I was very young at
the time. Most of my thoughts were of
myself and of what I wanted. I was selfish and cared very little about what was
going on in the world. My car was my
entire world. I had found it, fell in
love with it and paid for it myself. It
wasn’t much but to me it was everything.
Henry, at the gas station,
was wise in the ways of cars. He is the
one I bought all of my gas from and he would always make suggestions on how I
should take care of it and what to watch for.
I remember he was always saying to keep an eye on the tires. According to him, those were the most important
parts. “You don’t want a blowout at high speed.”
I recall the first
time it was put up on the rack. Henry
wasn’t saying much and I had very limited resources for repairs. I was a nervous wreck. That was, of course, only the first in a long
line of visits to Henry’s garage. It
seemed there was a relationship between the mileage going up and the number of
needed repairs going in the same direction.
It was on a Saturday morning
when I got the call from Henry, he said we needed to talk. I thought he was going to tell me the gas
prices were going up again. He always
felt bad whenever he had to raise his prices.
He knew how hard I was working and that I didn’t have much money to
begin with. The only other thing would
be to tell me that my car was ready. He
had it in his garage for the last two days, fixing something in the
transmission.
As I walked up to Henry’s, I could hear
the country music coming from the garage.
He loved his country music. When
he noticed me walking up the drive, he wiped his hands on a red shop towel,
reached over and clicked the music off.
Yikes, I thought. This must be
serious. I followed him into the office. I sat on the plastic chair across from his
desk. So far, he hasn’t said
anything. That was making me feel a
little queasy.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
This was the first time my baby had stayed by herself overnight. I was already scared. I looked over at my car. She was still up on the rack, Henry’s rolling
toolbox sat open and there were tools and parts everywhere.
As Henry went into
his speech about his limited resources, and not having the latest technology,
my thoughts were wandering to me sitting on the front seat, my Magic eightball
gearshift knob, my fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror and how much I wanted him
to stop jabbering and just tell me how much I owe.
He must have noticed
I was sitting there daydreaming, for then he just came out with it. “I can’t fix it.” That did it.
That snapped me back into the moment.
“You can’t fix it, or it can’t be fixed?”
I could tell this was
bothering Henry as much as me. I thought
for a minute his eyes were tearing up. “It
is going to cost more to get that car running again than the thing is worth.”
My heart sank. “I think I’m going to be sick.” I said.
Henry didn’t
respond. He just sat looking at me, like
he was a doctor and had just told a family member that he couldn’t save the
patient.
Suddenly, I wanted to
hear his country music again. I wanted
to hear someone else singing about loss and heartbreak. About pickup trucks and loyal dogs.
I glanced out into
Henry’s work area. The image that jumped
into my head was Henry’s diagnostic machine showing a flatline. I had lost my best friend. I stood up and just sort of started walking
back home. It was like I was in
shock. I had not even thought about what
to do with the body. I had no idea how
to make the necessary arrangements.
About halfway down
the driveway I heard the music come back on behind me. I didn’t recognize the song, I was just glad it
wasn’t Willie singing. On the Road Again.
ZC
