Two short pieces, revised

Mom brought me a cold drink. I had been under her car for a couple of hours on a hot day, and she wanted to check on me, since her only child was under a two-thousand pound automobile in the yard.

I made up my mind, and I was ready to tackle the inspection and rebuild of the automatic transmission in my Mom’s Mustang. I worked in a makeshift shop, connected to my old garage, and under a canopy-covered gravel driveway. Before I slid the heavy transmission from beneath the car, I pried the transmission loose from the engine’s flywheel.

As I jostled for position, a couple of quarts of warm transmission fluid ebbed from the transmission tail section as I rested it on my stomach and between my legs. I started laughing. She asked, “What’s so funny?” I said, “I think I know a little of what it’s like to have a baby.” She poked her head underneath the car to see my stomach and legs covered with the red fluid, and she laughed until she couldn’t get her breath. Mom and I had never been more close.

I had shared my own version of childbirth, but only the weight, sweat, and red fluid on my body. I felt as if I had accomplished something by working on a complicated mechanical device, and I had shared that fleeting, intimate connection with my mother. I felt like a man.


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My friend’s birthday party spilled into the patio of his little cottage. A Willy Nelson record was playing, so I asked a woman to dance. I had poured myself enough wine to bolster my courage, make me light on my feet, and courageous enough to ask someone to slow dance to a Willy Nelson ballad.

We both laughed a lot and Janie and I danced for hours-several times to the same tune. Later, we found ourselves in her shiny, new, red BMW, playing kissy-face and making promises we couldn’t keep. I loved the smell of the leather and the quality of the stereo.

A couple of hours later, we collected ourselves, and I left. As I walked towards my tired, old pickup, I turned three times to admire the shiny, red BMW in the driveway.