There is nothing but a Ford 351 big block and silence between us now. A hood covers your face as you lean into the engine bay, but I know that it is sour. Like the gasoline fumes we keep choking down. We've been at it for days now. The turning of wrenches in that hastily built garage with nails sticking out like paintings, a roof that leans a bit too far back to be "probably" safe, and silence. There is the occasional scream as a knuckle scrapes and cuts against jagged edges, cells tearing at the seams. Blood goes into the engine. It's got enough iron in its veins, but it needs life.
The key turns again. An empty clicking noise. The gas pedal makes a hollow noise as it bottoms out of on the floor. A cough from the engine that reminds me of your father that taught you what you're teaching me. A spray can's "tsst" as it fills the room with starter fluid. Liquid dripping; gasoline. A grunt with an inquisitive tone. A lever moves in the engine bay and a wire moves inside the cab. The gas pedal moves. It is the only connecting line between you and me.
A key's click. A cough. A spray can. A wrench or bolt turning. Metal against metal. Metal against flesh. Flesh against metal as a knuckle makes an indent in the fender. Silence.
A key's click. A stronger cough. A spray can. Silence.
A key's click. Metal turning deep in the bowels. A hollow cave filled with bats that are waking up. Spray can.
Key. Pulley turning. Bats getting closer. A sound. That thing with feathers.
Key. Cough. Backfire that scares us and the neighbors. Hurried dialing of 911 on a rotary phone before they learn. Pulleys gaining speed.
Key. A deep growl. Something is catching and is trying to pull itself free. The dying of a spray can as it loses steam. Silence.
A spray can flying past the windshield. Wind whistling past my ear. The empty cylinder rolling against the rough concrete. A scream from the now useless container before it hits the wall and stops. Silence.
Key. Growl. A bark. And then finally, an engine running. Not strong. Not well. Not even in the right order. But running.
There is no silence as the oil pumps through the chambers, the pulleys reach out for air, and the gears turn their joints for the first time in years. You lift your head up and it's painted with a smile that says more than you ever could.
Daniel Wartham is a current graduate student at Appalachian State University with a Bachelor’s in Professional and Technical Writing and an interest in 20th century American literature. He can be found in the catalogues of The Peel: Literature and Arts Review, Livina Press, and The Daily Drunk. He can also be found walking around at all hours of the day trying to find experiences to write about. He also can be found virtually rambling over on Twitter @DanielWartham