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“Hand me the wrench, Bhodi.”
I’m underneath the hood of a 1964 Mercury Colony Park. I’d been on the lookout for a Chevelle wagon, but after seeing the potential in this classic California surfer wagon, I was hooked. Nowadays, the silver-blue finish is cringe-worthy, but the teal is spot on for the era, and the wood panel appliqué was in fantastic condition for a car sitting in a musty barn in the Sandhills of North Carolina for decades.
“Which one?”
I glance up confused and chuckle. The kid’s holding two wrenches to his face, peering through the holes like glasses. The silver tools combined with his shaggy brown hair make Bhodi Carrington look like Daniel Radcliffe about to have the sorting hat placed on his head. Underneath his grease-stained navy coveralls though the Vans store exploded on my fourth-grade apprentice. He’s even got the checkerboard slip-on shoes that he’s quick to cover whenever we enter the garage to restore this car.
When the local big brother program paired us together, I was sure they’d made a mistake. However, I’ve learned Bhodi’s neat as a pin appearance has more to do with having a shit-ton more respect for what he has than I ever had growing up. Bhodi’s no dweeb.
He is a quick learner, handing me the five-eighths, which is the exact one I need.
“You’re awesome.” The tone of my verbal complement reflects the way my grandfather had ruffled his hand through my hair when I was a kid.
I brought Bhodi into the service bay on a lark. We had an hour to kill after a movie we’d gone to see ended early, and the head mechanic texted this beauty was on a flatbed outside the dealership. We watched its low, bald tires slide down onto the asphalt, and a bunch of us, Bhodi included, pushed it into the service area where it sits now. When he started asking questions, I took him into the showroom. This location alone has six restored cars on hand. It’s sort of our hallmark. One of my favorite things is how amazed customers coming into the dealerships, ready to buy brand new off of the lot, are when we’re able to start the classics up.
The first time I’d helped my grandfather under the hood of a car, I wasn’t much older than Bhodi. I caught the bug from there. To my chagrin, the asshat in charge of this place diverted a lot of Grandad’s attention elsewhere. I hadn’t honed any true mechanical skill until I was college bound and the technicians took pity on me. Over the majority of the past eight years, the side benefit of this has been the more time I spent in the service center rather than the corporate offices, the more it pissed off the CEO. A man who gave me his last name.
I finish tightening the bolt and, after handing the wrench back to the kid, wipe my hands on a rag and check my watch.
“I think we’re done.”
Bhodi’s shoulders slump as he puts the tools back in order. I pat him on the back.
“Dude, make sure you thank your mom for letting you come in this afternoon.”
It’s normal for me to take Bhodi on the weekend. Over the course of helping out, he’s gotten to a point where he’s capable of doing a few of the tasks on his own, so yesterday I got permission from Holly to switch days and pick him up after school.
We shrug off the coveralls. The mechanics keep it light and joke around with Bhodi while he washes up. Something I appreciate. A few of them, with kids of their own, compare the black under their fingernails to his. One of the older fellas sends Bhodi back to the sink to try again while I snag the keys to a test drive vehicle with dealer plates on it. I like that the service center mechanics look out for him.
I signed up for the big brother program a few months ago to fix me, not realizing in the process I’d feel more responsible for this kid than I have for anyone. Is that crappy and self-centered of me to admit? Because I thought this was going to be like when my prep school forced us to volunteer for a stupid service project at the local pound. You couldn’t get attached to those animals because they came in and out of a revolving door of surrenders and adoptions. Before now, the idea of having kids around was foreign. If having any of my own didn’t seem like a game of Russian Roulette and I wound up with one like him, I could see myself doing it someday.
That’s not to say Bhodi doesn’t have his quirks.
He climbs into the passenger side next to me and starts fiddling with the radio.
“Back seat.” I throw my thumb behind me.
“Why?” He whines.
“We’ve talked about this. It’s safer back there for pint-sized people.”
“It’s boring back there. There’s not even a TV in this car.”
“You’re going to waste the last fifteen minutes with me watching television?” I place my hand over my chest. “I’m wounded.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“No, I’m not. Now get.”
Bhodi’s shoe lands on the console, leaving a dusty print on the leather as he slips between the seats. I wipe it away and then adjust the mirrors, pretending not to watch him buckle up in the center. He leans forward, still trying to change the station on the dash.
“You know this is stupid, right? The station wagon we’re working on doesn’t haveanyseatbelts. If you stick to the rules, how am I supposed to ride in it when we’re done?”
I’m not telling the kid that I’m going to retrofit them. I’ve never done that on a showroom restoration before, but it’s a compromise I’m willing to make.
