Recent Automotive Repair

My hand lingered there near the ignition switch, key turgid and aimed. Heavy, back dread was soon replaced with a solid sense of relief as I pushed the key home and turned it clockwise, the engine quickly spinning to life, babbling a satisfied and healthy idle.

I did a quick victory dance, stainless steel container of vodka fizzy in one hand, raised high above my head, and after checking under the vehicle for leaks, I turned the engine off. "You genius, you!" I congratulated myself. "You're GOOD."

I still had puddles of coolant and oil to mop up, but I was otherwise finished: 48 solid hours to change a timing belt in a 2001 Nissan X-Terra without benefit of prior experience, reference material, or a mentor of any degree, and the entire time I was holding steady or fluctuating just above a blood- alcohol level at least five times that of the legal definition of 'drunk'. It was just like college.

In college, my days in University, I would never actually go to my classes, instead sleeping in or hustling a few doughnuts someplace, or (later) drinking, but I would responsibly show up for almost every exam, turn in most every assigned paper, and without ever reading the required texts or witnessing the lectures, I would effortlessly pass nearly all classes with a "C".

The way the Nissan sounded though, I would have given myself at least a "B" on this one. A grade of "A" missed only because of a latent belt squeaking that was easily remedied.

My client, Miss W, had just arrived two days earlier for the six hour job. Since she wanted to suit up and help, I scheduled eight to ten hours into the week for this chore.

Not long before her arrival, however, my Opthomologist had shown up unexpected and hungry.

The time should be spent now to describe the geometry of my eye doctor, it is important to this story. At only five foot two he weighs in at nearly three hundred pounds. He is not "fat" in the traditional sense, although he is wide. My Opthamologist, Edward, could be drawn accurately on paper using only a pencil and a compass. Using a series of circles of varying diameter, his head and arms are attached to his body, much like those of a snowman. The only straight lines employed describe his legs, two toothpicks stabbed into the Earth, impossibly supporting the abomination above. The whole mess was, as always, tightly encased in black fabrics several sizes too small, threatening to rip or burst at their very seams.

It should be noted that Edward's perfectly round skull is always shaved clean, and his mouth hole is surrounded by a perfectly round jet-black goatee, often containing remnants of previous meals. His eyebrows are Jack-O-Lantern's peaked triangles, but composed of black fur. Edward's wardrobe consists only of three favorite items from the 1985 Calvin Klein Collection, and more often than not, his black leather jacket. That is, if he has elected to wear any clothing at all. This particular day was hot, and Edward wore only one item from his wardrobe, his tiny black pants, covering the stilettos of his legs.

I employed quotations when I used the word "fat" to describe Edward, as he is actually not fat, despite whatever medical chart this may contradict. Bloated and round? Yes. But oddly, even when he weighs only 120 lbs, he appears the same. At a glance, you see only a gargantuan expanse of flesh, but if you have the nerve to take a second, longer look, (and maybe a feel or poke) you would find his belly is as tight as a drum and inexplicably muscular. His tan corpus maximus is riddled with pulsing, visible veins. His eyes are always asquint with laughter, or hidden behind the finest and most expensive sunglasses money can buy. He is a demented, cherubic, Jewish Mr. Clean, crossed with the Angel of Death, crossed again with a circus midget.

I tell you this because you should know that a person needs to be ready, or warned at least, before meeting Edward in anything other than his professional setting, and even then I believe his nurses distribute a flier warning of his appearance and dimensions before his patients actually meet him face to face.

So I was able to stand my ground with only momentary fear, as a giant black Mercedes sedan pulled up to my garage, expelling Edward like some dark, new planet being belched from a distant galaxy aimed right towards me. The menacing celestial body of my eye doctor was immediately followed by a similarly described hairy and drooling, afterbirth named Beatrice. His black Pitbull sidekick, convincingly playing the role of lunar satellite to Edward's planetary mass.

As stated, initially I experienced fear, but I soon recognized his form as friendly. I stepped forward to meet his arrival and I tried, in vain, to reach my arms around him in a friendly embrace of welcome.

I naturally asked Edward if he would like to borrow a shirt (in case he left his somewhere, and to prevent a panic in my neighborhood in the event he was seen) to which he shortly barked "No!"

Alright. I'm not going to argue.

Backs were slapped, pleasantries exchanged, accommodations arranged. This was to be his vacation. It was July and hot, and tight black pants were not entirely practical, but always in fashion.