EMPLOYEES ONLY

The cars in your blood.

My pops started a shop on Edison Highway because he liked cars, but more than that he liked talking to people about their cars. He said cars are like shoes, and working on them is like walking in them. He called it the ConverseStation because folks would sit there and yap with him while he was underneath wrenching. It was an old brick garage that stuck out like a sore thumb; red blocks hiding underneath years of baked on dust. You couldn’t see it though, it was covered with grape vines. It looked like a cave, with the bay door open, in the middle of the jungle. It was probably the only thing for miles that survived the 52 quake. He swore the grape vines held it together.

He used to take me on Saturdays because mom worked, and we’d fix up the cars together. He’d tighten down the lugs, bzzzrt rat-a-tat-tat chshck, and I’d follow behind him, click, click, click. I still have his Miller Falls. Don’t have my old Fisher Price anymore. I was 5 then.

Showed me at 12 how to rebuild an Edelbrock carb that turned to stone. He had the tremor then. What gas was left in the bowl splashed across his hands and bench as he broke the gasket seal. I thought the damn needles would vibrate out. He’d use the wrong jets on purpose just to make me look up the charts and correct him. I thought he was losing his mind, but I know better now. He lost his mind later.

Shops been mine for 40 years now. I love cars, reminds me of my dad. I just don’t like people. I hate the stupid name, but I can’t change it. It’s not mine.

Plumbism. I thought it meant something about pipes. I guess in a way, it did. The nurse wasn’t saying he did a good job fixing her car. She was saying it was in his blood.

I never could figure anyone by working their car. Didn’t stop me from judging them though. Not because of the car, just because. I thought people wore them more like clothes. The car always looked like them, like people look like their spouse or dog. They all had problems, or else they wouldn’t be here. This one was no different. Beamer that lugged around. Never seen her stop talking, even when I’m trying to get a word in her mouth’s still moving. Bet she’s too busy talking to herself to press the gas pedal.

“You wouldn’t believe the sell they were giving me! Drop it off for a week, and then a whole week to remove the engine and fix it! They had pictures, can you believe it? Pictures! Of 4 guys with the engine in the air!”.

Carrie was standing on the wrong side of a “EMPLOYEES ONLY PAST THIS SIGN” sign, where she’d been pacing for the last two hours. I’d have it ready for her Monday afternoon and she’d just need to drop it off, but she forgot that dropping meant leaving.

“I still don’t get what the transmission has to do with the timing chain. Isn’t the timing chain on the engine? You’d think they’d put in a place easier to get to! It’s almost like they do it on purpose!”

I considered for a moment sliding out the other side of the car and crawling out the back. “I already told you Carrie. It’s on the back of the engine. Taking out the tranny’s a lot less work than taking out the engine. That’s all. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Need me to give you a ride home?”

“Oh no Jake’ll pick me up he’ll be here any minute. He’s…”

“Really no trouble at all, I need to run by, where is it you live?”

“9 holes in the morning but he gets up early…”

“Dammit Carrie do you mind?”

“Oh look new customers! Hello there I’m Carrie! Oh no I don’t work here you’ll have to ask him about it… I don’t know what an EGR system is… other side of what sign?”

I raised my hand to block the morning sun. My pre-judgement evaluation: a couple and a baby with a white mini van with a few years on it; A little premature, but if there was ever a utilitarian buyer, it was new parents. Still looked like their van somehow.

I found my old pump oil can that had in big letters SAE 5W-30 sharpied onto the tin. For show, I gave a couple of pumps pretending to lubricate near the rear tire. Thin streams of golden brown oil fell on the ground. Then five long pumps into my mouth. The couple’s mouths dropped as they watched and then followed the oil can down to my waist. I put on my biggest smile and “How you folks doing this morning? What can I do fer ya?”

Carrie was guffawing; the sign held her up. She found her balance, still chuckling and with a dismissive wave said “Don’t let old Winston get to you. He puts coffee in it!” She laughed again. “He just likes to put on a show, it’s part of the val-ue prop-o-si-tion!” she said with a straight face and elbows swinging abruptly each way with each syllable. I gave her my meanest scowl. She burst out again.

“Well, gig’s up, I guess. Want some?” I asked, holding up the oil can.

They were young, still young enough they take the baby out of the car seat every time they get out. “First time?” I waved the oil can towards the van.

“First time?” they repeated together.

“Jinx!” I yelled. “First time smogging?” He nodded, she was staring now. “Here let me see the slip. The fail report.” I reached out, and I kid you not, he started handing me the baby. She was scowling at him now and he corrected his mistake. She held the baby while he fished the paper out of his wallet, folded up into 8 neat squares, and placed it in my waiting hand.

