Friday, June 22, 2012

Grease Monkey Bokor

“Daddy, what’s that gunk under your fingernails?”

“It’s from the shop.”

“The shop makes your hands black. That stuff is red.”

Kids. They notice everything. “Well, this time it made my hands red. Now scram, I’m trying to shave.”

The kid leaves, just to be replaced by the wife.

“You haven’t taken your medication in over a week.”

She sets my pill bottle down on the sink like its evidence at trial. “I’ll start tomorrow.” I hate when she does this micromanaging act. I pull the razor from my jaw, tired of trying to speak and shave simultaneously. “Now fuck off.”

She leaves. I’m never taking those pills again. They make me feel terrible and they don’t help anything. My fingers cramp; tired from cutting.


Being a mechanic is the same as being a doctor.

Hear me out. I’m a mechanic. A good one. I fix broken things. I mend injuries. I give life to what has already shit the bed. At the age of nineteen I restored a ’57 Chevy. From the frame up, I did it. You name it: sanding rust, ordering and installing parts, custom fabrication of new parts, the paint job, that’s a mechanic. That thing ran. Cherry. I was up to my neck in pussy. Show me one doctor who could unearth a stiff and get that thing running again.

Of course, some ailments just can’t be fixed. There was this blonde gal, early twenties, naïve, hot. She bought some used jalopy she thought was cute. It ran like hell, burning oil, always a clacking under the hood. But she loved it. She didn’t know the first thing about maintenance. She’d just drop it off at the shop and then pick up overtime to finance it. Whoever owned the car before her didn’t give a shit. It showed. That car was so far gone that even my miracle-worker hands couldn’t heal it. I kept it limping along the way doctors will keep a brain-dead patient on life support for years, but it was dead.

The blonde gal cried when I announced it was finally toast. “Get a new one,” I said. “Cheaper in the long run. More dependable. Get one with a warranty.”

“Is there anything I can do?” She asked. This was yesterday. Since I stopped taking my pills last week I’ve been angry. Me angry plus my wife equals no sex. Another side effect is I feel uninhibited. Uninhibited plus desperate blonde hottie equals yes, there is something you can do.

When a car needs an oil change, you remove the filter, pull the plug and let the oil drain out. Simple. Day one shit for mechanics. Once it drains, you can go to work. I saw an old-timer take dirty oil from one car and put it into another.

“Fuck it. It’ll run for a while longer.” He said.

So, side effects: uninhibited and angry. The blonde gal was mid-blow job when she started to cry again. I got angry. Really angry. Me plus really angry plus blonde gal ruining my day equals Oops, I went too far this time. I smacked her. Miscalculation. She was still hovering on my junk when I hit her and she bit down. That stung. So I hit her again. I stopped about thirty-one punches after she quit fighting back.

I hung her upside down from a tree in the woods. Slit her throat. Let that dirty oil drain out. I went home, showered and was shaving when my wife came and gave me that look as she bitched about the pills. Put them on exhibit.

I’ve already established I’m better than any doctor. All that blonde needs is new oil. Even with dirty oil inside her she’ll run for a while longer.


My wife looks so peaceful as she sleeps. After I get the blonde up and running again, I’ll just tell the kid I bought a newer model mommy. I’ll say this one came with a warranty.