The guy next door… tinkers.
He’s always out there. Bang bang bang. Boat motors, building somethin’ in the shed out back, smoking fish or game meat, or just beating up on the brush out back where the feral cats hide, hacking it back from the shed.
It’s like a compulsion I guess. There’s a sort of wild look in his eyes, kind of… well, feral, actually.
But mostly, that truck. It’s been… what, seven years now? Maybe it’s more than one truck, I’m not sure, the truth is I don’t pay that much attention. I mean, how broke can a truck be? That it should want daily nursing… Is there a universe of meaning under that hood? Some kind of epiphany or enlightenment to be monkey wrenched from the engine block?
It starts early, it lasts most of the day. Bang, tinker, clang…
The truth is, I’m envious. The muffler of my own car is sagging and knocks, the little corner window spider-webbed, the bumper bumped, some wiring hayed, and the doors stick when they shouldn’t. I zigged when I should have zagged, you see, and went for a little spin the other day, and ka-blanged into the ditch.
But I know nothing of car tinkering, I only regret zigging when I should have zagged.