Mom had explained to the salesman that she needed the truck ASAP, so she could take her lawn mower trailer and get some mowing done, and we could wait on the other stuff, but since her tires weren't there yet they started on the pile right away.
They had one tech mounting and dismounting the big stuff, they had another handling the front runners, and smaller stuff, then they had a third, smaller, younger tech running the balance machine. I stood just outside the shop door watching intently, and occasionally they would ask me questions about tire pressure and stuff, so everything went pretty smoothly. About 45 minutes into the operation I began to feel sorry for the older fellow on the big stuff, and the kid on the balance machine, as lifting all those monsters began to take a visible toll. I helped them load the finished jobs, and discarded tires back onto the truck, just to try and keep track of everything. With 80% of the job done, I noticed the kid on the balancer looking to other work stations to round up all the sticky weights they had in the whole shop!
Confident that they had it under control, I made my way back into the waiting room, where Mom began to berate me for delaying her breakfast. Then I overheard the salesman having a heated phone discussion with a supplier, and was able to gather that our tires for the truck had been misdirected, and another truck would have to be sent out. With that information in hand, I agreed that we should probably go to Waffle House and get Mom her pecan waffle!

We returned about an hour and a half later, and I noticed all the race tires were on the truck, but both the rear wheels were still off the truck and it was still on jacks. As soon as we walked back in the lobby, the salesman's face visibly reddened, and he explained that the tires had finally arrived, but were the wrong size! I decided with a full meal on board, a nice walk around the block was probably better than sitting in the waiting room. When I returned, dad walked out to meet me, "The right tires will be here in an hour, and they said since they've held us up so long, they won't charge us for doing the other tires.."
"Good grief Dad", I cut him off, "They can't do that...that's a couple hundred dollars, they had three techs tied up on that stuff!"
Dad shrugged, "I'm just telling you what the man told me!"
When they were close to finishing up, I muscled mom away from the counter, and paid for the tires with my card. Then I looked at the salesman, and asked him to at least take the forty bucks cash in my hand to pay for the sticky weights.
"Can't do it", he shook his head, "We appreciate you guys spending all day with us, but three times to get the right tires just isn't acceptable in our books".
I thanked him, and we headed back to Dale's with my faith that good service, and good business ethics still exist in our country, even if it is a little harder to find these days!

Waffle House is apparently Drag Week approved, as this photo later in St Louis can attest: