The Private Mechanic

"What makes you think you can write anything good," he says and glares over in my direction with a stern expression on his face. Then his lips part and his eyes open wide with that same blank stare that is too familiar to me now that I'm older. He looks back down at the table in front of him. There is a cigarette in the ashtray beside him. The smoke is rising from it, gradually, and he reaches for it. I say nothing in response, so he leaves the table from where he's hunched over and goes to the mounted engine stand behind him.

He puts the cigarette in his mouth, and it hangs from his lower lip. His blue coveralls are stained in engine grease, and a few dark blotches on his trousers won't come out in the wash. A dab of grease is smeared on the left side of his forehead and there are some patches where the coveralls are ripped. And a blue cloud of smoke encircles him as if he were an ancient dragon from a lost military generation, immersed in thought; and from where I stand next to the car jack, I can smell the putrid brand. It makes me nauseous. But, it was his intention to change out the timing belt today, and he's been staring at it whilst pondering the next logical step in the disassembly. The belt shows some signs of wear and tear; there are a few cracks along its length, even though the odometer hasn't clocked beyond the recommendation set in the service manual. He then takes a drag from the cigarette and looks closely at the engine hoist, in front of him, in contemplation. I await his instruction.

"Nie jest zle dzis — trochę pochmurno. Better today when the temperature is nice... than in the middle of winter,” he begins after the long pause. “If the belt fails and the valves warp... well, so much for your damn, stinking, Volvo. So, we've got no choice but to do it today," he says, as if to himself, without looking over in my direction. He says it as if he doesn't give a damn either way, because he doesn't. "The best plan, in this case, would be to get the work done before the mróz," he warns.

The garage door, which opens from the bottom, is slightly open; and the light from the sun is beaming through the crack. It's usually open to let the exhaust out the tailpipe hose, in the event he does start up a car and let it run. Otherwise, the curtains over the windows prevent the natural light from coming in; so, the fluorescent lights in the garage are always on. He hates the natural light shining on his face, he curses it. With the flick of the switch by the door... the LED lights come on, one lamp after another, along with the radio in the far corner cupboard; which happens to be wired so that it turns on at the same time. It's playing softly in the background right this very minute, as he smothers the butt of his cigarette, and I hear him pick up the ratchet from beside the engine.

He estimates the correct attachment that he'll need for the job and then quickly finds a deep socket for it before moving over to the frame of the car, near the jack. I shuffled over to the table as he barked, "Odsuń się, miglanc," on his way over, whilst giving me a nudge. To get under the car he bends down onto a piece of cardboard, for his knees. The engine mount is damaged and he wants to have another look. He asks for a 10 mm open socket and I hand him the right tool from the table.

"I've had these tools for years," he mumbles when I asked about how long he's had them. A few of the tools were wrapped in cloth and thus free from all sorts of dust and grime. And a few of these are even enclosed in wooden boxes, with labels. He's often pointed out, that he's had some of these specific ones since the day I was born, and he tells me to close the toolbox drawer so it doesn't get in his way; for he's lost count of the number of times he's banged his head on an open drawer. I retrieve the ratchet when he's done with it, without a word from him, and I place it back in its place. For, he'll lose his mind if it's not in the exact same spot when he comes looking for it again.

"Daj swiatło. Tylko nie świeć mi w oczy, ty gówniarzu. Of course, directly in my eyes again — you've just got to shine the bloody thing directly in my eyes, haven't you?" His eyes are wide open again, with a distinct hostile tone in his voice. It's the same tone that lets me know things are not going well for him, under the hood of the car. I'm the scapegoat. I rotate the trouble light so that the metal plate adjacent to the bulb is preventing glare. But, the tool slips off the bolt that he's wrenching on and he curses a series of eloquent profanities. "You're shining the light in my eyes again," he growls, suddenly.

"Yes, yes, it's my fault," I growl back; and then I bite my tongue and go quiet again. The most loathsome aspect of assisting him... is the constant b*tching — that, and the waves of cigarette smoke that fill the garage at intervals, and make me gag. As soon as he's put one out, he reaches for another. Then, when things aren't going his way, he loses it — which makes him cough and become short of breath. "Gdzie jest ten jebany inżiner. Taki madry... ale wcale nie. Zabije go. Zastrzelę go jak pies. And, six hours of labour! For what? Daj numer do niego... jebanego." Now furious, and wheezing, with his eyes beginning to water, he reaches for the cigarette pack again — the top pocket of his jumpsuit, just below where his name is embroidered — and pulls out another fag. He lights it and takes a drag.

It's not a particularly tough job. I could do it, but that wouldn't matter; he has to do it. He has to do it, because, he wants to be as irreplaceable as possible, like the very tools he's had since my birth; and, I suspect, because he doesn't think I'm capable. Of course, he's seen me make a few mistakes. There's common sense and then there's just plain mechanical ignorance. Of course, there was that one time when I was using the impact gun on a bolt and there was too much torque, and, well, I broke the head off it. I didn't tell him. But it only infuriated him further when he discovered my mistake. He slides out from under the car and groans. Then he waltzes over to the engine mount again... and puts the palm with the cigarette on the head gasket and rests.

The cigarette ash is so long that it's about to break off and fall over the side of the engine, but I wait for a response. "Well, go right ahead and write your damn book, what do I care. You should've gone to a technical college, like me. I slept at the damn table and made fun of the instructor when he called me up to the front of the class and I still got the right answer. But you went and listened to your mother. Good luck!" He says.