Getting the Gasket (standard:drama, 2869 words)
Author: Paddy65	Added: Mar 08 2004	Views/Reads: 3382/2166	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The story of meeting inlaws, small towns, cigerettes and gaskets. Exciting stuff.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“Are you having a good time in Bridgetown?” 

“I'm having a wonderful time.”  This wasn't a lie.  “Everyone has been
so nice. Your parents have been so hospitable.  Now I know how you got 
to be so sweet.” 

“Mmm,” she said as they continued to sway.  He kissed her deeply on the
lips. 

“Mmm,” she repeated. 

“Mmm,” he said. 

“Mmm,” they both said in unison.  She pulled back and took both his
hands in hers. 

“So,” she said, “are you ready to get the car from my cousin Jerry's?” 

“Yes.  He was so nice to fix it.  I think he's giving me a deal.”  The
car needed a new gasket and had been making inhospitable noises on the 
way to Bridgetown. 

“He is my cousin,” she said. 

They walked downstairs and she reminded him how to get to her cousin's
auto shop.  He would have to walk, but it was only five minutes away.  
She had to make lunch. So, Paul stepped out of the house and started 
walking.  It was a nice, spring day, though not warm enough to not wear 
a spring jacket.  The town itself was pleasant enough; not tiny but 
certainly small enough to be considered a small town.  It was slightly 
foreign to Paul.  Not to say that he was some big-city urbanite, but he 
had lived in Omaha, an almost big city, for eleven years now, and grew 
up in Milwaukee, another almost big city.  He also, after college, 
spent two years in Chicago, a big city.  So he was enough of a big city 
person to appreciate the charm, manners and tight-knittedness of a 
not-terribly-small small town in Iowa.  Probably it was not a place he 
would choose to live, but definitely was a good place for a sojourn 
from the relatively faster and more crowded Omaha.  He enjoyed saying 
hello to the older couples walking by and the fathers watering their 
yards. 

He came upon the town's main street, Main Street, which served as
Bridgetown's de facto downtown.  It was fairly busy at midday, 
especially a nice, spring midday.  There was moderate traffic and a 
good number of pedestrians walking to stores or going to the diner for 
their lunch break.  Up a block ahead he saw his wife's cousin's auto 
shop, Franklin's.  He had met Jerry, her cousin, only once at the 
wedding, which took place in Omaha.  They spoke only briefly – a 
perfunctory congrats that molded into a short discussion of Big Ten 
football.  It was pleasant enough, but not really a good opportunity 
for Paul to get to know his new relative.  But, Jerry seemed nice 
enough.  He was installing a new gasket for Paul.  And at 30% off. 

Paul entered the store which was attached to the garage.  He did not see
Jerry whom he assumed was in the garage.  So, he took a seat.  Jerry 
walked in. 

Jerry Franklin was a single man around the same age as Paul, which is to
say 37.  His hands were dirty, he had an oil smudge on his cheek, and 
he wore a ragged and gray mechanic's outfit.  He was from Bridgetown, 
but moved to Iowa City to work in a friend's father's auto shop when he 
was 20.  He did this for five years before returning to Bridgeport to 
open up his own garage.  He did not go to college, but he could replace 
a gasket as well as anyone and was not averse to giving his cousin's 
husband 30% off.  Right then his face was dirty and his hair greasy, 
but he still possessed youthful looks in an attractively gritty way.  
He smiled at Paul.  His smile was striking; lots of teeth and 
wiseguy-ish.  He looked like he could crack a good joke or two. 

“Paul,” he said as he wiped off his hands and shook Paul's hand, “Been
so long.  Nice to see you.  How do you like Bridgetown?” 

“It has been very, very nice.  Everyone in your family has been so nice.
 Last night, Lonna's dad brought out the grill and made huge steaks.  
I'm still stuffed.” 

“Yeah,” laughed Jerry, “you gotta watch for Uncle Rob.  His steaks'll
put you down for a week.” 

“Yeah, they were really, really good.”  . 

