I can’t really blame him.
He’s seen me do this stuff before -- go under the hood of the 1969 VW Beetle while I appoint him my sidekick, asking him to pass me the wrench, or cut the garden hose just so that it fits into the air filter.[break]
You see, I’m a fanatic for obsolete junk.
At least that’s how my friends refer to my 1969 VW Beetle (usually that’s how they make fun of me when they’re drunk).
As for me, I like to think of myself as a member of a proud and disappearing class: the VW Beetle owners’ club.
Now I’m in my thirties, I’m married.
And I like to think I know pretty much what to do if the car stutters, or the fuel leaks while the car is moving, or the engine catches fire.
If you’re wondering, in the latter case, you leave the car and run.
If you believe in god, then I suggest you pray.
Unfortunately, even after driving the piece of heap for the last eight years, turns out to no one’s surprise really -- I don’t know all that much about cars.
And this is embarrassing because I’ve now officially turned into a guy who needs another guy whenever the car breaks down. So I’m back to reclaim my birthright.
I wanted to be the man of the house.
I wanted to be handy.
I didn’t have to wait long. On Tuesday, while driving to work, the Beetle stumbled to a halt at Bagmati Bridge.
The policewomen, now familiar with my car (they’ve pushed it four times and counting) smiled while I took my tie off and rolled my sleeves.
I suddenly began to feel capable, in charge of the world around me.
Then I find out the only similarity between the mechanic who fixes my car and me is that both of us make the same face, tightening around the mouth with our teeth gritted -- while we concentrate on opening the engine and moving the wheels about.
After about 15 minutes twisting everything that will respond to the wrench and tightening every nut that seems even remotely loose, I give up and make that call.
I’m thirty and a few more weeks wiser now. I may not be able to fix the car, but I’ve earned the right to try.
We stand there, three of us -- Dipendra dai, my mechanic and me. Incredibly, I know what to do.
While my mechanic gets under the hood and Dipendra passes him this and that, I go into the apartment to get a beer.
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