Currently, I own a
white 1997 F150 pickup. It’s basic in every sense of the word. It’s a 5 speed
that boasts powerless locks, powerless windows and one un-inclinable bench
seat. The paint is fading in
numerous places, the tint on the back window is failing and the stereo system
could best be described as archaic. I absolutely love this truck.
Up till now the truck has been fantastic,
no issues to speak of. Trucks (especially old ones) are great. They don’t need
to be cleaned regularly, look good somewhat messy, and have a built in open
faced garage some call “the bed”. However, recently this glorious vehicle’s
impeccable veneer has begun to wane. The past few months have required numerous
trips to my local mechanic (more on him in a sec). A failing clutch and an
inability to start consistently, the main culprits. This is frustrating for two
reasons. The first is the sinking suspicion that at some point in the not too
distant future I’m going to have to purchase a new vehicle. Secondly, and more problematically, it
reveals an enormous flaw in my emerging sense of manhood. I know nothing and I
mean nothing about motor vehicles and how they work.
Although I’m happy to shoulder some of this
blame, in my defense, it’s not my fault. Growing up my Dad and my Step-Dad
fulfilled two very important “male” stereotypes: sports knowledge and
mechanical knowledge respectively. My Dad has some ability to discuss how to
fix certain things, but is much more comfortable discussing the benefits of a
Cover 2 over Man when attempting to stop a mobile quarterback.
My Step-Dad is
much the opposite, he knows the ins and outs of most sports but is better
versed in the history of various engines than that of storied sports
franchises. Growing up in this
dichotomy was beneficial, I learned about both, but naturally I gravitated
towards sports. It should come as no surprise that I found participating in or
watching sports on TV infinitely more exciting than trying to change the brakes
on the family vehicle.
Unfortunately I have a sinking suspicion
that perhaps I chose poorly. I’m well versed in all manners of the sports
lexicon but am clueless about how vehicles actually work. My treasure chest of
trivial sports knowledge is helpful on Sunday afternoons but useless 95% of the
time. To complicate matters my opportunity to form a foundation of car
maintenance competency has long since sailed away. This leaves me at the whim
of asking others for help. I currently have two options: My family’s personal
“pep boy” (AKA my Step Dad) or my local mechanic.
In my step dad’s defense he did his best to
teach me and my brethren the basics of vehicle maintenance, sadly it didn’t
take. Honestly, the guy deserves a medal. My brothers and I are full-grown and
still call him at the earliest sign of car distress. He’s dropped his evening
plans twice this past week to lend me (a 27 year old) a helping hand. It’s no
secret he longs for me to move far enough away to make him completely
unavailable for emergency car help. Part of the problem is the vast knowledge gap
that exists between us. He’s operating on completely different plane.
Even his name speaks to his abnormal ability. Ironically his
Christian name is Todd, but he’s more commonly known as “Tim” a nickname I gave
him when he joined our family. At the time “Home Improvement” was a popular show,
which prominently featured comical opportunities to fix stuff.
Now fans of this
show will point out that in the show “Tim” (Tim Allen) didn’t actually fix the
issues, but instead, consistently created them. I admit, in reality, a more
appropriate nickname would have been “Al”. But that guy was a square, and I wasn’t going to give my new
Step Dad a bush league moniker. His acumen isn’t just reserved for our family;
this dude receives phone calls from my friends for help and even his peers
consistently call for advice.
When I do end up helping him fix my car we
each have well defined roles that we execute flawlessly. He diagnosis the issue
comes up with solution and proceeds to make it happen. I specialize in
well-timed and topical sarcastic remarks and flawless flashlight operation.
Whenever I do have a problem the majority
of our phone related phone calls operate along the following script, loosely
based on the two most recent SOS calls.
Me: Hey, I’m having car trouble…..
Him: What’s the problem?
Me: My truck won’t start.
Him: Does it turn over?
Me: I don’t know what that means….
Him: (Sigh) does it almost start? Or does
it just kind of do a “click, click, click” noise?
Me: Oh it does the almost starting thing.
Like it gets 95% of the way but doesn’t make it.
Him: Ok, pop the hood and find your spark
plugs.
Me: Umm, what do they look like??
