by Debbie L. Miller
Oh yeah, cars. Love ’em. Got to be around ’em. I don’t give a damn about how a car looks. It’s the same way I feel about people. Sure, a handsome face can turn my head, but it’s what’s on the inside that counts. My own car looks like a clunker, but mechanically, it’s the safest one on the road.
Cars are like people, they have personalities and different feels. You’ll know what I mean if you’ve ever run your hand over a car body. Some are smooth, some are rough and gritty. If you run our hand over a car that’s been parked near the ocean its entire life, you can tell by the texture of the paint. You know how they say a surgeon’s hands are special? Well, a mechanic has special hands, too.
When you’re working on a car, all your senses are on alert, even taste. When I’m fixing an engine, if I lick my lips, I taste axle grease.
It takes a special person to work on cars and a talent to understand them. Not everyone can do this type of work. But, we live in a society where anyone who claims to be a mechanic can hang out a shingle.
I am a mechanic, unlike the phonies. I have 300 hours of training and I’m licensed by the state. My mother was a mechanic and so was my dad’s sister. And, my brother. I’ve been around garages since I was old enough to crawl.
I can tell what’s wrong just by listening. If a client describes a noise over the phone, I can diagnose. But, I don’t tell them. I have them bring it in and 95% of the time, I’m right.
People think cars are about grease. Not true. I’ve worked on engines that were clean enough to eat off of. But, sure, you can call me a grease monkey. I don’t mind. I’m proud to be a mechanic.
