more like adoring fans. They reconfigure their schedules so they can get on his.

One woman drives from Buena Vista for him to service her car. Once, when she broke down in White Sulphur Springs, W.Va., she had her car towed some 80 miles to Williams' garage.

Another customer in New York -- yes, I said New York -- travels here a few times a year with a list of things he wants Williams to check.

Another devotee recently brought in his 1979 Volvo wagon. After Williams serviced it, the man asked, "How much longer do you think it'll last?"

With 650,000 miles on the odometer, he had two things in his favor: The car is a Volvo, and Williams is his mechanic.

Another longtime customer dropped her car off Friday morning.

"I love Walter," gushed Catherine Hagan-Aylor, who drives a 10-year-old Volvo S70. "There are so many people who respect him. He is always accommodating. Always honest. He's really an honest, honest, honest, honest guy."

The Rev. Paul Hatfield of Living Water Christian Church in Salem owns two Volvos and has been going to Williams for at least 10 years.

"He has a genuine concern for people. There's a level of trust that you have with people, and Walter has earned that over years."

From bikes to cars

Williams said he is proud of his business in part because it is family run. He's teaching his son the trade, and his wife of 12 years keeps the books, orders parts and everything else she needs to do so her husband can focus on his passion.

You can understand that pride when you ask Williams about his upbringing. It was anything but easy.

Born in Roanoke, he went into the foster care system at age 5. He was placed with a family that had four biological children and seven other foster children.

The family favored their own children, Williams said.

When Williams was 14, the owner of a bicycle shop offered to hire him and teach him how to fix bikes. During his seven years there, he repaired the bicycles of Dick West, who owned West Motor Sales, a luxury auto dealership that sold Mercedes and Volvos.

One day in 1979, West came in and asked Williams out of the blue if he wanted to be a mechanic.

"I'll teach you everything you need to know," Williams recalled the auto dealer telling him. Williams was 21.

"When you start there, you start off changing oil," recalled Williams, who had already demonstrated mechanical aptitude with bikes. From there, he grew. He went to Mercedes-Benz school for three weeks in Montvale, N.J., and also earned a Volvo certification.

Williams worked at West Motors for 10 years until 1989. West was stepping aside to let his son run the dealership, and Williams decided to leave. He worked for another garage in Salem for a year.

Right place, right time

Just as the bicycle shop owner had done and just as West had done, one of Williams' customers approached him in 1991 and offered to help financially if Williams wanted to open his own shop. He accepted and repaid the man in a matter of months.

God, the mechanic mused last week, "put the right people in the right spot. I've never filled out a job application or anything."

Williams said he didn't want his own name on the shop. He toyed with "Swedish Cars" but dropped that because it implied he worked on Saabs, which he doesn't.

"Anybody with a Saab has a sob story," Williams said wryly.

He added the "Boxy" because older Volvo body styles were uniformly square.

Boxy Swedish Cars is a small, white building on the 1200 block of Salem Avenue Southwest in the West End neighborhood. The building almost gets lost in a sea of Volvos of all body colors, makes and models.

Some are junkers from which Williams plucks parts. Others awaiting repair spill outside the fenced-in parking lot and overflow onto the street in front of the building and on the side of the building.

Williams charges $68 per hour to work on Volvos, compared with $105 per hour at Hammersley Group, the Roanoke luxury auto dealer.

But because Williams no longer works at a Volvo dealership, he is not an authorized Volvo mechanic. All of the cars he repairs are off warranty. He gets about 60 to 70 cars a month, his wife said.

Williams' business isn't limited to his own customers. He gets calls sometimes from other mechanics around town stumped by a problem with a Volvo.

When he's not working on Volvos, the grandfather enjoys rebuilding souped-up Ford Mustangs with his stepson. They take them to car shows. In the shop, though, Williams enjoys a special bond with his customers.

"He loves what he does," Hazel Williams said, "and the people love him."

Hagan-Aylor's Volvo has 128,000 miles on it.

"I've had it forever, and he's kept it alive," she said. "My husband said, 'It's time to get a new car.'

"I said, 'I don't need a car. I've got Walter.' "

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