The Lure of the Garage

 

Chapter Three - Stepping On The Gas.

   He was driving his old car; a car the guys at the bar had always laughed at.  One of them, a friend, had taken him aside and said, "Max, you've got to get yourself a real vehicle."  The big cowboy looked dismissively at the almost pre-industrial Volvo.  "You know, a truck." 

   In Wyoming, there were three kinds of vehicles - pickups with brooms and beer cans in the bed, big cars with lots of power that were really oversized boats on spongy wheels, or tractors.  Max didn't care; the car had never stopped running and its mute loyalty appealed to him.

   He had been driving for eleven hours and because the radio had never worked he had a lot of time to think.  He was crossing the wide plains of Nebraska, late at night. 

   "You know," a calm seeming voice said. "This is probably unnecessary."

   He looked around.  He then heard himself say, "Couldn't you be an inventor in Wyoming?"

   He started laughing. 

   He kept thinking and, after a few minutes, though he didn't come right out and admit it, he realized that he had been a little homesick ever since he had left.  Escaped, he always called it.  He missed the green and the water.  His mom was there and he knew he missed her clear warmth and concern.  Her love.  Her cooking.  Her name was Rosemary and, like her name, she was a kind of spice that was in him and sprinkled all over and around him.

   He also missed his father.  Thinking about him made him grouchy and he growled at the dust on the dashboard.  It was a mixed thing.  He had loved him without a doubt, but C.J. had always been working.  He loved to work and Max felt that he had received less than his fair share of his father's time.  And, when he had seen him, it was like visiting with the encyclopedia.  Max never knew what he was talking about.  Maybe because of this, Max had hung around the garage incessantly watching and listening.  When he was younger he believed that if he simply took in the words and whatever action was going on, it wouldn't matter whether he understood or not, somehow his brain would digest it all and one day he would find that everything made sense and he and his father would be able to communicate.  He still believed in this general principle.  It was an optimism, though unproven, that he depended on.

   His mother had always been there when his father was "in the moment", as she put it.  "In the moment.” to Max, had meant his father and his assistant running around the garage in their white lab coats, waving their arms in the air and shouting.  As he thought of it now, his father had always seemed to be either "in the moment" or quite reserved.

   In his reserved moments he had a distant look on his face and a pencil in his hand with which he made constant notations and drawings.  A steaming mug of coffee never left his side.  To Max's requests for attention, his father had invariably replied, "That's wonderful.  Let me explain this to you," and then he would be off describing the workings of the microscope in front of them or, putting Max's small hand to the mug, he would explain the physics involved in heat transference.  Max was appreciative of the information but always went away a little frustrated.  He had "escaped" because of this frustration and, since his father's death, he had stayed away because he was afraid that it might still be there, floating in the thick air of the garage where he thought he had left it.

   Despite its age, Max's old car was maintaining a steady 70 miles per hour down the straight and seemingly endless freeway that ran east through Nebraska.  The headlights bore a bright tunnel through the night and the heater was working overtime to keep Max wrapped up and comfortable in the dark February cold.  He could have been anywhere.  At night, the road was just a road.  Scenery and variety, always a high point of freeway travel, slept like everything else, and all Max could see were the white lines racing toward him and the glow from the lights on the dash.  His thoughts were inescapable.

   "Well, big guy," he said out loud.  "I guess we're really doing this."

   There was no answer, but none was needed.  Max looked at himself in the mirror.  It was too dark to see but he knew the image that was reflected or would have been, given enough light.  Now, there was a physics problem and a philosophical one as well.  Does the mirror reflect without light?

   Max reached for the candy bar on the seat next to him and thought, I've still got a lot of hair, I'm not bad looking, and my teeth are straight.  It's true I could lose a few pounds and that I'm restless, hungry, and irritable, but is that any reason to go home?  What am I doing?  What do I think I'm going to find there?  Am I just going in circles?  What's the meaning of life?  Is God dead?  Do ants sleep?  Why do those 8 foot tall rabbits gather at each overpass?  The questions escalated. 

   It was time to pull over.  Max eased onto the ramp and rolled into an Amoco station which sat at the side of an empty road, next to an abandoned Stuckey's.  It was lit up in a desperate way, as if without the light, the pumps, the attendant, and all the tires, batteries, and cases of oil would slip into a deep sleep.

   He left the car in front of the pumps and went inside for coffee.  The place was empty.  As Max filled a large paper cup with fuel, he listened to the hum of the lights above him.  He sat down on a chair that complained but he was not sympathetic, only tired.  He closed his eyes and immediately opened them in shock.  He had seen the white lines still rushing toward him and was afraid he would fall asleep and end up in the ditch.  He took a deep shaky breath.  He was having trouble slowing down and began to wonder if he could sleep in the cold car. 

   Just then, he heard a rough voice say, "I'll show you," and then heard a terrible crash.  Max jumped to his feet and rushed past the counter full of candy and antacids and through the door into the garage area of the station.   There was no relief from the lights, as this area was lit up like the rest of the place.   Max looked around and in the corner he saw a tall man, dressed in one of those one-piece mechanic's outfits which are blue, tinged with the gray of the grease.  He had long stringy hair and he was sitting on the floor.  He was surrounded by junk and his head was in his hands.  He was muttering something.

   "Are you OK?"

   The man jumped, setting off more noise, and angrily said, "Don't sneak up on me like that."

   Max, still somewhat numb from the drive, was unmoved.  He repeated his question.

   The man, who Max saw was wearing sunglasses, got to his feet upsetting tools and parts and unidentifiable debris.  He brushed himself off and said, "Sorry.  You're the first person I've seen in four hours.  I get so spaced out here at night.  And these lights.  They drive me crazy."

   Max nodded.

   "What can I get you?"

   "Oh, I'll get some gas in a minute.  I had to pull off.  I was getting a little spaced out myself.  What are you working on?"

   The man, whose name was Jones, told him the whole story and, as he did, they examined parts, flexed hoses, and wiggled wires.  Over coffee, they discussed the problem and broke it down into separate principles and possibilities.  After about an hour of this, they were both looking at a part with wires hanging from it like a bad hairdo.  This was the crux of the matter.  Jones started shaking the part and swearing.  He gave Max a look, which the fluorescent lights might have exaggerated, and said, "I'll fix this."  He reached for a hammer.

   Max stared at the part and, at the last moment, stopped Jones from adjusting it out of existence by saying in his quiet voice, "Wait a minute.  Let me try something."

   Max placed the part on the workbench and bent over it with the concentration of a surgeon.  "Pliers."  Jones slapped the tool into Max's hand.  Max winced and shot him a reproving look.  "Staple gun."  Jones gently handed it over.  "Paper clip."  Max was working intensely now, his elbows flailing above his ears.  "Crazy glue."  The hand-off was precise.  Finally, Max straightened up, released the tension of the moment in a long exhale of breath, and looked at his assistant.

   "I think that's it."

   Max, with delicate care, returned the part to its proper place.  He tightened a couple of screws while Jones got behind the wheel.  Max gave him the nod.  Jones turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared back to life.  Jones switched it off and came over to Max.  He was beaming and thumped him on the back.

   "Too much.  You just pulled it right out of the hat."

   They celebrated by splitting a Kit Kat and each had another cup of coffee.  Eventually, Max filled his tank and prepared to leave.  Before he pulled away into what was left of the night, Jones leaned over and said through the window, "Thanks for your help.  It was beautiful.  If you ever need a job, just come on back.  Drive safe now, you hear?"  He slapped the roof of the old car and walked back into the light.

   Max fastened his seatbelt, found his way onto the freeway, and stepped on the gas.