Open-Heart Surgery

Three weeks ago I endured a 17-hour road trip over two days to help my sister and her family move back from Texas to the Chicago Suburbs. It was more a tightly-knit operation than a pleasure cruise. Jennifer and Jeff had had their house on the market for months, an absurd exercise in futility considering today's real estate market. But, they were desperate to make it happen. Jenn was expecting the second bun from her oven, and to raise this one completely unaware of the trove of cousins, three freaky uncles, and the gushy, soppy love of Mimi and Papa all residing 1100 miles away was unthinkable. So they opened Pandora's Box and waited. Sacrificed and waited, like a fisherman lost at sea trying to catch the first meal in days. 'Til someone bit. Then it was all action. That's how Jenn operates. She has the ability to walk into a room and reign over it like that. Smooth and confident, a charismatic Aries who commands you give your trust to her, and you want to comply. By hook or by crook, she'd get her ass back home. And so she spread the word out and organisms all over flooded the network to her aid. I drove down once with the moving van and never saw much of Texas outside of being a wanna-be roadie, but here I was, a one-way ticket on a last-minute flight, playing a roadie once again. Friends from both Jenn and Jeff's jobs had pitched in, and most of the vehicles had been loaded by the time I got there. My biggest duty was that of morale builder; a babysitting, topic-sharing, meal-eating morale builder... who happened to lift heavy crap. The day we returned I came home to a very dim Hermann. He's old and feisty but a trooper, and yet the ignition key wouldn't tickle anything out of him. He's had that battery since before I bought him, installed back in Who-Knows-When. Tim's ride couldn't jump any sparks out of him. So now here I was switching roles from roadie to mechanic.
I know little about cars. When one breaks down you're sorta forced into position to learn. That's how I did. Three weeks' research and begging for rides to work led me to Hermann. I wanted a reliable, strong-willed car with soul, and here comes this boisterous crimson craigslist-lingering suburban pimpmobile. No quarter, no dice. Bought it for a song, warts and all. Got what I paid for. Almost killed me, it did. Couple times. Now it sits dead on a patch of asphalt, and some clueless novice is expected to give life to this Frankenstein. Pause to laugh. Brian's a much better candidate for this. He's got a garage full of car stuff and fluids and tools and things, but he's unavailable elsewhere. Dad takes me to get a new battery, and both of us spend the evening heads bent under Hermann's gaping hood, staring over his flashlight-lit innards.
Yep, there's the battery.
Yep. Terminals.
Ooh, rust.
Hmmmmm.....
Dad's done this before, but not enough times. He could talk me through most of it, but dwindled sunlight makes everything seem less possible. He lends me his car for work and we pack it in. Hyundai's got great pickup but no oomph. I actually miss that blaring mad son-of-a-gun muffler of mine. Hermann must rise again. I left note for Brian to see if he could assist, but our paths had been avoiding each other lately. I ransacked his basement and garage for anything I thought could help: Pliers, towels, issues of Popular Mechanics. Stopped at Google to look up "how to change a car battery". Yep, just as easy as Dad said. A gnawing rumor I remembered from something I read once stated that Coca-Cola, because of its high acidic content, is excellent for stripping rust from car battery terminals. What a fortuitous time to try an experiment! Brian is a real-life Coca-Cola fanatic. We have two rooms in our place decked out in full Coke regalia, our kitchen stocked with shelves of Coke memorabilia and toys, some still mint-in-package. And wouldn't you know it, not one unopened can of Coke anywhere in the frickin' house. Not one. There were some cases of soda in the garage, stuff Brian bought for family at New Years' but doesn't prefer to drink. Coke? Pepsi? Same thing, right? Decided Hermann was gonna take the Pepsi Challenge. So, like last night I stood, hood yawning open, lantern-lit innards, except this time I was pouring brown bubbly liquid into the insides of my car.
Field surgery.
Witch doc'try.
MacGuyverin' it.
Neighbors strolling by in the twilight doing their best to pay no mind. I figured they saw me as either That Loud Driving Asshole or one of the Deaf boys. No matter. Let it sit, let it bubble, let it soak. Hope this isn't completely idiotic. The terminal did get cleaner and rust-free, and half a can later the positive terminal connection started to loosen, to twist. Clumsily my screwdriver worked its way around wires and underneath the coupling 'til POP, the coupling hung tethered like the Space Shuttle manipulator arm, unattached from the terminal. Hot damn, it worked. Halfway. Negative terminal's relatively unchanged. Now what? What other tricks do I have up my sleeve? I've been through the house four times and there's no WD-40 to be found either. I still have the Hyundai, I can throw in the towel at any time. Wait for Brian. Get a tow or something. Deal with the puzzle later. Can't I?
What if I can't? What if things couldn't wait, if Hermann was losing pints of blood and there wasn't any help for miles around. Doctors don't have the luxury of solving the puzzle later. After you cut someone open you can't remedy half the problem and then stitch up knowing you tried your best. It's go from there. Roll up your sleeves or all is lost. "Square peg into round hole" time. I look upon Hermann as my friend, and I lean on him too much to let him down now. So we go. There's no WD-40 to be found, but lubricant's lubricant, right? It all comes from the same place and used to the same means, so let's improvise. The only thing that comes close in the garage is a bottle of 5W-40 motor oil. Giv'er. It's dark enough that I doubt anyone looking who cares notices that I'm pouring this bottle nowhere near the oilspout on my engine. It's thick and amberlike, a blob melting down the terminal. Alchemical chicanery. God, shut up, Kevin. So, like the Pepsi, the motor oil works and the terminal gets dislodged. The battery slips out easily, new one in quicker than a pit crew moves. Everything attached and pounded into place, hood closed, a deep breath, open up the driver's side door and the dome light goes on. I was a man with tools today. Prometheus bringing Fire from the heavens. Samuel F. B. Morse tapping out, "What Hath God Wrought...". A new father clipping his first umbilical cord.
I drove the two rumbly blocks over to deliver Dad's keys.
"You can have these back."
Jennifer, settling down into the old rec room for the first time in years, looks me dead in the eyes.
"How did you do it?"


I'm putting up my own show in two weeks.
It's square-pegs-into-round-holes time.