The Writer and The Mechanic sat on a cement block
taking a short break from the Texas heat. As usual they were enjoying a
square of shade that was consistently available in this spot beside The
Mechanic’s rundown trailer house. To call the trailer house rundown is to be
kind. The dilapidated disrepair and mess of appliance parts, twenty years worth
of mail piled all around the place and a lack of usable surface space was
startling. Living surrounded by the possibility of usefulness was The
Mechanic’s comfort zone. Whether the mess and disrepair had crept from the
outside in or the inside out might never be known for sure, but the startling
appearance of what The Mechanic called home was unquestioned.
To the unobservant eye The Mechanic’s mess would seem the
same as The Writer’s chaotic living space. But in truth, her mess was a bit
different. Surrounded by papers, books, toys, photo albums, and stepping over
shoes and backpacks was her comfort zone. Life surrounded by the evidence of
living. On occasion she and her sons would feel crowded and turn the music up
loud while they spent a couple of hours tidying up—never quite finishing the
job of housework but happily making their second home feel as though it’d at
least been offered a mini-makeover. But most days to come upon the wild abandon
with which The Writer, The Mechanic, and their sons lived life was surprising,
messy, and startling.
But then, to come upon The Mechanic and The Writer at all was often startling to folks. The
Mechanic’s dark black skin was thick and calloused in the hands and fairly
smooth elsewhere. Though the years of stress that comes with raising two families
(of which The Writer was wife in the second) showed on him in places, the hard
muscles and strength that comes with a lifetime of hard labor also showed on
him—and he was sexy to The Writer.
The Writer’s white skin (which is a color often described
as “milky” in the novels she reads, making her shake her head with disbelief
and whisper to the story, ”You mean pale,”
the only word that ever felt true when looking at her own white skin) was
mostly uncallused and smooth, except for the bottoms of her feet. All her life
she’s felt connected to nature and craved the physical touch that comes with
bare skin on wild ground. The stretchmarks that came from carrying and birthing
four sons are mostly hidden in clothes and much adored by her as part of not
only her story, but the stories of
each of her children.
The skin color differences in The Writer and The Mechanic
are stark, but almost equally startling is the age difference of twenty-three
years.
When The Writer and The Mechanic met, The Mechanic had
already been married once and raised a family. He’d lived stories of love and
loss, mistakes and almost mistakes, that represented so many more years than
The Writer had even fathomed. For she was a young single mom when they met,
still living with her own mom, and though she’d travelled and done things The
Mechanic couldn’t understand or hardly imagine, she had never finished anything.
Reflecting on those days The Writer was often ashamed of
herself. Though The Mechanic had been kind, and though he had adored her and
her sons (three at the time) in most of the ways she wanted to be adored, and
for most of the reasons she craved celebration, she had focused far too often
on the ways and reasons he didn’t seem aware of.
Since The Writer had never finished anything there was a
part of her, in those days, that craved the company of a man who was A Reader.
A man who saw that stories never finish and that endings always come with a
sadness or feeling of loss. In truth, she could feel the justification and
almost whininess of these thoughts, but was also aware of a truth in them and
found herself unwilling just yet to sort out which was which.
And while she told herself that a Mechanic who is not A
Reader or Writer could never really understand her, or love and understand her children the way A
Reader—someone who consistently and purposely dives into the motivations and
stories of others—could, it wasn’t long before she heard the limits and
prejudice in this.
If, on this day as The Writer and The Mechanic sat on the
cement block chatting comfortably, a traveler were to pass by he would at first
be shocked by their appearance and the look of their surroundings. But if he
was an open minded traveler with a willingness to see past his judgments, it
would be an easy transformation to comfort. The Writer and The Mechanic had
been happily married now for fourteen years and the air around them was always
one of absolute certainty in their belonging together. There were no wounds
left unhealed or scabs to pick at; just a love and respect, and an interest in
being together for whatever happens next.
