Artist, Magician, Philosopher, …Machinist, Mechanic?

What is abundantly clear, is that Doc was far more than just a mechanic. But I knew that already.

I pulled my clanking, clattering, shuddering little Volkswagen into his shop one afternoon, for his tender ministrations.

He shook his head at my poor liddle weewee car as I pulled in. Showed me the motorcycle up on the bench, the project I had interrupted. Gleaming dully in primer, the lines of a sleek chopper showed through the work in progress. Jazz played from a radio in the floor. Doc chomped on a cigar.

We discussed jazz, cigars, motorcycles, philosophy, family and politics as I sat on a milk crate and watched him lift the hood on my VW, jack her up, peek in, under, and around. We solved all the worlds problems while he probed for the solution to my car’s troubles, and I sat back and enjoyed watching an artist at work.

At last he came out from under the car, a prize in his hands, that he came over and dropped into my palm.

“There’s your problem.” He grinned.

I looked at a roughly cylindrical chunk of metal with bits and bobs poking out and a grove going round it with signs of wear and tear obvious even to someone (me) who didn’t even know what the darn thing was.

“Now, we could send to Germany for one of those. Wait 2 or 3 months.”

My face fell and I sighed.

“Or”, he went on, “I can just make us one.”

He plucked the part out of my hand and walked over to a workbench and began sorting through it. Before long, he returned to drop the worn part in my right hand, and a dull, heavy gray plain metal cylinder just a bit larger in my left hand. I looked at and weighed them both, then looked up at him, questioning.

He nodded, grinned, took both parts out of my hands, and walked over to a big green machine and began working his magic. As he worked, I looked around the shop and recognized a studio not unlike my own, with half-finished projects, raw materials and tools in what looked like cluttered chaos. The difference being that my projects are drawings, his were motorcycles, my raw materials paints, pastels, canvas, his metal and chrome, my tools; brushes, palettes, his; milling machine, grinder, torch. In the end, the only difference is that he was a great master of his craft, while I am still learning my own.

He returned to me again and held out his big hands. I opened mine. Into each palm he dropped a part. Now they were identical, except for the grime and wear on the broken bit. To someone with zero fabricating knowledge, it was like magic.

Taking the new part, he disappeared under my liddle car.

Moments later I was wheeling her in circles around the parking lot. She seemed to frisk about, all that shuddering and clanking just a bad memory.

Doc was pleased. Just a favor for a friend. One of many. He waved off my offer of payment and strolled back into his lair to create another fantasy in heavy metal.

I was probably barely a blip on his radar. But I won’t ever forget the afternoon I spent with a master of his craft, who was, as well, a man of intelligence, humor, and spirit.