Editor’s Note: Scott’s dad experienced a stroke this week due to 99.1 percent blockage of the carotid artery. He is currently recouping in a rehab facility. This is one of the first columns Scott wrote about his dad in 1987, published in the USI college newspaper, to give you an idea of their relationship. Not much has changed in the past 37 years.
I am not an automobile mechanic, but my father is a great one. He knows his stuff, he really does. A regular Mr. Goodwrench.
My father knows that being a good mechanic does not run in the blood. He has had me in the garage too many times to believe it any other way. But he still has hopes for me, my father does.
He lives in a world of socket wrenches, sparkplugs, screwdrivers, and hand goop. It’s heaven on earth to him. To me, it’s a living hell on wheels. He knows that, but still he tries. He has faith that I will replace Hemingway, Salinger, and Mailer with Shell Answer Man pamphlets on my bookshelves. He really does.
I grow nervous when he pops open the car hood.
My father talks about V-6 and V-8. And I grow thirsty. “Do you know the difference between the two,” he asks. “Sure,” I say. “V-6 has a less variety of vegetables.”
I tend to joke around a lot when I’m in my father’s shop. It calms my nerves, but it shoots his all to hell. Still, he tries, my father does, and still he hopes that I will learn something useful. I really don’t see where he gets the patience. I really don’t. There is just too much automation going on under the hood. Too many moving parts to feel safe around.
My father warns me of the danger of battery acid. So I avoid the car battery. And then there’s those crazy fan blades promising the amputation of digits. And some things are very hot. And the turning of fan belts could snap a tie-wearing man’s neck if he’s not careful. Not that I wear ties … but just saying. There are too many things to watch out for under a hood. Too much danger. I only have two eyes. I’d like to keep it that way.
I just don’t see how he does it. I really don’t. He can lie inside the damn thing, under the hood, his legs dangling out, making it look as if he’s being devoured by Jaws, and still get the job done.
I stand a safe distance away, praying for a nuclear war to begin. Or maybe for a 747 to come crashing down in our backyard. I hope for anything horrible to happen before he can request that I hand him a tool that I can’t identify.
One time, my father jacked up the rear of my ’74 Ford Mustang II. The rear tires were in the air a good foot or so. It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. While he removed a hubcap, I pointed at the raised rear tires and said, “You know Dad, at first I thought these tires were running low, but now they seem high.” I expected the hubcap to spin at me full force, frisbee-like, in response. He could do without smartasses on his sacred grounds.
I can recall only one incident that bonded us in his garage. He needed me to help bleed the car’s brakes. After pumping the damn brake pedal a million times upon Dad’s command, the job was done. The brakes had run out of blood, I guess. My foot was numb. I felt that I had really accomplished something.
Photo provided
My father smiled. He looked happy. He really did, my father. And then he did something that he’d never done before. He faced me and said, “Here, Son, use my hand goop to clean your hands.”
My hands weren’t dirty at all. All I had done was use my right foot to pump the brake. But I dipped my soft hands in the creamy stuff anyways. Just for Pops. The white goop squished between my fingers. It was a high point in father-son relations.
“You’re a man now,” his lone tear told me.
And I felt like one. I really did.
It was the last time I was called into his garage. We both knew something so grand could never be repeated.
My father seemed proud of me. He really did.
Email Scott at scottsaalman@gmail.com.