// June 20th, 2010 // No Comments » // Writings, short fiction
“He said it’s the alternator. Said it’s gonna cost about 400 dollars.”
There’s a hint of hesitation in her voice as she relays the information to me over the phone. She knew what I’m going to say before she even made the call.
“Tell him no thanks. I’ll take care of it.”
My wife has very little faith in my ability to fix things. Like many wives, she thinks of me as a well-meaning, but bumbling shut-in she’s deemed to worthy to take in, love and rehabilitate.
“He says he doesn’t think that’s a very good idea. He says a car is a complex piece of machinery.”
I debate on asking her to relay my thoughts on what the mechanic thinks, but opt instead to have my lovely wife give our regards and bring her car home like she should have in the first place.
A few hours and a run to the parts store later, I’m lying on a rubber mat under her car. I wasn’t lucky enough to have one with a top posted alternator. A small part of me now wishes I had just let her pay the mechanic so I could spend my Saturday in a hammock drinking something fruity and alcoholic. The rest of me, however, relishes the opportunity to rub my better half’s nose in the fact that I am not nearly as incompetent as she likes to tell her friends.
As the bolts come out and the drive belt pops loose, I hear my little one plop down on the ground next to me and silently sidle on next to me under the car. Mikey doesn’t say a word. He just stares as I pull the busted alternator from it’s mount. Even with my industrial fan blowing, it’s 95 degrees and I’m sweating my ass off, yet the boy just lays there paying perfect attention. After a few minutes, it’s clear he isn’t going anywhere.
“Michael.”
“Yes, Daddy?” He lights up at the sound of his name. He’d apparently been waiting for me to acknowledge him, to include him in what I’m doing.
“You see my tool bag over there?” He nods. “I want you to go over there and grab my spare goggles and my 15 millimeter wrench. It’ll say the number 15 on the side.”
Mikey drags himself out from under the car and runs over to the bag. I can hear him fiddling in the bag, trying to find his quarry. After a minute he runs back over to me. “Is this it daddy?” Pulling myself up, I see the wrench cradled in his little hand. I nod to him and the smile comes back to his face. The goggles hang loosely by his side. I take them from him and put them on his face, tightening the strap on the back.
“It doesn’t fit!” I have to stifle a laugh as the oversized goggles cover half of his undersized face. It may as well be a mask. You can’t laugh though. This is important.
“It’ll do. The goggles will keep the car dust out of your eyes. You’re ready now.” I muss his hair, rubbing a little grease in it. His Mother will yell at me later for getting him greasy, but it’s worth it. Boys have to get a little dirt on them. It’s in the handbook.
We push ourselves back to our original positions beneath the car. He gets quiet again, not making a peep except for a brief question about how cars get dust on the inside. I show him the drive belt, the wires, how the alternator fits in and what it all does. He listens and nods and “uh-huh’s” like everything I say makes sense. Something about your 8 year old son’s attention has a way of making you feel like you’re every bit as smart as you tell people you are.
“Daddy?” He pauses; the next question has weight with him. “Where did you learn how to fix cars?”
The question washes over me. Suddenly it’s 20 year ago, and I’m exactly Mikey. “Your Grandfather showed me. Started when I was just about your age.” I was just exactly Mikey. But my old man was hardly me. He knew what he was doing, where as I just pretend and imitate him.
“What else did he teach you?” He asks in that way that children do, where they’re genuinely interested and not just making conversation.
“Oh… lots of stuff. Your Grand-dad… he could fix and build and do just about everything.” Some days I’m not sure if that’s an exaggeration. Seems there wasn’t a project that came his way my old man couldn’t handle. He could build houses, fix cars and motorcycles, cook dinner and tie a bow tie. I once saw him switch boat trailers by jury rigging a pulley system in our garage to lift his boat into the air and replace the trailer beneath it. I wondered why he didn’t simply take the boat down to the river and switch them out there. That wasn’t his way though. He enjoyed pulling things apart; figuring them out. I’ve often wondered, given proper incentive, if he might have been an inventor or a scientist in another life.
Sometimes his friends would bring him something he didn’t know how to fix; a boat engine, for instance. And I’d ask him how he was going to fix something he didn’t know how. “We learn by doing.” he’d always say.
It takes longer to put the new alternator in than taking it out. Properly explaining things to my son is time consuming. In between I occasionally hear my wife open the door, look at our dangling feet, shake her head in annoyance and go back in. Later on I’ll explain to her why it was necessary to keep her little boy underneath that dirty car. That’s how he’s going to learn.
The alternator goes in without a hitch, and I’m just about done tightening the last bolt when I realize I’ve forgotten the most important part.
“Mikey, I need your help!” His eyes widen in surprise; his Dad has never needed his help before. I pull him closer alongside me, nearer to where the wrench is. “This bolt needs to be really tight. I need you to grab the wrench with me and help me tighten it.” He puts his little hand on mine and pushes down where I push, as I feign exaggerated noises of struggle. His noises aren’t so feigned. He’s sweaty and dirty and tired. In a little while he’ll be cranky and damn near impossible to put up with. It doesn’t matter. He needs to learn. And he’ll learn by doing.
I forget that mostly. That lesson. There are moments when I’m trying in vain to get the lawnmower to work or fixing the sheetrock on the ceiling and I realize I’m in way over my head. In those moments I wonder if I’ll ever be half the Dad… half the man he was. Did he die before he gave me the most important answers? Did he forget to give me the rosetta stone that explained all the things I don’t understand before he went? And will I one day leave Mikey with these same questions and insecurities?
And then I remember what he said. And realize maybe my Dad wasn’t Superman. Maybe he had the exact same questions. But he learned. Just like I’ll learn. And one day Michael will learn too.
We learn by doing.
Copyright 2010, Adam Relayson- writer, creator and owner.
*writer’s note: Today was Father’s Day. I spent it with my Dad moving my Mom’s stuff into her new house and putting up TV’s on walls. My old man never fails to amaze me with all the things he knows how to do. It’s like an instinct for him; one I lack in whole. This story is for him, though he’ll never read it. I hope you enjoy it.
… and yes, the boat story is true.
-Adam