As they sat surrounded by car parts and the buzzing of
insects they were talking—again—about The Mechanic’s Oldest Daughter. A woman a
few years older than The Writer, she had shown up on their doorstep a few years
back. The instant The Mechanic saw her standing on his doorstep he knew who she
was. As he cried and invited her inside, his heart felt at first complete and then,
almost as quickly, he was wary.
When The Mechanic was seventeen his girlfriend got
pregnant. Just a kid in school he told her that he wasn’t ready for marriage,
that he needed to graduate and then they could talk about it, but that he’d
certainly help raise their child. His girlfriend said if he wouldn’t marry her
she’d take the baby and leave. That he could never see the child, that she
wouldn’t let him. He allowed them to leave, but—including when The Writer met
him—The Mechanic never didn't love his child. He thought about her, he asked
around about her. He learned her name and heard through friends where they were
living. Word came that she herself may have had babies, but The Mechanic was
never sure.
When she arrived that day at his door he felt so many
things. Hallmark films and Lifetime TV movie plot-lines flashed through his head.
He knew it would take work. Lots of work. And he felt honored to finally be
able to do it. But, as is his nature as a man and a mechanic he wondered, “Why
now?”
When there is a rattle in an engine or the squealing of a
belt, it’s a good idea to wonder, “Why now?” This helps you follow the parts
and find the original problem. It could be that your busted alternator belt is
a clue that the power steering hose has a small leak and fluid is dripping onto
the belt making it weak. In that case changing the alternator belt becomes
almost silly if you don’t also replace the hose.
So hugging his long lost daughter and sharing details of
his life with her while asking about hers, was—like a Lifetime movie—played out
with a suspicious plot-line brewing. “Why now?”
It wasn’t long before both The Mechanic and The Writer
knew, “Why now.” She had exhausted everyone else, she had no one else willing
to give anymore of themselves to her and she was struggling to find footing
with someone who would. A cousin had told her that she had a different dad than
her siblings so she talked him into telling her where. It wasn’t hard to find
The Mechanic once she knew where to look. Everyone in his small town knew him
and knew he was always wondering about his Oldest Daughter.
The reunion was emotional. The years following were too.
As The Writer and The Mechanic sat in the shade, talking
again about how to help the Oldest Daughter and give love to her without
hurting anyone else or making her dependent, a rooster from the yard next door
came up and gave them a hard stare. The Mechanic shook his head at how funny
this particular rooster was, always hanging around like a pet, while The Writer
smiled and tried to pretend she wasn’t scared. In truth, she wasn’t nearly as
nervous as she had been a few years back when her fear of birds could be
considered a phobia. Thanks to the constant cockiness of this particular
rooster, and his certainty that he belonged here with them, she had grown
almost fond of him. Well, not so much him
as the way her fear was slowly subsiding, and his presence gave her call to
know it. “I guess you can get used to anything,” she’d muse. “It’s important to
keep an eye on what you get used to.”
Since the Oldest Daughter had arrived The Mechanic had
given her money, a place to stay, lent her cars, bought her a car, defended her
from violent boyfriends that she ran immediately back to, gotten her out of
jail, gotten her out of jail again, driven her places, lectured her, lovingly
shared with her, angrily refused her antics, explained why with love, and been
dangerously close to getting arrested himself by willingly going into crack
houses to get her and take her home.
The job of parent is never done or clear cut, you don’t
clock out when they move out, but when trying to get back over forty lost years
it’s almost more confusing.
The Writer was understanding and respectful of all these
truths. She herself had done much for the Oldest Daughter as well, and had
loved her longer than they’d known each other. In the beginning of this new
character introduction—well, not new really because she’d always been a big
part of the story, but now she was more there—The
Writer had been open and honest and thrilled to share with another person.