“They said the EGR System failed on the scanner and I’d have to drop it off for them to diagnose…”

“Bad EGR valve. Tuesday afternoon and I’ll swap it out and retest. Smogs on the house, an apology for the system working the way it’s intended. It’ll take an hour.”

“Jake’s here, thank you Winston! I’ll be back Monday.”

“Wait! I’ll call you when it’s ready!”

“Oh don’t worry, Jake’ll drop me off on the way to work and I’ll just wait!” she said with a smile that if, if I didn’t know better, might have been on purpose.

“Do we need an appointment?” the father asked as Jake ripped out and Carrie squealed.

“Nah it’s fine, just come by and I’ll take care of it.” I turned back to the Beamer and they took their cue to leave. I liked this couple.

I slid back under the transmission. She was giving him an earful as they drove off and I went under. They’d be back. Or they wouldn’t. Metal on my skin, silence in my ears, here a bolt, there a bolt, everywhere a bolt bolt.

She’s right. They do it on purpose. There isn’t a mechanical reason in heaven or beyond for a timing chain to live between the block and tranny. If you asked it the chain would say “keep me on the front and adjust me often!” It would wave at you every time you check the oil.

10 years after we turned that rock into an Edelbrock, they replaced carbs with computers. That damn computer is measurably better in every category except the one that matters. You pay for the computer, but it owns you now. The carburetor, you own that. You can fix it yourself; hell you don’t need anything more than a screwdriver and cardboard.

It didn’t stop at the computer. It got easier for a minute, but never better. Then came the diagnostic ports and networking modules, the bond between man and car was severed. Today it’s downright predatory. You need a computer to install a computer, everything’s a computer now, to tell the main computer not to ignore it. But I’m no Gale Banks, and neither are you. I just like cars.

The transmission came out and no one bothered me. It was in good shape and wouldn’t need any care. The gentle driving babied the tranny and ruined the timing chain. I ran my finger across the seal journal to check for wear. New seal would mount fine. I spent the better part of the day replacing the timing chain. The pistons and valves performed the timeless ballet that they still haven’t figured out how to ruin.

The sun was gone. The overhead bulb cast shadows that disappeared into the corners and under chests. The vines above the garage door rustled. Cars disappeared and reappeared behind the silhouette of the “EMPLOYEES ONLY PAST THIS SIGN.” I wondered, for a moment, if turning the sign around would keep Carrie on the other side, and thought, what the hell, so I turned it around. I seriously considered finishing the job so it’d be ready Monday morning when she arrived. I would have once, but I’m old now, so I turned the bulb off and let the shadows take their shift.

There’s still a farm on the east side of the shop. Red grapes they sell at the grocery store and I-don’t-know-where-else. Great big sign that screams Buy Local. They’re good. Mine don’t get any grapes, just big leaves. I hear people eat them, maybe I can get a spot in the store with my own Buy Local sign. The houses on the west side are having babies faster than makes sense. Computers on the tractor, computers in the houses, computers on the lift in the shop in between the other computers.

I collapsed into my 1950 not-computer Ford F1. It had the same not-a-rock-anymore Edelbrock my Dad put the wrong jets in five decades ago. I turned down Edison towards my half-acre farm house that had only 120v and a different tribe of houses eating their way through almond trees. I was too old to put the tranny back it but too young to go home on a Saturday night and turned into a parking lot that didn’t have lights across the patio, or corn hole, or windows. As I parked, I could faintly hear tonight’s kids who thought they were Bakersfield Country’s revival. I walked across the parking lot like I had wrestled a transmission all day, and when I opened the door I drank it in. The music was good. I liked it. They don’t have a chance.

“Beer Winston?” Sharon said.

“Yeah but put it in a wine glass. I want to feel sophisticated tonight.”

She laughed. “We got a new one. From Chico, want to try it?”

“What’s it called?”

“Hops-o-saur-us-rex. It’ll take a bite out of you! That’s what it says on the marketing promo anyway. I like it.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Just a beer, Sharon, for the love of The Almighty.”

“Suit yourself.” She handed me a beer in a wine glass.

“Damnit you know I was joking about the wine glass.”

“Customer’s always right! Hey Winston, can I ask you something?” She didn’t wait for a yes. “Why you always sit at a different bar stool?”

“Well the way I figure, I gotta have some change in my life. Different bar stool keeps things exciting. That’s enough for me.”