Mr. Fix-it

This afternoon Missy asked if I knew anything about cars and I said yes and was terrified. She asked if she bought a new car battery, would I be able to replace it. And I was mortified. Mortified because you are looking at a guy who never looked under the hood of a car with his dad, who preferred easy chores like washing dishes and doing laundry. You're looking at a guy who didn't know what a Philips screwdriver was until he was 18.

You're looking at a guy who has only jumpstarted a car once in his life and isn't sure if he can do it again.

My dad always told me that one day my future wife would look down on me for not knowing how to fix things. And I would laugh at my dad and say it would come to me over time.

So when Missy asked if I could get her car running again, I said sure. I said: "Shouldn't take longer than ten minutes." After all, what man can say no to a damsel in distress? What man passes up an opportunity to prove his manhood?

But I was asked without any fair warning, and had to be at her place before I had a chance to do a Google search. It was fine. I would vindicate myself for all the ridicule over the years my dad gave me for having trouble replacing a light bulb, or struggling to put a bookcase together. I'd get dirt under my fingernails the way my dad always wanted. I'd show 'em. I'd show 'em all.

Heroically, I marched into Missy's apartment. "Rags," I demanded. "Lots of them."

And in the deepest voice I could muster I said, "I'll also be needing a toolbox, please."

Missy dutifully brought the items to me, and then I looked around the room, raised an eyebrow, and said: "We're going to need some baking soda too. For the acid and corrosion."

We walked over to her car and Missy tried starting her car for me. It was making a clickclickclick sound. "That's definitely not good if it makes that sound," I said, shaking my head and not knowing what the fuck that meant.

"It's probably the starternator," I added.

"The what?"

And then I opened the hood of the car and there was a stupid bar holding the entire car battery down. So I figured, no problemo, I'll just unscrew a couple things and remove the bar. But none of the wrenches fit onto the bolts and the ratchet wrench JUST WOULDN'T RATCHET.

Beads of sweat began to form on my scalp. Missy kept looking over my shoulder and I was trembling worse than Scarlett Johansson's arm last night at the Academy Awards.

I was so nervous and pressured that I forgot to wish Angie a happy 22nd birthday. As you all know already, I got a B in high school Spanish 2, so Angie: "Feliz cumpleanos, Angie! Usted es una combinacion rara de la belleza y el dulzor. Pueda sus deseos de cumpleanos se realizan como usted apaga las velas."

Anyway.

"Maybe we should give up," Missy said.

"NO!" I spat. "We're not giving up. You can give up, but I'm not. We came here for a reason."

And I huffed and puffed as I continued to try to make the ratchet wrench ratchet those fucking stupid screws off but they wouldn't because I was doing something wrong but too proud to admit it, and Missy just sighed and waited for me to do something and looked over my shoulder and Angie opened the front door of the apartment and asked if we were done yet and we said no and I huffed and puffed as I continued to try to make the ratchet wrench ratchet...