I’ve been stuck under this Silverado for three hours now. I’m taking out the transmission, one of my absolute least-favorite tasks. It’s tricky, heavy, messy, and just an all-around bitch of a job. And that’s under normal conditions. I’m doing it on the hottest day of the summer so far.
Our shop doesn’t have air conditioning. I’m drenched in sweat, which makes my hands slippery. Plus, ON just came on the radio for the third time in a row, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I’ve finally got all the bolts out and the cross member out of the way. I’m ready to slide out the transmission. I’ve got to be careful to do it smoothly, so I don’t damage the clutch or the torque converter.
This transmission weighs 146 pounds now that I’ve drained the fluids out. I’ve got a jack to help support it, but I still wish my dad were around to help. He crashed right after dinner tonight. He’s been exhausted lately, barely able to keep his eyes open to shovel down a plate of spaghetti.
I told him to go to bed and I’d take care of it.
I ease the transmission down on the jack, then wheel it out from under the truck. Then I gather up all the nuts and bolts and put them in labeled baggies, so I don’t lose anything important.
That was the first thing my dad taught me in car repair—be organized and be meticulous.
“These are complicated machines. You’ve got to be like a machine yourself. There’s no room for mistakes.”
Once I’ve got the transmission out, I decide to grab a soda to celebrate. We may not have A/C, but at least the fridge is always cold.
My father owns a repair shop on Wells Street. We live above it, in a little two-bedroom apartment. It’s just me, my dad, and my little brother Vic.
I head upstairs, wiping my hands off on a rag. I’ve got my coveralls stripped down to the waist, and my undershirt is soaked through with sweat. It’s also stained with every kind of fluid that comes out of a car, plus just plain dirty. It’s dusty in the shop.
My hands are filthy in a way that would require about two hours and a steel brush to get clean. There’s oil embedded in every crack and line of my skin, and my fingernails are permanently stained black. Wiping my hands removes a little of the mess, but I still leave fingerprints on the fridge when I pull the door open.
I grab a Coke and pop the tab, pressing the cool can against my face for a moment before I chug it down.
Vic comes out of his room, dressed up like he’s going somewhere. He dresses like he should be in a music video—tight jeans, bright shirts, sneakers that he painstakingly cleans with a toothbrush if they get so much as a speck of dirt on them. That’s where all his money goes, if he ever gets any money.
I have to resist the urge to tousle his hair, which is long and shaggy and the color of caramel. Vic’s only seventeen, eight years younger than me. I feel more like his mom than his sister. Our real mom dumped him off on the doorstep when he was two and a half. He was this skinny little thing with big dark eyes that took up half his face, and the most outrageous eyelashes (why do boys always get the best lashes?) No clothes or belongings except for one Spider-Man figure that was missing a leg. He carried that with him everywhere he went, even in the bath, even holding it tight while he slept at night. I don’t know where they were living before, or who his father is. My dad took him in, and we’ve all lived here ever since.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“Out with friends,” he says.
“What friends?”
“Tito. Andrew.”
“What are you doing?”
“I dunno.” He grabs his own Coke and pops it open. “Seein’ a movie, probably.”
“Bit late for a movie,” I say.
It’s 9:40 p.m. Not many movies start after 10:00.
Vic just shrugs.
“Don’t be out too late,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes and shuffles past me out of the kitchen.
I notice he’s wearing a new pair of sneakers. They look ridiculous to me—white and chunky, with some kinda weird, gray swoopy lines on the sides. They’re basketball shoes, but I don’t think you’d actually wear them to play basketball unless you were playing on the moon in