Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Scooter Time

My buddy, Mick, volunteered to pick up me and my inoperable motor scooter and take it and me over to Dave's house so that Dave could help me fix it and get it running once again. My neighbor, Paulius, who owns and operates the Velvet Tango Room, which, if you have not visited, you have missed an enjoyable evening with a wonderful and gracious host, has urged me to get it repaired and on the road. He has about a zillion miles on the scooter he got in the spring and knows what I'm missing.

Yesterday was the day we had decided upon to get together to fix the scooter. Now, you may be wondering and asking yourselves, "Doesn't he know how to fix the thing? After all, he bought it. He should know how to fix it."

Need I really remind you that your writer is the guy who nearly electrocuted himself with Christmas tree lights and caused the most recent Great Blackout when he plugged a heating element into the electric stove to see if it would work, a bright blue bolt of lightning flying over his shoulder and nearly killing him and the several unsuspecting people in the room? Shortly thereafter, electricity started to blink out all over the Eastern grid, plunging millions into medieval darkness.

Need I really remind you that your writer is the guy who ran out of gas more than Richard Petty did during his entire auto racing career?

Need I really remind you that your writer is the guy who tried to remove a refrigerator from the basement, a refrigerator which had not worked for about a decade, rupturing the freon line, bringing most of the police and fire forces in. the city to the scene?

So, Dave and Mick started dismantling the scooter to get to the motor. I admit that I know absolutely nothing about engines, having forgotten what I had learned in my 5th grade science class. That lawnmower engine that I had to take apart and put together for a solid week after school as punishment for something I did not do was a Made in America lawnmower engine. This scooter motor was a Chinese re-invention of an engine, not that it made a big difference to me.

Dave, as he always has done over the years, recognizes my limitations, but lets me make believe that I am really and truly helping him by allowing me to hand him a tool here and unscrew a non-critical screw there or wipe up some oil drips on the driveway or go inside to ask Sue to order dinner for us. Mick was right in there, removing little hoses and taking metal pieces off of the motor and discussing carburetors and fuel shut-off valves and mixtures, just like these things really existed and he knew what he was talking about. Mick and Dave, two engineers, who also had a common bond because both had been in the military, working in secret three letter agencies, were using code words and magic.

We broke for dinner, Dave pointing out that it might be better to take it somewhere to get it fixed; and Stacey, who came along to visit with her adult-lifelong friend, Sue, said something in jest that changed the whole tenor of the evening, "Dave, I'm disillusioned. I thought you could fix anything."

The gauntlet had been thrown. We returned to the task of getting the motor scooter going. Darkness fell; I unwound the cord of the work light and held the light so as to illuminate the work area. This, as it were, was beyond my capability. Dave grabbed the light, "You're going to catch us all on fire." He told Mick to remove something or other -- it was a foreign language to me, Chinese, maybe. I had become superfluous, or I had been so all along. Now, I had turned into a liability. And I knew my place.

I went into the house to sit down with Sue and Stacey, both of whom raised their eyebrows, wondering what was happening. "He won't even let me hold the light. Too dangerous," I said. They guffawed.

At ten, Stacey and Sue decided that it was time to pack it in for the night and that the adventure could play out at a later date. Mick wanted to return to help out; Dave wanted him to come back. So, we called it an evening, Dave giving me instructions on what parts to order.

At ten minutes to three this morning, the phone rang, one of those phone calls that could only mean that someone died or someone was in jail. It meant only trouble. "I got it running," Dave said. "After five fucking hours, I got it running."

"You're kidding," I said. "You are amazing, man."

"I thought you would want to know." He hung up.

Posted by Bill at July 18, 2007 10:54 AM