Thirty-eight
Cent Bolt
My 1984 Chevette churned as it pulled Joe, Bill, and myself up
the hill to the group home where we worked. That’s where
it happened. The thing stopped, died, quit, ceased running. We
looked at each other, and then all three of us got out of the
car.
"It’s
outta gas," Joe said.
"Can’t be," I said. "I just filled it yesterday.’
"Pop the hood," Bill said. "Let’s have a
look."
I knew
how to start, drive, and stop a car. I could also put gas in one.
I had a vague sense that they needed oil and routine maintenance.
Bill, however, offered some hope; it seemed to me that opening
up the hood was a step in the right direction. We stood staring
at the motor. It looked like it always looked: black and dirty.
"Try
starting it up again," Joe said. This remark drew looks
from Bill and me. "I just thought it might be our weight."
Joe looked harder at the motor.
"Got a rag?" Bill asked. "Let’s check the
oil."
Now
that sounded like something a mechanic might do. The dipstick
showed no oil.
"Christ,"
I said, "the damned engine seized."
The
following Saturday, I bought a 1976 Celica GT. In keeping with
all the other vehicles I had owned, it was a piece of crap. It
cost me $2,247.00.
I still
had to do something with the Chevette, so I spoke with Marc. Now
Marc was a person who was born with a Snap-on ratchet in his hand.
He looked at me with those great dark eyes and said,
"Let me look at your rig."
Everything
was a rig to Marc, even my piece of crap Chevette. I had already
seen him in action at the group home, putting in lights, building
a fence, replacing a faucet, carving a bench and chairs with a
chain saw, little things like that. But I also knew the engine
had seized. Surely, he couldn’t fix this.
When
we got to the car, Marc spent little time staring at the motor;
instead he decisively took out a spark plug.
I
thought, "What the hell?"
"Start
her up," Marc said.
I got
in the car, turned the key. I heard a mechanical groan, but the
car did not start.
"John,
you got compression."
That
sounded hopeful to me, but I had no idea what it meant. Marc sensed
my quandary.
"The motor ain’t seized. It’s trying to turn
over. You just ain’t getting fuel."
In
a second he was under the car looking up at the motor.
"Yep,
that’s it." He was back on his feet. "The fuel
pump is loose—a bolt should take care of it."
I gave
him one of the blank looks I had perfected after long practice
in math classes.
He
said, "We’ll go get one."
At
the auto part store we got the bolt and in ten minutes Marc had
re-secured the fuel pump. The Chevette started up smoothly like
the fine piece of American machinery it was. The bolt cost me
38 cents.
As
the sun set into the smoky red west, I laughed.
John
Flammang