Another person to explore with, learn from, and teach to. But as she watched
her husband wear down, and she felt his turmoil spill like motor oil over the
family—not because he yelled or spewed, but because his energy became almost
invisible yet tinted with color that didn’t wash off easily—she began to approach
the issue less like a Reader and more like a Writer.
The Mechanic, of course, was working out the puzzle like
a man with an eye on how one part is supposed to fit with another.
Both The Writer and The Mechanic know that always, in
everything, creativity, ingenuity, and a willingness to see from different
perspectives can get the machine running again and so they explored and
pondered and attempted to get the story of their family to run smoothly, as it
had often before.
The Writer reached over and waved a bee away from The
Mechanic’s leg. She suggested once again that he tell his Oldest Daughter with
clarity why he didn’t answer the phone when she had called early that morning.
He sighed and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the red rag that had been
hanging out of his pocket. He reminded The Writer that he had told his Oldest
Daughter already, and he was so tired of telling.
They sat in comfortable silence. The Mechanic was
thinking of this part of his machine he’d lost for so long and finally it was
found, and how he couldn’t seem to find a way—in all his years of making parts
work—to find where and how it fit. How to benefit the important part itself
while giving it a role that benefit the whole.
The Writer was thinking about her roles as Reader and
Writer of the story and contemplating which role would fit her and benefit the
family best. As Reader she was able to interact with support and curious
interest, without the need to meddle or affect the direction of the story much
more than as an audience with the ability to interpret and be considered.
However with her husband showing such exhaustion and their Youngest Son’s
comment recently, The Writer couldn’t pretend that role of Reader was enough
anymore. “I don’t like my sister,” their Youngest Son had said. “She came here
and she’s always drunk and now dad’s always stressed out and quiet and cranky.
And her energy makes me feel nervous.”
The Writer (and Reader) knew that every aspect of any story
was important, that the motivations and emotions of everyone involved deserved to be valued and explored, and that she’d have to step up and play a more active part in
creating this story; theirs. For her husband, for all the children, and for
herself.
The Mechanic and The Writer approached issues and life differently and so they sometimes struggled to understand how or why the other
saw things as they did. And, admittedly, they often attempted to present arguments on their own behalf that just might change the other's approach, turning it into one more like their own. But there also always existed an important sameness. They both
knew that the act of crafting a story or maintaining a machine was best served
with a desire to do so. To do the work.
It’s easy to want a good story or smooth running machine;
but inventing one takes time and work. You have to want it true enough to work
for it.
And both The Writer and The Mechanic not only wanted it
true enough, but had learned to love the work.
You see, The Writer had been mistaken when she’d assumed
The Mechanic couldn’t understand the unfinished nature of people. The Mechanic
knew well that no motor or machine is finished until it’s been given up on. Not
by one, but by all.
And even then—even then—it is part of a bigger machine,
one that needs to be approached with a willingness to make all the parts work
regardless of how creative and resourceful you have to get.
The Writer and The Mechanic sat there a while longer,
letting their unfinished conversation come to a quiet close. They’d pick it up
again later, as they always did.
The Texas heat was wearing The Writer down and she wanted
to go back inside where her manuscript sat waiting to tell more story. The
Mechanic’s mind was already wandering back to the problem of an old ’86 Ford
pickup he was trying to get running. The distributer hadn’t been moving so he’d
hit it with a hammer to get it going, and now the truck would start but still
wouldn’t run. He wondered how much a carburetor kit would cost.
The Mechanic stood up and stretched, then turned around
to offer his thick strong hand to The Writer who pulled herself up with his
help.
She walked with him toward the truck in the driveway,
stepping over tools and compressors with the ease of one who is familiar with
such obstacles. The rooster from next door followed them close.
The Mechanic mumbled something about putting some gas in
the tank and checking the fuel pump and The Writer nodded, unsure of his
language but confident in his ability.
They kissed, and she headed back indoors. The rooster,
who she was only a little bit scared of, stayed back with The Mechanic.
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| The Writer and The Mechanic |
