A gray cloud of vapor, oil, and smoke engulfs me as I open the hood. The billow pushes its way past me escaping into the afternoon sky. I lean in to examine the state of things, cussing away lingering wisps of exhalation that still cling to the engine.
The truck’s logo on the block cover taunts me as I try to work. Vehicles from a few decades ago were much easier to do roadside repairs on. You used to be able to see the valve cover and spark plugs, but now the engine components are covered in plastic and a pain to access. Don’t worry about doing it yourself, just bring it to the dealership and let the Corporation handle it.
I had just finished high school the last time a vehicle of mine broke down on the road. I had to walk two miles to the nearest payphone to call my buddy Allen. He’d been driving a cab for over twenty years and probably knew a good roadside service. But when I asked, he said a tow truck would be a waste of money and that he’d come out there to fix it himself. According to him, he was good with cars, because he spent so much time in them. I told him I didn’t think vehicle repair was the same as driving them. Again he insisted, so I obliged him.
The afternoon sun had grown weary and its slow nod into the horizon had begun by the time he pulled up to my sedan. On his passenger seat were a few bags filled with tools still in their plastic packaging. I asked him if he had ever done this before. He assured me he had.
I watched as Allen mumbled to himself, tinkering with the car. The sun, yawning, sunk deeper into the covers of the horizon as I waited.
I hugged my jacket tight as I kept the flashlight trained on whatever he was looking at next. He’d revisit spots over and over again, somehow finding something new to diagnose. Eventually he stopped and stood still, contemplating with his hands folded behind his back as if I should arrest him for his auto repair ignorance. For a while the only thing said was the dull whine of the hand crank on my emergency flashlight.
“If this was a 70s General Motors I’d have you on your way by now” he said. “They just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
I agreed, but told him that it wasn’t helpful right now.
“What would’ve been helpful is if you would’ve given me the number for a tow company in the first place.”
He didn’t say anything back, but I could tell I’d hurt him more than I meant to. I apologized as we got into his car and drove back to the payphone.
That was over twenty years ago. Now I was elbow deep in my truck on the shoulder of the highway. A pile of various plastic engine coverings lay next to me in the shadows of the tall grass. I am able to troubleshoot with ease now that the engine is unwrapped. I finger a few things and find that the timing belt is loose.
I check the tensioner; it isn't as tight as it should be. An oversight by an overworked union assemblyperson. Easy enough fix. With the proper socket in hand I lean in as far as I can, but struggle to get the wrench to sit on the bolt head. I reposition myself and go at it again. I stand on my toes and bend deep into the vehicle’s chassis; my rear end waving to anyone driving by. The increased angle of attack does the trick and I’m able to tighten everything up.
I steady myself back up right, but something feels off. My pants are soaking wet and orange fluid has begun pooling around my sneakers. I look back into the subframe and see the radiator hose I’ve knocked loose draining onto the asphalt below.
I take out my cell phone and call a roadside service. They say it will be a few hours, so I dial Allen to see how retirement is treating him. I wonder if he can hear the coolant squish inside my shoes?