“Rural living. Mechanics are everything, out here. And as vehicles get smarter, we get dumber, & even more prone to helplessness. But that relationship between the local garage and my life, has never and will never change. It’s the difference between getting to work, and to groceries, or being stuck at home. I’ve had to finagle wildly, to stay mobile. Further afield, I’ve been confronted by and forced into sketchy transactions, related to my vehicle. Once, driving thru Ottawa, my truck overheated, and I was pretty much at the mercy of anyone who pulled over. The guy fixed my problem, all right, but wanted a payment that involved my body. I had kids in the car, which made it all the more absurd. But the fear of being stranded, and taken advantage of, is real. Another time, I was out west, on reservation land. It was cold, and the automatic windows, wouldn’t shut. I spent hours, wondering what the outcome would be, as I loitered, beside the tiny outpost service station, where no one was friendly. I felt very white, very young, and very vulnerable. That was a case, of dodging a bullet. No one did anything to hurt me, in the end. I still couldn’t tell you, how much of it I merely imagined. Yet another time, I slid into a ditch, in the middle of winter, on a dead end road, at night. I was in the wrong place, having got my directions wrong, and the doors I could actually knock on, were limited. I think I’ve blocked the outcome of that, and put it behind me. Which brings me back to the ones who took my business, in my own home towns. One in particular, seemed really personable, and would always chat me up for as long as possible. He did other things for me, because I didn’t know who else to ask. I liked him, sort of. He was willing to bring an excavator by, to dig out a row of Russian Olive trees. that I couldn’t dig out by hand. He also showed me how to move a wood stove, alone, using leverage. Not that I ever went on to do that, but he did it, and for me, it meant the difference between being warm, or more struggle caring for my kids. He didn’t ask for payment. Just tried to kiss me once, and I later I heard he did that with other single moms, including a friend of mine named Janet. After he retired, he acted like he didn’t know me. I got the message. It’s a transactional universe. I moved, and moved on to new mechanics, a bit farther afield. If a place has a waiting room, and a wifi connection, I’m good for hours. I’ll sit and wait, if its warm, and I can work online. But going back a bit, I’d like to remember some special treatment I got, at yet another body shop. I’d been dating a guy, an ex-boxer, who had a friendship with another guy, who was a master craftsman, in all things automotive. His shop had been known for decades, as “Just Escorts”. This had a few layers of meaning, to those who knew him. He was kind of a rogue and pretty obviously tough, as they come. It made the hair bristle on the back of my neck, when I had dealings with him. But I liked him, and my friend was the best sort of person you’d want to meet in a back alley. Both of them I would have trusted, in a flood, or an invasion. I don’t know how I’ve been so lucky, if you look at it from this angle. The Chevy truck this man sold me has been a godsend. I didn’t really know how to thank him. He drove it up from a dealership in New Hampshire in an ice storm, and I went to pick it up in a blizzard. When I got there, the truck was sitting in the empty lot, running, lights blazing, in the absolute dark of pre-solstice early winter. I sat in the driver’s seat, while he took me through that basics. I paid him in cash. I don’t know what it is about this type of old school mechanic, but it humbled me. They’ve been in the thick of a lot of mess. And still, they want to help, as if wired up to heaven, with a chassis forged from gold.”
