Check Your Engine

        The ‘check engine’ light went on out of the blue as it usually does when you’re not thinking about the status of your car.  The tiny computer somewhere under the hood that constantly monitors the well-being and the general good nature of the automobile found an anomaly as I was driving home from work one evening and shot a warning sign to my dashboard.  It was the symbol of an engine with a lightening bolt that ran through the middle.  It was one of the more concerning symbols in my dash’s inventory.  Like getting a letter from the bank saying they are about to foreclose on your house.  I was a little caught off guard and being an anxiety-ridden, panicky person my own tiny computer inside my brain began assessing the well-being of my body and immediately shot a warning sign to my psyche.  There was no symbol to recognize, it simply said, “You’re going to die.”

            After a lengthy inspection my lovely Armenian mechanic, Feres, concluded that the problem was a faulty crankshaft valve and suggested that I take the car to the dealer, seeing that the car was still under warranty.  Feres is the antithesis to the stereotypical auto mechanic you see in movies and TV.  He's not gruff or burly or short with words.  He has an ever present smile and speaks in a soft, humble tone.  Feres used to work at the Audi dealership and branched off a few years ago to go into business for himself.  He’s a very honest mechanic, which is difficult to come by these days.  If you ever have the good fortune to find one, hang on to them for dear life.  Feres suggested that I go see Johnny B.  He will take good care of me.

            Two days before there had been a severe windstorm that left Pasadena looking as if it had experienced a severe windstorm.  Most people were incorrectly comparing the damage that the wind had caused to a war-zone.  I have never been in an actual war-zone.  Having our country involved in two wars and having thousands of videos posted on YouTube by the troops of actual combat, one would think that some tree branches and leaves scattered on the ground would not trick people into thinking they were in Iraq or Afghanistan.  But, most people are very quick to make that hasty comparison. 

            I brought my car into the Audi dealership and was met by Johnny B., an Italian man in his late fifties with a strong accent that reminded me of the character Poppy from the TV show Seinfeld.  He was very happy to see me, and he greeted me as if I was a minor celebrity in a small town out in the Midwest. 

            “Whadda seems to-a be da prollem?” Johnny asked as he scurried around the car, taking note of various scratches and imperfections.

            “Well, the check engine light came on a few days ago and I’ve got it on good authority that it might be a defective crank case valve.”

            “Whoah did youa take it to?”

            “I took it to Feres before.  He told me that it was the crank case valve.”  Johnny was in the car jotting down the mileage on his inspection sheet.

            “Feres, he’sa good guy.  He’sa one o’ da best,” Johnny relayed as he logged my mileage.

            “Oh yeah,” I immediately agreed, “he’s one of the good ones.  I wish there were more like him.  I feel pretty fortunate that…”

            “You knowa,” Johnny politely interrupted, “weah gonna have to have da’ car, prolly, all day.  You needa ride somewhere?”

            In the past when I’ve taken my car in I usually stick around Pasadena because it takes no more than a few hours.  There’s plenty to do there, coffee shops, a bookstore, bars, and I was prepared to wait it out.  I brought along a book and some paper and a pen in case I became artistically inspired.  It was when I heard ‘all day’ that I took Johnny up on the offer.

            “Whereah do youa live?” he asked.

            “Just over in Hollywood, you know, off of Forrest Lawn and up Barham Boulevard.”

            “No prollem,” he confidently said.  “We hava someone ah to take you.  Juss hava seat righta here an’ some-a-one will be wit’ you, okay?  Hava good day and Happy Holl-i-days.”

            I normally become nervous when I’m forced to be in the same zone as a stranger, mostly because I’m afraid that I’ll run out of conversation topics.  I’ve managed to place all the responsibility for conversation on myself when encountering strangers.  “I’ll do all the work,” I’d think to myself, “Don’t worry your little head.  Save your topics for someone more important.  For the moment we’ll just be talking about the weather.”

            It was Martin, a pleasant looking man of Mexican descent, who cautiously approached me and sheepishly asked if I was the one who needed the ride. 

            “That would be great,” I said, not wanting to put him out or anything.  I’m positive this man had more important things to do than give me a ride home.

            In a moment of rare confidence, or maybe it was the quite un-rare fear that the two of us were going to spend the fifteen-minute ride home in complete silence, I decided to make a game of our journey.  I was the governor of California and was touring the wind-damaged city of Pasadena.  It’s what the voters would want in a time of stress.

            We pulled out of the dealership and I looked around at some branches that had been blown off and were now swept to the side of the road. 

            “I guess you guys had a lot of wind here the other day, huh?”

            “Oh yes,” Martin answered with grave concern in his voice, “some of the branches came into the property and damaged three Porsches.”

            “Wow!” I exclaimed, “Three?”  I shook my head poignantly, staring at the car lot that was filled with new Porsches, Audis and Jaguars.  “Three Porsches.”  Then, in a very ungovernorly way I accidentally blurted out, “That’s crazy.”

            “Yes, three.  It was the city’s trees.”

            I looked around, surveying the limbs that were scattered in a very unnatural manner as we motored up Colorado Boulevard.

            “It looks like a war zone,” I finally declared with authority.

            “Yes,” Martin agreed with me.  “A war zone.”

            Having a trusty driver is important when your governing such a complicated state like California.  Someone who knows how to navigate even the most convoluted streets in the city and still get you to where you need to go on time.  Someone who’s got your back in a bar fight.  This was Martin.  He came up from Mexico City ten years ago with nothing but a backpack full of hopes and dreams and now here he was, driving around the most powerful governor this state has ever known.

            Most politicians use times of distress as a platform to elevate their own careers.  Not this guy.  “No press,” I declared.  “I don’t want to give people the wrong idea that I’m using this tragedy for my own gain.”  What I would do is tour the devastated parts of the city, assess what I need to do and then report back to my constituents on the progress.  Everything was on a need-to-know basis in my administration.

           

            “How are the people doing?’ I asked Martin while observing a city crew cutting up a pine tree that had toppled onto the freeway.  Most of it had been sliced up and only the massive roots stuck up into the air like a giant cockroach that found itself upside down and, after hours of struggling to right itself, had finally given up.

            “Everyone seems okay,” replied Martin in his own positive way.  “I think it was just some sort of freak storm or something.  This doesn’t usually happen here.”

            Suddenly, one of those annoyingly good looking Fiats cut in front of us and Martin instinctively laid into the car horn.  There was a brief moment of silence when Martin, coming back to his senses, slowly turned to me, almost apologetically, “I don’t know why I honked.”

            “It’s okay,” I quickly assured him, “he wasn’t even using his turn signal.  That car is a menace.  I guess they give licenses to anybody, huh?”

            Martin turned back, disgusted with himself for letting his anger get in the way of his professionalism.  He must have been thinking how I could allow such a loose cannon to be in charge of my driving detail.  We drove on.  I looked around at more crews cutting up fallen trees for compost.  "This place looks like a friggin' war zone," I quietly muttered.

            "Yes," Martin politely agreed, "a bad one."

            We pulled up in front of our house and Martin opened the side door.

            “This has been a very eye-opening experience for me, Martin.” I shook his hand, “Thank you.  I will do what I can.”

            Martin looked at me with those trusting eyes.  “If you need a ride back to the dealership they can pick you up.  Just tell them.”

            And just like that, I was snapped back into reality.  We made it.  That wasn’t bad at all.  There were no awkward silences.  I didn’t run out of things to say. 

            As I got out of the minivan I turned to Martin, “I usually honk when someone cuts me off too.  Maybe it makes them think that next time they should be more considerate.”

            There was a moment of agreement, something that only two war buddies can experience.  Words were not necessary.  All was understood.

            Martin pulled away and I looked up at the house that my wife and I shared.  Our green, mid-century modern house that stood above Troy Drive and was nestled in a quaint little neighborhood just behind Universal Studios.  The house was no longer ours.  The times had caught up with us.  We were underwater with our loan and were well on our way to foreclosure.  We would probably need to cut our losses, short-sell the house and move somewhere cheaper.  Starting over was nothing new to me.  I had done it before and, although, it doesn't get easier there's comfort in knowing that you will always come up on the other side.  The key is to keep moving forward.  Always move forward.  Forward.  From the moment we're born the universe is trying to kill us.  Ironically, it also provides everything we need to defeat it.  That's the balance.  Also, don't cut people off in traffic.  It's rude.  Put on your turn signal first and make sure there's enough room for your car and then give a friendly 'thank you' wave to the person that let you in.  That's what a considerate person would do.  