“Listen, Paul, I haven't gotten to your Accord yet.  In fact, I don't
have an extra gasket here.  So, I was about to walk over to my buddy 
Leon's parts shop and pick one up for you.  Sorry about that.  I've had 
a lotta cars to work on this morning.  This lady, Mrs. Rutherford, 
crashed into a darn tree and her Lumina's pretty dinged up, so I've had 
to work on that all morning.” 

“Oh, that's okay.  I'm just happy to get a new gasket.  Especially for
30% off.  I appreciate it, Jerry.” 

“No problem, Paul.  ‘Mean, you're family now.  An honorary Franklin.” 

“You flatter me,” joked Paul.  Jerry looked at Paul for a second. 

“Anyways, I was just about to walk to Leon's to get the gasket.  It's
only five minutes.  You can wait here or I guess you can take a walk 
with me if you want.  Installing it'll just take a second.” 

“Okay,” Paul answered.  “I'll go.” They stepped out of the shop and
walked south.  Main Street still had moderate traffic and pedestrians 
going into shops and to the diner for lunch.  Paul and Jerry walked 
side by side in silence for half a minute. Paul decided to ask Jerry 
how business was. 

“So, how's business?”  he said. 

“Oh, it's been good.  Real good.  Real busy though.  What with Mrs.
Rutherford's Lumina, people getting oil changes, realignments, new 
tires,” he looked at Paul, “gaskets.  You wouldn't believe how some 
people treat their cars.  Like the other day, this guy comes to the 
garage with some car problems and he says he hasn't gotten an oil 
change in two-and-half-years.  Two-and-a-half.  Shoot.  And he wonders 
why his Caprice wakes up the whole neighborhood when he drives it.” 

“Yeah, I don't know jack about cars,” Paul said.  This was sort of a
lie.  He was not an expert, but certainly he could open a hood, 
identify the gasket, and know how to check his oil. 

“Ah, well, a car's a good thing to know about.  ‘Mean, what if someone
else's car broke down?  If you knew how to jump a car, you could really 
help out someone who's in real need.”  Paul actually did know how to 
jump a car. 

“Yeah, you're right,” he said.  “I guess I just haven't had the time to
learn about cars.” 

“Well, I can show you a few things if you want.” 

“Well, sure.  That would be great.” 

“Yeah, I can teach you how to jump a car.  You really have to do all the
steps in the right order or you can really mess up both cars.  You got 
your cables, right?”  He held up his fists as if he were holding jumper 
cables as Paul walked and listened. “Every car needs cables.”  He then 
gave Paul a tutorial on jumping cars which need not be printed here. 

“. . .but you really have to watch out.   If one thing is done in the
wrong order, or you put the wrong cable on the wrong node, your car can 
blow up.” 

“Blow up?” Paul wondered. 

“Yup, blow up.  It happened two years ago in Rochester, which is not too
far from here.  Yeah, two people were blown into high heaven.  Which 
hopefully is where they are spending eternity.” 

“Blow up, huh?  Wow.  That's crazy.” 

“Yeah, so it is important to know a lot about cars.” 

“Yeah.”  Paul paused,  then spoke.  “Well, be rest assured, I do get my
oil changed every thousand miles like you're supposed to.  I know that 
much.” 

“Good man,” said Jerry. 

The sun over Main Street crept slowly into the western sky.  The two men
passed a gas station, a diner, a Lutheran church and an antique store.  
Mostly old pickup trucks and new minivans cruised the street.  Jerry 
asked Paul about the professor business and Paul gave him the usual 
about smart-alecky students, a dean who breathed down his neck, and the 
constant work of correcting papers.  But, he was sure to point out, he 
still enjoyed it. 

“Shoot,” said Paul, “I sometimes wish I would have gone to college. 
But, than sometimes, I remember that then, I probably wouldn't have my 
garage then.  And fixing cars is what I love to do.  It gives me peace, 
I guess.” 

