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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.
back to: Literary Arts
Home Literary Arts Visual Arts About Zephyr Contact Graphic Version
Mendocino College Online Journal of the Arts - Spring 2002 Text Version
Mendocino College
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Ukiah, California 95482