The Mourning Dove

I bump into Floyd just about every time I go to the store.  It seems like he’s always picking up something.  Chips, milk, beer.  Mostly beer.  I was picking up some ingredients for my wife’s chicken pot pie when we ran into each other just outside the front door.  He was telling me about an argument that he got into with his wife Dorothy.  I don’t know too many women these days named Dorothy.  It’s one of those names that seems like it’s being saved for the archives for future archaeologists to ponder over the meaning of why our society chose certain names for their children.  Like, Floyd, for example.

“She asked me to fix the railing on our deck.”  Floyd began to complain.  “So, what does she say after I worked all day Saturday and Sunday on it?  ‘It’s still broken, I might as well call a real repairman.’  Can you believe that?”

“Some nerve!” I agreed wholeheartedly.  Dorothy is one of those people who likes to see all their choices displayed out in front of them.  They’re unable to visualize things like most people, and therefore, have trouble communicating exactly what they want.  “Right?  I mean, if she thinks I’m such an incompetent carpenter why didn’t she just call the handyman in the first place?”

“She’d rather see your weekend ruined by doing something you clearly don’t want to do.” I chimed in.  “That’s what all women want, isn’t it?  That’s her way of spending time with you.”

“Well, she could think of a lot better ways to do that than having me bust my ass over something that’s just going to be taken care of by someone else!” Floyd argued.

None of it made any sense to us, of course.  Floyd and I had been over this territory hundreds of times.  We were beyond trying to figure out the subtle nuances of women and their behavior and trying to decode the complex system of words and sentences that, while even though we all spoke the same language, there continued to be huge gaps in the translation of exactly what they were trying to say to us.

Just at that moment when Floyd and I were beginning the griping part of the conversation a mourning dove came in for a landing about five feet away from us.  These birds were fairly common in this area, although they weren’t as annoying as pigeons were.  Doves keep to themselves, whereas pigeons were always looking for a handout.  The dove made that wing-whistle sound that this particular species of dove makes whenever they take off in the air or come in for a landing.  We noticed that he was carrying a small stick in his slender beak.  He walked a few inches to a spot in the middle of the sidewalk, circled it a few times and then placed the stick on the ground.  He momentarily paused to look up at us with his right eye and then promptly flew off.

“That was weird,” Floyd said, sneering.  “So anyway, Dorothy wants me to spend next weekend digging up all the weeds in the back corner so she can start her herb garden.”

            “See?” I began.  “She’s filling in all your free time with chores.  That’s what they do,” I encouraged.

We jawed it up for several minutes more until the dove returned carrying another twig.  He walked around the first twig a couple of times as if he was surveying where the best spot to place that second twig.  And wouldn’t you know it, he placed the second one slightly angled on top of the first one, glanced at us for a second, and then flew off.

This time, Floyd and I sat there in a moment of silence, not quite sure what was going on here.  Neither of us were the outdoorsy types.  We wouldn’t dare to try and figure out what this animal was up to when we couldn’t even figure out what our own wives were up to in the same house we were in. 

“Is this bird building a nest right here in the middle of the friggin' sidewalk?” I finally asked. 

“Either that or he’s planning on making a little mini bonfire,” Floyd chuckled.  He always chuckled at his own jokes.  I got his sense of humor even when most people didn’t.  Clearly, doves have no way of harnessing fire and, I would be willing to wager, have never, in the history of doves, intentionally used fire to better their lives in any way, which is probably why I laughed.  Imagine several doves sitting around a giant bonfire made of popsicle sticks, roasting seeds or whatever it is the hell they eat.  Ha.  Ol’ Floyd cracked me up sometimes.

Just then, the dove returned, this time with a bundle of sticks clenched in his beak.  He landed roughly, taking several wobbly steps to correct his balance.  Way back in the recesses of my primitive brain a signal went off and I immediately recognized the subtle signs of the dove's quick, alarming movements and distressful willingness to take on more than he can handle.  He immediately dropped them and began arranging the twigs in a circular order around the original two, weaving them together for more strength.  He walked around, head bobbing back and forth, inspecting his work. 

