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NUTS & BOLTS
Chapter 1 -- The First Days

Copyright © 1996, Orlando Vidali. All Rights Reserved.

It really isn't that difficult to meet a mechanic and my first run in with this class of workman was fairly typical. Our car broke down. One minute we were chugging along (I say "chugging" because, contrary to the vehement arguments of my dad, that car was a piece of junk) and then BLAM!!! something broke. Being absolutely illiterate when it came to cars I could only watch and wait as the tow truck dragged poor "Old Faithful" (an antonym of the reality) away.

We lived in Descanso at the time, a few wee miles away from Alpine. These names probably mean nothing to you, but to me they mean home. Forty miles east of San Diego, in a tiny nook of the Cleveland Forest, a couple of brave souls had made their dwelling in the "wilderness." Alpine, the neighboring town, was steadily growing, and just showing signs of civilization's advance, marked by the latest edition to modern architecture: a Carl's Jr's. Descanso had one store, one gas pump, a miniscule library (proudly the second smallest nationwide), and a post office.

Like most small towns, Descanso's main charm was its delightful community politics. Please understand that I am being highly sarcastic. An eccentric guru who stereotypically claimed to "understand it all" was at the peak of his reign when we moved into our new cozy neighborhood. His group of followers were as devoted to him as any zealots, which made our skepticism of his ideas completely out of place, but despite a few confrontations we lived relatively peacefully.

Well, back to the story: so our car broke down. I was completely disgusted, after spending the entire morning standing in an overcrowded church. I wanted to go home! But no such luck. The manager of the Texaco station we had been pulled into came out to the car as my dad walked to meet him. He was only twenty five or so.

"Sorry about your car, sir," he said, shrugging apologetically, "but we have no room here. We're backed up for days. The best I can offer is for you to leave your car here and we'll look at it when we have time."

Dad cast Mom a weary look. It had been a long day.

"And when do you think I could get it back?" Dad asked (he was very emotionally attached to his car).

"At the least several days."

"Several days?! I need to go to work tomorrow!!"

The manager, obviously embarrassed with his present predicament, shifted his feet.

"That's the absolute best I can do," he replied, reluctantly.

Frustrated, my Dad turned away. Great! This was just great! We had completely blown the next couple of days.

Dad turned back to the manager, "Is there anywhere else we can take it?"

"Yeah!" (a way out!) "About five miles from here in Flinn Springs there's a mechanic. His name's Bob Rowsell. He mostly does classics, but I'm sure he could help you out."

"Fantastic! If you give me his address we'll give him a try."

So back into the tow truck we hopped and followed the gracious manager's directions into Flinn Springs. As we drove closer to Bob Rowsell's shop, I couldn't help but notice that this was a residential district. There were no gas stations, restaurants, or such--just houses. I wondered how you could drop a mechanic's shop in the middle of this.

"OK, this should be it," my dad said. The tow truck driver obliged by pulling into the long driveway.

We drove past a big house with a huge back lawn, and turned into a gravel lot. The change from a living residence to a place of work was startling. Cars littered the edges of the lot, old rusty cars (which, I joked, looked like our car in its glory days). Big busses and RVs were lined up along a chain link fence, and in the middle of it all was a towering mechanic's shop. It was a sight to behold. If you have any notions that this remotely resembled the Sears Auto Center, toss 'em. This structure was a virtually pokka-dotted with car parts. They were on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everywhere!

A bit awed at the strangeness of the structure, I jumped out of the tow truck, following Dad's lead. Stepping back to get a more panoramic view of the shop, I wondered at this infinitely fascinating edifice. The interior boasted every tool, contraption, and part I had ever thought existed, and on top of it all this shop was genuinely filthy. Iron filling, grease, gasoline, and paint dust were far and wide, but that didn't take away from the charm of the place. Its unique quality was captivating. Oldies blared out of two ancient speakers messed with wire to the walls.

As Dad started towards the little office adjacent the building, the shop's owner rolled out from underneath one of the decrepit automobiles he was working on and came over to meet us. He was relatively short, with streaky gray hair. Like most mechanics, grease and oil were the most common decorations on his navy blue work clothes. I couldn't help wondering if any belt would support that paunch.

"How ya' all doin' today? My name's Bob. How can I help ya?" he asked, in a clear Massachusetts accent.

"Our car just broke down and the Texaco station back in Alpine is backed up for days. A guy up there sent us here," my dad added with a grin. "They said you guys are the best!"

The old mechanic smiled, "We try our best."

We mozied over to the car, which the tow truck had gracelessly dumped in the middle of the lot, and Bob opened the hood. By the look on his face what he saw was not good. Shaking his head he put the hood back in place and turned back to his customers.

"Well, this car has a few problems, to state the obvious. You'll have to wait until I can get it on the lift for me to tell you what's really wrong with it. At best you're looking two days for me to identify the problem and fix it."

"It doesn't sound like we have much of a choice," my dad said with a sigh, "I'll leave it in your hands."

I knew this caused a lot of emotional strain on him. He loved his car. For him this was like leaving one of his children unattended. To me, I secretly hoped that that piece of junk was done for good, and we could get a real car! As I would find out later, Bob had a way of breathing life into any piece of machinery.

The days passed slowly as Dad anxiously paced the floor in wait of his beloved Old Faithful. Finally we got a call that our "member of the family" was still breathing and could be picked up that afternoon. I cursed my luck, but about twenty minutes later Dad was blissfully chugging back home in that cursed pile of junk, except that now it didn't chug quite as badly.

Several months passed before we were in need of Bob's services again. This time it was our Isuzu Trooper. After ten years any car has problems, but we had the unique experience of having lived on a dirt road was so full of potholes that the pumps literally bounced loose every nut and bolt in the whole car. So in one six month period everything started to come apart and we were frequent visitors to Bob's shop. We got to know both Bob and his charming wife, Alice, who had a little hair salon in her house, much to my mother's delight.

Bob and Alice had been part of the whole Harley movement, owning one themselves, and loved any biker rally or get together. They had several at their house to which we were invited. Unlike all those movies with the bikers in black spiked leather, shaved heads, and chains, these were just a bunch of forty to sixty year old guys who loved beer and a good time. They sat around and told stories of their biker tours around the country or their work on cars, meanwhile downing coffee and beer in rounds. The wives all sat together and chattered about this or that (I really didn't care to find out).

But anyway, I'm drifting again. About a year after we had first met Bob, my dad decided it would be a great idea if I got a job. I, on the other hand, being the lazy, self indulgent teenager, would rather have played Playstation for seven hours straight. So one day Dad and I dropped by the shop to pay a visit and during the conversation my name and the word "work" were linked, something that was a hated subject for me. Bob replied that he could use a little help around the shop, you know, like sweeping (which I hated), weed whacking (which I hated more), and other odd jobs.

"Sure!" my dad replied, much to my dismay, "He'll be here...How about Tuesday afternoon?"

"Sounds great," he replied, then turning to me: "See ya then, guy."

What was I supposed to say? No? I don't want to work here? I managed a stiff smile and then crawled off to the car in despair. Work! What a horrible word! Why God? Why? I pleaded to the heavens to make it a dream! Meanwhile my dad was happily telling me how great it was that I would finally get some real work done. I gazed out the window, and let out a long, suffering sigh.

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