Greased Lightning

Seems like it's that time of the year again.

For owners of vehicles - and that would mean quite a number of grown-up boys out there ( unlike some who insist on taking the public transport forever and ever i.e. Charming Calvin ), regular visits to the mechanic for car servicing remains one of the burdensome chores that we must all bear. Like all man-made machines, every car has its own peculiar idiosyncrasies.

Mine decided to fritz out the air-conditioner this morning. Therefore making the trip to the mechanic imperative especially in the sweltering summer heat.

No doubt the old bugger was rubbing his hands with glee at the thought. Coincidentally it seemed that my regular mechanic had a particular talent for air-conditioners on strike and told me he'd have them at the table talking terms soon enough so I sat me down with some old magazines and enjoyed the view of the dank, grimy workshop.


Hard at work under the hood...
My pot-bellied mechanic disappeared into the back, yelling some brief unrepeatable orders to his proteges. Oddly enough though there were hardly any female mechanics that I could see. No Rosie Riveters around these parts, that's for sure.

Women's lib certainly hadn't extended its reach here - and for once I was glad especially when I saw a particularly tempting specimen clad in stained blue jeans stalk out of the back with spanner ( or whatcamacallit ) in hand. Looked at me with some recognition in his eyes, claimed to be a student of my father's and extended his greased paw in greeting.

Mechanic Jr : I've found the problem, sir.
Paul : Call me Paul.
Mechanic Jr : You see the compressor coil gadget thingie has been hitting the engine piston gizmo. You hear that clanging sound? It comes from here. See this?
Paul : I see darkness.
Mechanic Jr : No, look here. That fancy metal doodad under that revolving doohickey?

Mechanic Jr used the proper words of course but I'll be damned if I can recall since I was too busy gazing at his perky pecs. Of course I'd also hoped that he would have left me at hello - leaving me to drool over the post-adolescent man-boy in peace but after noticing my growing excitement, the enthusiastic Mechanic Jr had an inexplicable need to explain the entire convoluted workings of the automobile to me.

Honestly, it's like a secret language that only adult ( heterosexual? ) males can understand, an esoteric combination of meaningful nods, shared pseudo-laughter and occasional mumblings about mysterious thingamajigs. Not to mention a number of brotherly pats on the back.

No doubt akin to the lengthy conversations I have with my puzzled patients as I tentatively describe the workings of the human cardiovascular system.

I probably resembled one of those dumb, nodding dolls you find on jittery dashboards. Poor Mechanic Jr seemed so engrossed with his detailed commentary that I hadn't the heart to tell him that all I wanted to do was play with his gearshift.

Mechanic Jr : So I think we'll have to change this electromagnetic thingamabob.
Paul : Not a problem. Now could you just lemme take a look under your hood and play with your buttons?
Mechanic Jr : OMG. Help.

What can I say? After ten minutes or so of indiscriminate ogling, even the greasy youthful mechanic was looking entirely palatable - and I vaguely wondered if the backroom was available for some improviso oil wrestling. Then I recall that he's my father's student ( practically blood brothers in the jaundiced eye of the Confucian Chinese ) and my horrified mind hastily shifted gear.

No need to risk inciting gay panic in Mechanic Jr - especially since he held a pretty big spanner in hand.