so i’m driving out of biloxi and my “battery charging” light comes on. now, it’s a red light so i’m thinking maybe that’s important. i check the owner’s manual and it tells me it signifies that the alternator is no long charging the battery. if i turn off cruise control, the radio, and every other electrical device, i should be able to drive a few miles to the nearest service station.
umm, where’s the service station?
i am seriously in the middle of nowhere. i drive for 15 minutes - nothing. i turn and drive for another 15 minutes - nothing. it’s just rural houses and rundown, vacant buildings. and poor people. and we’re not talking about poor people with handy honda toolboxes, either.
so i eventually run into a gas station and ask where the nearest garage/mechanic is. the old guy behind the counter mutters (seriously, mutters) something about “old mason” knowing something about cars, but he hasn’t seen him “since the hurricane.” jeez. i leave with directions to the nearest “big” town with a new appreciation for my full set of teeth.
following the instructions i got puts me down the main strip of gulfport, mississippi. a bustling metropolis it is not. it’s becoming clear very quickly i’m not going to find a neighborhood goodyear. i’m close to giving up hope when i spy the small white shack on the side of the road. i see lawnmowers–lots of lawnmowers–in the back and the hand-painted sign above the door says “fred’s fix it.” well, shit. i’m pretty desperate so we’re going to find out what fred has to say.
i knock and the oldest, grizzledest, cantankerous old black guy shuffles out. i ask where i can find a mechanic but fred, because it is fred himself, sidesteps the question and askes what the problem is. i explain my little light and he tells me to pop the hood. what can i lose? i pop the hood and watch skeptically as he peers inside. he stammers something about the japanese and shuffles back inside his shop without a word of explanation to me. he comes back out a minute later with a hammer and a pipe.
well, now. i am confident that fred is trying to do the right thing here, but the image of him with the hammer and the pipe combined with my engine doesn’t quite inspire confidence in me. i have visions of black smoke, my dead, black car and dead, black fred lying on top of it. i’m mentally running through ways i can politely tell him to back the fuck off my ride when he puts the pipe in the engine and pounds it with the hammer. the engine shudders for a second and fred asks me if the red light is still on.
country folk may not be able to talk about shakespeare. they may not be able to design their own web page. hell, some of them may get confused using an ATM but country folk know some shit about some shit. the damn red light was off. fred be praised. he explained something about brushes and rotors and assured me i’d make it to houston to be able to get it replaced. i’m still flabbergasted and staring at the dash in amazement. by the time i’d collected my wits enough to get my wallet out, he was inside the door. i yelled, asking him how much i owed him and he yelled back through the door that he was closed.
awesome.
Post a Comment