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| brojsimpson.com |
I’m not what you’d call a handy person. I have hands, two of them, and I use them in
the fashion that society deems appropriate.
But
when it comes to using those hands to fix things in and around the house, well,
that isn’t what you’d call a strong suit.
I like
to dabble though. When something minor breaks, I’ll usually pull out my jar of
elbow grease and at least attempt to fix whatever it is that needs a-fixin’.
And I’ll
apply that kinda-can-do attitude with my car whenever possible.
I know
nothing about cars or how they work. If I opened the hood of my car and saw a
team of hamsters in tracks suits poised on wheels, waiting for a larger hamster
holding a tiny pistol to pull the trigger, I would not be surprised.
However, getting your car repaired
is very expensive. So anytime my car has an issue that seems doable, like it
needs gas or oil or hamster food, well, I’ll roll up my sleeves, tuck my pant
legs into my socks and give it a whirl.
And hell, there’s something quite
satisfying about tinkering with your car.
Maybe it appeals to that
prehistoric part of a man’s brain. The part that gets mocked on network sitcoms
because it refuses to ask for directions, preferring rather to starve to death
on America’s interstate system on its own merit, then find shelter with the
help of another person.
That’s also the same part of a
caveman’s brain that, when his foot-powered car broke, insisted on popping the
hood and taking a look-see.
Now cars and caveman culture may
not be my strong suits, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.
The other day I noticed one of my
headlights had burned out. My first reaction was to curse god and the heavens
for dumping this travesty upon me when nothing bad ever happened to anyone else
in the world.
Once I’d settled down, I gained
some perspective on the issue. Maybe a burned out headlight didn’t rank that
highly on the list of the worst things that have ever happened to human kind.
As my outlook cleared, I also saw
the opportunity to get my hands dirty. After all, changing a headlight met my
very strict standards of the kind of car maintenance I’ll attempt: If I messed
up, the car should still go.
I went out and bought a replacement
headlight bulb, which is harder than you think because there are a ton of
different kinds of headlight bulbs. With
the help of the nice man at Pep Boys (finally managed to override the caveman
brain after standing in the aisle and staring for 10 minutes or so) I found the
bulb I needed.
Bulb in hand, I was set to do my
Megan Fox from “Transformers” impression: Don my short shorts and lean
seductively over the exposed engine of something.
But I had something to do that
night so I put it off until the next day, just like that old saying encourages.
Trouble was, the next day was quite
literally the coldest day the world has ever experienced. It was so cold that
when Dennis Quaid’s son called him from New York to say he was in trouble,
Quaid pretended like he was on his cell phone and was about to head into a
tunnel.
Despite the temperatures, I ducked
out of work while the sun was up, wandered across the parking lot with a mind
to quickly change the bulb. I had a screw driver, I had a bulb, I had an owner’s
manual (caveman brain not happy).
Unfortunately, the screw driver was
not the tool one needed for that kind of operation. Also, the owner’s manual
was lacking on some key details. After standing with the hood open for ages, my
body and soul numbed by the fearsome cold, I gave up and drove home with my
high beams on.
Then I put the process off for the
rest of the week, because it was always dark and stuff by the time I got home
and stiff and tinkering was sort of a daytime activity.
I didn’t fritter away the week
though. Whenever my caveman brain was off thinking about saber tooth tigers, I studied
the owner’s manual and watched videos online. That way, when the weekend – the
time god himself designated for tinkering – came, I’d be ready.
So on Saturday I went out in the
driving rain, proper tools in hand.
The battle between man and machine
was fierce that day. It was similar if not identical to the fight scene from
the final “Matrix” movie. And like the final “Matrix” movie, when it was over, for
reasons I didn’t fully understand, everything seemed OK.
There are no words to describe the
flood of pride that coursed through me when I turned the dial in my car and both
headlights lit up bright. Sure, changing a light bulb is very nearly the
smallest victory you can achieve in the world of car maintenance.
But it didn’t matter. If there had
been a saber tooth tiger around, I would have punched it right in the face and
then bought it a shot of whiskey.
Like a man.
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