bang bang bang’s comment reminds me that I’d better post the new improved camping date. 5/15 is a problem for two reasons. The most important is that Adam might be otherwise occupied. The second, one that only parents care about, is that the MCAS begins on Tuesday 5/18. So how about 5/23?

I tiled Roland’s hallway floor early in the week, and he asked me if I’d brought his invoice. I said no. He had asked me that the day before, and I had said no. Fed up, he replied, “Don’t ever bring it, I don’t care.” His answer was anything but angry. Customers like Roland, who pay instantly for work done, are very few.

“You know what I did last night instead of writing up your invoice? Matt and I worked on his starter motor.”

Roland is a self-made man. He’s eighty now, slowed by emphysema and diabetes, but at six foot three, three hundred pounds, and a voice as deep as the Marianas Trench, he is most intimidating. A WWII vet, he landed on both Iwo Jima and Okinawa, has been married three times, and has an answer for everything. As George says, “I don’t do nuances,.” Neither does Roland.

“Two bolts, what took you so long?”

“Yeah, two bolts on your car, and Matt and I assumed two bolts, but his BMW has a mounting bracket on the front with a bolt into the engine block. A real knuckle-buster to get to.”

“That’s what you get for buying foreign crap.”

“Come on, Roland, the car is an heirloom. My father owned it.”

“Sell it.”

Indeed, we might sell the car, but we can’t if it doesn’t start, and we won’t even try until it has a brand new paint job. Matt finished his homework early, and we both went back to the task at hand. That mounting bracket had stopped us the night before. It is small, triangular, and ties to the starter motor by two bolts, and to the engine block by one. But – and it’s another big but – once it’s attached to the starter motor, and the starter motor is back in place, the hole in the bracket has to line up perfectly with the hole in the engine block. And do you suppose those Germans drilled the mounting bracket hole larger than the bolt hole to allow for wiggle room? Heil no.

If the job were out in the open, if we could see what we were doing, if there were a way to light the area we were working in, it would have been easy. But none of that was true, and so we fumbled for an hour; dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket, prying the bracket, dropping the bolt, loosening the bracket; precisely the kind of infuriating work that would send Diane running naked and screaming out into the neighborhood. I know, I’ve seen it happen. And the funny thing is, much of my work is exactly that aggravating, and now it’s part of Matthew’s life. What a gift, father to son.

For most of the hour, I was prying from above while Matthew hovered, chest over the engine, hands hidden deep in the bowels. Finally he cried out, “I’ve got it.” The threads mated and now all we needed to do was tighten the bolt. I volunteered, and with socket wrench in hand, and moving one click at a time, the bolt drew down.

Elated to feel the end near, I’d pull that wrench all of three degrees, feel the bolt tighten, and yell, ”Yessss.”

Pull again, “Oh, my god, it feels great.”

Snugger still, “Ahhh, wonderful.”

“SHUT UP!” Matt finally groaned.

“Shut up, what do you mean shut up – aren’t you happy?”

“Yes, but you sound like an idiot.”

Maybe less like an idiot and more like Meg Ryan, or maybe an idiotic Meg Ryan? However, we were finished, and when Matt turned the key, the car cranked like Muhammad Ali’s left jab: bang, bang, bang, bang, (that’s the best I can do – I can’t imitate that cranking sound), and I was delighted. Even though the car didn’t start.

Matt was sure we had done something wrong, like failing to connect a gas line. But I knew better, because I grew up in the days of points, plugs, and carburetors. I moved in behind the wheel, turned the key with my right hand, pulled the choke with my left, depressed the clutch with my left foot, pumped the gas with my right, bounced up and down in my seat, and looked all the world as if I were having a grand mal seizure. I didn’t care, it reminded me of the old days, and like the old days, it eventually started. Demonstrating to Matthew that he can now safely stop for gas, without having to call his dad or Adam for help.