Mechanics

The most powerful and enigmatic man in my life this time of year, it seems, is actually not just Jesus (sorry, Mom). It's the guy who fixes my car. Last year my car needed major work just before the week long vacation and just after I spent probably four hundred dollars on Christmas presents. The car did this on purpose.

Keith is my mechanic. Last night he kindly informed me that my car not only has a deflated tire, it has three deflated, floppy tires and one snarky, dying tire in the rear that "doesn't have much time left". He wanted to know "if I've been off-roading". The entire car is sagging for want of tire. And the muffler, he helpfully showed me, is dragging on the road, creating sparks. And danger. Ugh. Big bucks.

"Oh no, Keith. How much?" I asked, standing awkwardly under the dripping oil of my inconsiderate car. The men were all around me in their manly-car-world, blasting music and shouting at each other. Pictures of their kids taken in 1986 are plastered everywhere, as well as wise ass signage such as "5 cents for whining" and "my ex wife got the Rolls." There are old school dirty (literally and figuratively) pictures tucked away from my eyes in that back room, I know it. Everything seems like an engine: whirring and churning. I always feel so stupid in the auto shop, like a wrongly dressed rube, bait for the con. But actually the men at my garage are very nice.

"Do you play chess?" asked Keith, carefully filling out the estimate form. He has huge, cracked hands covered in oil and the pen sometimes slips from his fingers. My father has hands like this: dry; when the first wind of November blows, he'll wince and put on bag balm to no avail. My own hands are the same. Pink and lined and dry. Baby gorilla hands.

"Why? Do you want to play me in chess? If I win, do I get free car repair?" I replied, trying to be cute, fishing for that discount. Am I too old to play this role?

"No. I teach it at the adult school. You should come play. It's right by your house at the elementary school."

Hmm. My mechanic the chess player. I guess in such informal surroundings I didn't see this in him. But it makes perfect sense. He's deliberate, considers everything he says before he says it.

"I'll teach you," he said after informing me that my car needs almost nine hundred dollars worth of work. "Nothing like chess."

He gave me a lift home and told me about Christmas at his house in West Orange. He and his wife set an extra two or three places for anyone who wants to come in and eat, anyone who needs a meal.

"Aren't you afraid of that? I would be afraid," I said almost automatically.

"My door is always open. I'm not worried about anything," he said.

I was humbled by this. I was especially touched when he called me this morning to tell me that in the spirit of the holidays, he wouldn't charge me labor on part of the job, saving me a nice amount of money. "For a nice schoolteacher," he said into the phone, and I could hear the men in the background chuckling.

I guess I'm going to take a chess lesson...