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The Carriage House
by Bruce Gardner
Owning a garage and having the use of that garage are two separate issues if a young man is involved. Our old Victorian home, built in the early years of the last century, is complete with an original carriage house. Modified over the years to accommodate a horse-less carriage, there is just enough room for a workshop on one end and a single car garage on the other. Wooden floors, low ceilings, mis-matched windows scabbed on the sides, rickety door, almost devoid of artificial lighting--yes; it’s just about perfect for my taste. Just about perfect except for one tiny detail--I rarely get to use it.
This carriage house sits on the alley, flanked by a gravel parking area large enough for three cars to squeeze in. At any one time this parking spot and the adjoining alley plays host to as many as fourteen vehicles, all parked there by young men who think that automotive grease embedded under their fingernails is a fashion statement.
My peaceful, little carriage house has been taken over by a horde of budding mechanics. Loud music, clanging wrenches, belches, laughter, revving engines, busted knuckles eliciting surprisingly-practiced cussing, more belches, more laughter--yes, it looks like a siege, and that’s just the outside of the carriage house.
Inside this quaint, little building, hanging from every wall and every rafter, leaning against every vertical surface, and strewn in great piles on the floor, is a confusion of automobile parts, body panels, tools, jacks, containers of used oil, potato chip bags, pop bottles, pizza boxes, repair manuals, tape players, CD’s, and posters featuring scantily-clad lasses using automotive tools. No space sits idle. Sitting amidst this disarray, a lone car gives up its soul to the young men who sit in it, lay under it, crouch in its engine compartment, and generally surround it as if to block its escape. Watching this horde of chuckling, burping, ratcheting, testosterone-charged humanity looks for all the world like a time-lapsed film of ants dismantling a deceased grasshopper.
Earnest discussions of stall converters, cam specifications, exhaust header configurations, valve adjustments, gear ratios, carburetors versus fuel injection, and the best brand of motor oil continue long into the night. Occasionally one of the young tribe members wanders from the pack and stumbles into the house to raid the refrigerator. Evidence of his foray is left on every surface he touches, marking his passage through the back porch, across the kitchen floor, in and out of the icebox, and back outside again. Upon the return of this hunter/gatherer, the rest of the tribe gathers around, exchanging ritualized greetings and
jostling. The victuals are consumed instantly, leaving no trace except for the before-mentioned belches.
Over the course of many days an automobile takes shape once again. Systems are checked and mistakes are corrected. The long-dormant engine, now enhanced to aircraft performance levels, is fired up. Neighbors come from their homes to witness the commotion, satisfy themselves that they are not personally under attack, and quietly set about gathering their women, young children, and pets into the safety of their domiciles.
The reassembled car is pushed from my innocent, little carriage house by a dozen proud, young hands. The excited driver slips behind the wheel, idles slowly down the alley, and pulls squarely onto the city street--the city street that bears a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. Amid cheers and hoots from the fraternity of grimy fingernails, the tires are lit up (a tribal term), and in two smoke-filled seconds the wages of seven hours of work at the video rental store are sent heavenward. While Mom prays and I re-calculate the odds for the survival of young men, the car disappears from sight. The carriage house and I are left behind with only the smoke--the smoke and the detritus of a young man shucking the husk of his childhood. From the highway I can hear the whine of his high-torque engine, nearing red-line at each gear change, marking his passing.
 Well, maybe I’ll clean up the mess and so be able to park inside again. Maybe the young tribe will vanish and leave me in peace. Maybe my alley and parking spaces will be empty of pizza boxes and oil filter boxes. Maybe the sounds of loud music, clanging wrenches, belches, and laughter will trouble me no more, now that this latest project is launched.
Gosh, I hope not. Come back men. I’ll park outside. How ‘bout you guys start another project?
I’ll be seeing you out there.
May 2001
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