“He’s not a mechanic, he’s just a parts changer.” It was more than a half-century ago that my dad made that assessment.
Now, in the year 2006, when computer technology has obviated much of the demand for mechanics, my dad’s statement seems prophetic.
Let me explain:
Last week, I discovered my car was dead, with not even enough power to flash a light telling me as much. I was in full view of neighbors, and naturally I needed to impress them with all the technical skills I’d acquired to work on a 2003 PT Cruiser. I sent my grandson and namesake to fetch a clipboard, as people always appear more knowledgeable when cradling one of them. A shop coat would have helped.
I then announced, so the neighbors could hear, “Let’s attempt a diagnosis,” as I circled the car and put on an air as if convening the U.N. General Assembly. Raising the hood after kicking a tire, I strutted around, uttering arcane terminology guaranteed to impress my rubber-necking neighbors: “Uh, let’s see, Arthur. Seems as if the probationary reciprocating piston coagulators are in order. But let’s not yet eliminate the Hubble pontificating excelsior remediation factor in relation to the turbo machination defibrillator.”
About that time, a neighbor came up and said, “Looks like you need a jump. Wanna use my cables?”
My response was, “To the untrained eye, the car might seem to need a jump, but I’m looking into other, deeper, possibilities.”
Two minutes and a jumpstart later, I was on my way. That experience further convinced me that technology has advanced while my grasp of it has gone kaput.
At about age 12, I used to walk Dad home from work. I’d be coming from my Optic sales, and one time, when I made 19 cents profit, I was elated to have become the newest Rockefeller of Railroad Avenue, I went to tell him about it.
The car dealership where Dad worked for two decades was located close to where movie crews set up a fake Mexican border last month. The agency had car sales in front and bays for repairs and body work in back. Because Dad worked long hours, I found myself spending time watching a young mechanic at work. I liked the way he stuck the end of a lead pipe against the running engine and listened through the other end, to help in his diagnosis. It may have been his own car; otherwise, why would he spend time after hours on it?
The mechanic, whose name I remember only as Jerry, didn’t seem to mind a spectator. In fact, he’d often shift his position to give me a better vantage point.
The Ford Garage had a large power door. Because Larry didn’t have keys, he’d open the door, press the “close” button and run under it. In time he grew more confident and moved farther and farther back before making a running start.
One day he’d planned to step w-a-y back, casually stroll through the door and walk out. But this time, he caught his foot in a looped chain, the chain that workers would use to crank up the door during a power failure.
It was frightening. With the door just inches from closing and his leg caught in the chain, Larry just managed to get all his body outside in performing a stunt that would have impressed even the hat-retrieving Indiana Jones in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
While he’d wrestled with the chain, I thought of hitting the reverse button on the switch, but I hesitated, as Dad had told me never to press “reverse” without first going through “stop.”
Well, it was all academic anyway. The next day, as I assumed my spectator position at the mechanics’ station, I asked him about his close call. “Ah, I had it all planned,” Larry said.
“Had it all planned?” I don’t think so. But for as long as he worked late on his car, he repeated his bravado-filled stroll through the door — avoiding the chain — and I think he remained convinced that made him muy macho.
Dad had only heard from other workers of Larry’s derring-do. Was it a latent dislike for the young man that made Dad refer to him as a parts changer? He used a couple of other sotto-voce aspersions to describe the youngster, but they were in Spanish and I didn’t quite catch them — then.
A 12-year-old can be easily impressed, and a simple oil change mesmerized me as much as if it had been a complete overhaul, in the same way that a doctor’s performing a simple cauterization was as impressive as a crainiostomy.
Whereas my father’s derision of parts changers referred to untrained tinkerers who did things by rote, today’s parts changers became that way because microchip technology has placed the otherwise intuitive way of fixing things out of reach. For sure, we have people with great technical talents, but today, when a car or computer fails, a changed part usually fixes it.
And I think part of my dad’s scorn for aspiring mechanics stemmed from measuring everybody according to a yardstick he ascribed to Charles “Chuck” Collier, one of the true master mechanics employed by Werley Auto.
Chuck installed a Ford V-8 engine into a small plane. He gave my brother Severino and me our first flight over Las Vegas. As we took pictures of the Meadow City from an open cockpit, I was so impressed by the way the engine purred that I would have trusted Chuck even to perform an appendectomy on me.
That, then, is my take on mechanics vis-a-vis parts changers. And speaking of which, I need to take an hour off in order to perform a complete overhaul on my PT Cruiser.
Arthur, please fetch the pliers.