“Well, college isn't for everyone,”  Paul said, and looked at Franklin. 
“Which is fine. You're obviously happy.” 

“Paul, I coulda' made it in college.  I'm smart enough.  I just messed
around too much at Bridgetown High, y'know?” 

“Yeah.  And like you said, fixing cars gives you peace.” 

“Right.” 

“Anyways, college isn't always the most fun place to be.” 

“You should try fixin' cars.”  Jerry said. 

“Yeah, right.  More like destroying them,” joked Jerry. 

“It's really not all that hard.  Maybe it takes a little time to get the
hang of it, but you just have fall in love with them.  I mean love.  
Like a son, or a wife.  It loves you unconditionally.  It drags you 
around, across the country if you want.  It hauls your stuff and it 
never complains. Shoot, I'd marry anyone like that.   ‘Mean, think of 
where you'd be without a car.  Anyhow, I could show you a few things.” 

“Maybe just how to check the oil or jump a car.  Or replace a gasket” 

“Heh-heh,” Jerry laughed. 

Jerry lit a cigarette with a match, shook the match out and put it in
the pocket of his mechanic's outfit. 

“Jerry,” Paul said, “do you always put your spent matches in your
pocket?” 

“Yup.” 

“Why?” 

“I don't know.  I just started doing it a couple years ago.  I guess it
makes me feel happier.  It's like a little thing I can do to make 
myself feel better.” 

“Why does it make you feel better?” 

“Well, I smoke a lot.  Pack a day.  If you add it up, that's a lot of
cigarettes.”  He took a drag.  “20 cigarettes times 365 days is about, 
ah, 7,000 cigarettes a year.  That means 7,000 matches a year.  More if 
you count the times when your match blows out or something before you 
light it.  That happens once or twice a day, so you can add around, oh 
, 700 matches.  So, that's 7,700 matches.  I guess one day, I felt bad 
about tossing so many matches on the ground.” 

“But matches are so small,” Paul said, “Even 7,700 is nothing compared
to all the wrappers, coke bottles and other trash people throw around.  
You can't even see matches on the ground.  Unless you really look 
closely.” 

“Well, every little bit counts, y'know, Paul?”  Paul was reminded of the
old garbage cans on the streets of downtown Milwaukee which read: Every 
Litter Bit Hurts. 

“Why don't you just get a lighter?” he asked. 

“Ah, I just don't like ‘em for some reason.” 

“But don't you hate messing up your pockets with the match ashes?” 

“Oh, I don't mind.  I throw ‘em out when I get to a garbage can.” 

“What about cigarette butts?  Do you put those in your pockets?” 

“Yup.  Like I said, I can usually find a garbage can pretty quickly. 
They have ‘em everywhere these days.  And usually I'm wearing this 
dirty old suit, so a cigarette butt won't make it any dirtier.  7,000 
butts and 7,700 matches, Paul.  A year.  That's a lot.  ‘Mean, I don't 
care if other people throw matches into the street.  I'm not a 
tree-hugger or anything.  It's really just something I do for myself.  
Just a little thing that makes me feel better.  It's like I'm doing 
what I can or something.” Paul looked at Jerry for a second. 

“Huh.  Fair enough,” he said. 

They got to Leon's and went inside.  Jerry introduced Paul to Leon,
Bridgetown's portly and balding parts man.  He and Jerry caught up a 
little and talked about Leon's kids.  Talked a little Big Ten football, 
too.  After that, Jerry got the gasket and said goodbye.  Paul said 
nice to meet you.  Out on the sidewalk, Paul pulled out a cigarette and 
matches.  He lit the cigarette and blew out the match as they walked 
back to Franklin's.  He kept it in his hand and looked at it.  A little 
smoked puffed from the charred match head.  He looked at Jerry, who was 
looking straight ahead, and then back at the match.  Paul then tossed 
the match onto the sidewalk.  Jerry looked at Paul and said: 

“So, how's Lonna?  I haven't really talked to her since you guys've been
in town.” 

“She's wonderful.” 

THE END 


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