by Gina Lawton

Created on: June 07, 2009

Weekday at Bernie's

Our van freaked out the other day. I was almost home, and suddenly it sounded like I was dragging the entire Tour de France competitive field under my van. Seriously, it was like multiple chains were being tossed about my engine and under the tires. Quick stop, quick look, quick call to the husband.

Where are you? he asked.

I'm around the corner from Bernie's, I answered, resorting to zen breathing techniques in an attempt to keep my newly regulated blood pressure steady.

Call him, was his matter-of-fact answer. Then, persuaded by the guilt he undoubtedly felt for not coming to my rescue, he quickly countered, I'll call him. You wait there.

Within fifteen minutes, the familiar red jeep rounded the corner. Out steps a man we have become way too familiar with over our years in Clio. We call Bernie our mechanic, but he is actually our vehicular redeemer, savior and personal automotive Jesus. His shaggy white head tousled out of the jeep, and his comfortable smile answers when I quip that we bought a new van so we could stop meeting like this.

He deftly looks under our hood. He has me start the car, and then quickly turn it off after being assaulted by the shrieks of a thousand tormented cyclists' souls. I think the worse with us, it's usually one of the big two engine or transmission. Bernie has held our hands through two engine replacements and three rebuilt transmissions on various vehicles over the past five years. Visions of our quickly decimated tax return tear rampant through my subconscious.

What do you think? I ask rhetorically. I really, really don't want to know.

Well, he says slowly. Do you have a knife?

I start breathing again. Either he's about to perform Hari Kari right here in the driveway of the local library, or he has already diagnosed the problem, and is able to do a simple fix. I tell him no, I haven't really carried a knife since moving away from Detroit. Ignoring my attempt at humor, he is already rummaging through the jeep, looking for any sharp-edged object that he can use.

It seems like it's just the belt, he reassures me as he returns with a knife to start hacking away at the shredded remains of our serpentine belt. I'll cut off the worse piece, then you can drive it over to the shop. I'm free right now; it won't take long to replace it.

He administers the temporary cure with the preciseness of a surgeon, and I ask one more time, You sure I can drive it over without,

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