Our Choreographed Dance!

For as long as I can remember my daddy and I have worked on cars together.  I was pretty much the boy my dad didn't have until my brother grew up.  Even then, I enjoyed the whole working on a car with my dad more then my brother ever did.  I can change my own oil and don't feel stranded on the side of the road if my tire goes flat thanks solely to my dad!  So naturally when asked to write a story about my first ever car experience I choose one about my dad and I.  Well my teacher then liked it so much she asked me to write more on the topic including two other scenes in which I was getting older yet still working on cars with my dad.  So here it is:

As I lay on my back looking up something that weighs more then I can even fathom, I feel elated.

            “Socket wrench, 2.3 gauge!” my father yells, yet I am lying right next to him; so I contribute the yelling to years of automotive work.

            I locate the 2.3 gauge socket wrench with ease knowing I am doing my job perfectly.  I’m not sure exactly where the wire that seems to creep up behind the engine like a snake hunting for prey goes; I do know it’s the main wire used to hot wire a car that ends underneath the brake peddle.

            I watch his hands effortlessly navigate around the carburetor through the transmission pipes to the backside of the engine, desperately trying to figure out why it’s rattling.  I follow his every move, knowing I’ll be tested on it later.  He told me I was past the “show and tell” and onto the “show and figure it out” game.

            “DANGIT!”; blood pours down his arm.  I laugh; I’m over the cringe state of seeing blood.  I’ve even gotten a few “dangits” myself.  “Go get me a band-aid please, I don’t got time for this!” he pleads.  I’m back before the red ooze reaches his elbow --- a record!

            My stomach growls but I don’t feel hungry.  I crave only for the knowledge my father holds about the beast we are working under.  It’s as if he read my mind, for he starts to feed me information meant only for me to hear (the yelling no longer relevant). 

He picks apart the engine, the way a surgeon picks apart a brain looking for a tumor.  My eyes never leave his hands.  I’m caught up in the mass of metal that encircles us.

“Now put the engine back together before dinner!” he says.

“Socket wrench, 2.3 gauge!” I yell.

 

Later that night we get ice cream, using the car with the re-built engine.  He’s proud.

 

I’m only eight.

           

I upgraded.  A few weeks ago my dad presented me with my own automotive jumpsuit.  Although, the difference between an automotive and a regular one, I still don’t know. 

“This will keep your mother off my back with you getting your school clothes dirty,” he explains.  Yet I know, deep down, it was a way to make us equal.

I even acquired some of my own grease stains.  Not nearly as many as the man next to me but my own nonetheless.

            My right sleeve is torn from my wrist to almost my elbow due to a loose screw sticking out the back of the transmission.  It was almost a “dangit”.  It was the only time I ever saw my dad scared for me while we worked on our cars.

            My mom needs new brakes.  My dad hands me the box and said, “She needs to bring your brother to practice in an hour.”  23 brake changes later, it’s my time to shine.  I don’t need the hour; it takes me only 35 minutes.  He smiles and nods.

            My mom thinks we are now going to go wash up and start to prepare supper; my dad thought differently: I didn’t argue.  Tools need organizing, car needs to be prepared and the oil tank needs to be fed.  All those are things much more important than our bellies being fed.

            It starts to get dark, “Go get the work light!” he yells.  We’ve been under cars today for 9 hours, we think.  I vaguely remember eating, probably more like inhaling, the lunch my mom prepared for us.  Yet the brakes I put on my mom’s car 8 hours ago were for a 1995 Dodge Minivan, 3.3 in’ in width with a peculiar cut out in the middle I remember perfectly.

 

Most girls my age would be at the mall all dolled up.

 

            These rings I am wearing are impeding my ability to get under the hood to pop it.  My dad laughs at me in a teasingly manner. 

“I suppose we never really thought about that issue.” he chuckles.

Tonight would be the first night he and I have worked on a car since a new man replaced my main supporter.  My dad doesn’t say much, yet smiles, answering all my questions.

            This time, my husband’s car won’t start and we are going to figure out why.  Nick is in the house preparing dinner with my mom; he can make food taste like my dad can make a car drive.  I can’t get the hood open, so he tries; yet also fails.  I laugh at him teasingly.

“Maybe it wasn’t my rings.” I chuckle

 So we instantly lie down and slide under the 1-ton car.  We still move like we have choreographed a perfect duet.  My tool collection doesn’t compare to his but he doesn’t complain.  Maybe 3 months from now, under my parents Christmas tree will be my very own tool set.  I’m conflicted though; my lack of tools is a sure way of getting my dad up here.  With my own, what happens then?

For now, I enjoy the rhythmic breathing next to me as he finagles the wire that seems to be rusted and keeping this car from running.  He yells for the screwdriver; I hand him my loan screwdriver that desperately would like some friends next to him in the toolbox.  He doesn’t mind that it’s not the Pratt-Read Tools Professional Mechanics Screwdriver — 3/8in. x 8in that he has in his.  Instead he magically makes the one I have spin and screw and work the exactly the way he needs it to.

Neither one of us gets a “dangit”.  I feel almost disappointed.  Instead it’s a “shoot” or “are you kidding me!”  A little back-story --- we got sold a lemon; and my dad attempts to undo all the wrong things that have been done.

 

Later we sit around the dinner table with my mom and husband, with our greased stain hands.  He looks across the table and winks; meant only for me to see and I knew then my tool collection wouldn’t stop his visits.