It’s difficult to know what birds are thinking or what’s going on in that tiny little head of theirs.  Their brains must be the size of a pea, and yet, here they are flying around, building nests, laying eggs.  My brain must be at least the size of two doves and I can’t figure where my car keys are half the time.

It’s also hard to know what birds are looking at until they turn their head sideways and stare at you with one of their deep, black eyeballs.  This is what the dove did.  He stared for quite a while this time, longer than Floyd and I had anticipated.  As expressionless as a dove’s face is, his frequent glances at us seemed to say, “Don’t you guys have somewhere to go?”

For the next hour or so the dove returned again and again, bringing more and more twigs with him, weaving everything into a nice circular nest, right in the middle of this sidewalk.  Fortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot of foot traffic, so someone accidentally stepping on the poor dove’s work wasn’t a problem for now.  Floyd and I did steer the occasional pedestrian around the tiny creature’s handiwork and gave a little impromptu description of what was going on, as if we were field guides on some safari somewhere.  At some point, I began to think, we’re going to have to go home and then this guy is going to be on his own.  I began to worry about how this little guy is going to keep people from trampling all over his nest right there in the middle of the sidewalk.  This is what always happens to me, I get myself involved in these little situations that have nothing to do with me and the next thing you know I’m standing guard over some dove’s sidewalk nest which shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

On his final few trips he began bringing tiny pieces of cotton, gently stuffing them into the center of the nest.  He arranged to small pieces of soft fabric into a pillowy little bed that, given its size, looked pretty darned comfortable, I had to admit.

            The dove seemed pretty pleased with his work, even a little relieved.  He flew off. 

            “I’ve gotta say, that’s a pretty nice looking nest,” Floyd finally commented.  “I’ve never seen a bird build a nest before.”

            “It’s amazing what they can do with just their beak,” I genuinely marveled.

Suddenly, two doves came swooping down next to the nest.  It was our guy and this time he brought his mate with him.  She was slightly smaller, but way more aggressive when it came to inspecting the nest.  She got to work right away, poking and tugging at the tiny home.  Her head’s bobbing was more intense and had more of a severe purpose as she began picking at the nest, tearing small bits of it apart.  If this is what passes for constructive criticism in the dove community, I’m sure glad I’m not a part of it.

            “What’s this?” she seemed to ask him.  “What is this?  Do you think this is the right location to raise a family?  Right in the middle of a sidewalk?  What’s the matter with that tree over there?  Is there a reason you didn’t build this in the tree like regular birds?”

            The male dove sheepishly tried to repair parts of the nest that the female had begun to demolish.

            “Don’t you think all this foot traffic would be a little upsetting for the children?  Hmm?”  She seemed to really be handing it to him and Floyd and I couldn’t help but to feel a little sorry for the guy.  He worked on that thing for quite a while and now here she was tearing it all apart.

            “That’s the last time I let you be in charge of building the nest!  Jesus Christ!”  I imagined her saying again.  The female dove walked away in a huff, angrily bobbing her head front to back.  “It’s like my mother always told me, if you want something done you just gotta do it yourself!”  I continued her dialogue in my head for several more minutes.

And with that she flew off.  The male mourning dove slowly walked around his pathetic nest that had now been reduced to a mere pile of twigs and cotton.  With his beak, he reached for one of the twigs, perhaps in a last, desperate attempt to try and correct his mistake.  There was no point.  He dropped the twig, bobbing his head as he walked away.  He then turned his head and cocked it, glancing up at us one last time.  We stared back at the dove, this time with a fresher understanding.  No words were spoken.  None were needed.  We were all on the same page here.  Floyd and I nodded in silent solidarity at the dove and he nodded back.  He took a couple of steps and flapped his wings, making that wing-whistle sound that doves make when they fly away.

Floyd finally interrupted the reflective silence,  “So, what’re you doing tomorrow?”

I took a moment to tie up the loose ends of what I had just witnessed in my head and get back on track in the real world.  “Think maybe I’ll go to the hardware store and pick up a new shovel.  My old one’s about had it.  It’d make it easier digging up those weeds.”

Floyd stared at the ground.

"Give me a call when you go.  I may need to get some soil.  Dorothy's planting a new herb garden."

"I will."

We both took one last look at the shambolic looking nest on the sidewalk and we parted ways.