Him: (Sigh) Todd, you need to learn these
kinds of things…. (Another sigh, dripping with definite signs of frustration)
Where are you??
Me: My apartment
Him: I’m on my way. See you in 15
Me: Sorry about that, thanks…
At this point he’s unintentionally made me
feel completely emasculated and I start contemplating my manhood in general. Unfortunately,
besides having a full time job and living 6 miles from my parents’ house,
there’s not a whole lot pointing towards my ability to be self-sufficient.
Sometimes I feel like I need to remind him of my worth by dropping a bloody
bird carcass on his doorstep like a young Labrador.
If he can’t fix my car I take my car to my
mechanic. He’s an uncouth man named Mike, who lives nearby, and runs an “auto
shop” out of a detached garage at the back of his property. Now I can call him
my mechanic because, well he is. Between my family and I we have taken 4 cars
to his “shop”, and we don’t take them anywhere else. We trust him implicitly
because he’s earned it. I’ll spare you the paragraph on the importance of
finding a mechanic you can trust. Seinfeld and Putty did that well enough.
Back to Mike, I mentioned uncouth, and I
don’t use that word lightly. He’s literally the most vulgar man I’ve ever been
around. And since between my family and I, we’ve been to his shop about 15
times I’ve had plenty of interaction with him.
Mike has a short, slender build that even
the most generous would hesitate to describe as athletic. His attire is
consistent as his work. Unkept pepper colored hair with a 2-day-old beard and
thin wire frame glasses. His pants and shirt (with or without sleeves)
typically revolve around one pattern: camo. He lives at the end of a one street neighborhood with a
house and garage that sit on a one-acre lot. His house is plain and non
descript, his garage / auto shop is obviously the main attraction of the
property. It’s a metal rectangle the size of a two-car garage. The left half of the inside looks like
your typical mechanical shop. Tools big and small have their specific place
lining the perimeter, and a large jack like apparatus is available to life
vehicles off their wheels. The right half, provides more room for tools and
cars, but really functions as a man cave. This includes a full size couch,
projection screen with satellite television and a fridge full of beer. The
decorations are modest and extremely country, fishing poles and various
taxidermy animals.
To acquire Mike the Mechanic’s services you
must set an appointment. It’s simple, you call Mike and ask if he is available
to work on your vehicle. Typically his answer is yes, on more than one occasion
his answer has been no. This is because Mike is in the weeds, not in the
“really busy” sense of the word, but literally because he’s probably standing
in weeds. Mike likes to go fishing, and to hunt, if he has to miss business,
well that a sacrifice he’s willing to make.
The fist time I met Mike I approached him
intent on describing the issue with my truck. Instead he started the
conversation by casually mentioning to me that he was currently considering
murdering his wife. Apparently she made him watch “"Three's Company"” before bed, even though she knows he hates
it. No worries though, I have seen his wife multiple times since that first
encounter so I can happily report that his death threat was not fulfilled.
On my most recent call to Mike I was
stranded at my local Kroger. I called Mike and asked him if he could give me a
tip to help me get my truck started. I was expecting some solid mechanic
advice. Instead, he told me to get a wrench and bang on the bottom of my gas
tank really hard. So I climbed out of the cab, slid under by truck and
proceeded to play “whack a mole” with what I believe is the bottom of my gas
tank. Of course the truck didn’t start, but I did successfully get every person
in the Kroger parking lot to stare at me. To top things off I was able to temporarily fix the issue when I received assistance from a middle aged lady. What's awesome about Mike is that he too has the ability to make me feel completely inadequate.
No worries though. I called Tim and when he arrived, he diagnosed the root of issue within 30 seconds, crisis averted. I had absolutely no oil.
My response: A sly grin, shoulder shrug and a pretty meek….”whoops?”
One of these days I’m hoping that my years
of acquiring sports knowledge will pay off. I like to imagine that I’ll happen
upon a damsel in “sports distress” that is in desperate need of my expertise.
Let’s get real though, that’s not going to happen. No worries I have a “plan B”
too. Instead of being the damsel in “car distress” I'll be in the position to assist. I'll proceed to ask her if she needs help and
promptly give Tim a call….
