Only On Sunday

I’m a guy type person so you’d think I’d understand most guy things, right?

So what is it about guys and a broken down car?

If you live anywhere on the planet where there is at least one automobile you’ve no doubt encountered this phenomena, and I’m sure it’s been the subject of more than a few words already. A suddenly disabled four-wheeled beast rolls to the side of the road like an oversized, brightly colored Armadillo recently side-swiped by an eighteen wheeler.

A guy jumps out and slams the door. If he has guy buddies, they jump out, likewise slamming their doors. Sometimes guys not directly connected to the situation will show up having spotted the injured vehicle in much the same way a buzzard might spot a carcass from the glint off the wings of a carrion fly.

Once gathered, the hood goes up and they all congregate around the engine compartment, intently peering into the gloom beneath the hood as if their collective gaze will somehow rearrange the molecular structure of whatever mysterious part mysteriously went awry. One of them, usually the driver or owner of the vehicle, might actually reach in and wiggle a spark plug wire or check the tightness of the air filter wing nut. They will then discuss this amongst themselves for some period of time and then resume peering into the darkness of the engine compartment for a second go-round.

I have witnessed such an event numerous times in my life and have yet to understand what they hope to accomplish by this action. It seems to me it would be time better spent to just walk on down to the nearest form of civilization to make a call or, in this day and age, simply reach into ones pocket, pull out a cell phone and call the nearest towing service.

And what about those engine gunners?

There’s been one of those in the neighborhood all morning long and I can’t decide if I want to lock and load or close the window and hope that filters out the noise of an internal combustion engine on the red-line edge of total decomposition.

It started early, right around the time I was trying to edit a short story I plan to submit. Guy gets into his car, slips in the key, turns it. The engine cranks and cranks and cranks but no internal explosion occurs. Guy releases the key, waits a minute, goes at it again. The engine cranks and cranks and cranks, there’s a sputter or two but no cigar. He gives it another moments rest and resumes cranking. Finally the engine gets the idea and starts.

Now, as starting was the original intention one would think this would be the end of it. Slap that puppy into Drive and head off into the day. But no. One must now gun the engine to ear-splitting, bolt rattling RPMs. And not just once. Oh no, that would never do. It must be gunned again and again and again until the windowpanes in nearby houses begin to shatter and the smoke billowing out of the tailpipe resembles an oil field fire.

Now, as one of the many professions I’ve had in life includes a stint as an automobile mechanic, I can understand, maybe, letting the poor thing idle at a slightly higher than usual RPM for a minute or two while it warms up but is there a point to seeing if you can break the pistons loose from the crankshaft? And if you do back off before blowing the heads off the engine or twisting the valves into bizarre pretzel shapes, do you have any idea of how much gas you’ve dumped into the crankcase? Gasoline, in case you’re not aware of it, kind of ruins the lubricating properties of oil.

Not to mention gas is kind of volatile and if you get enough of it mixed in with the oil you could do serious damage to the roadway when your engine explodes.

And then there’s sports.

But that’s another guy topic altogether.