If Only I Had That ‘Machine Gene’

The lawn mower sat sick and unused for two weeks, the grass growing like the national debt as I pondered what to do next. There seemed no hope of resurrection; I had already inspected the thing, poking the widgets and adjusting the frammistats and getting not so much as a hint of life for my efforts.

It seemed a trip to the repair shop was unavoidable, but I decided to give it one more shot. Trudged through the high grass to the toolshed and knelt over the mower with a furrowed brow. It took awhile, took some high-level cogitating, but I finally figured out what was wrong.

It needed a new spark plug. And it was out of gas.

I don’t remember giving you permission to laugh at me - what do you think I have a family for? Actually, they don’t even bother to laugh anymore; they just accept it as a given that dad can cope with no machine more complex than a stapler.

No one brings things to me when they are broken. “Let’s let Forge fix it,” says the middle son. Forge is what he calls his big brother; it’s after a character in the X-Men who can make a thermonuclear missile from a paper clip. Forge’s ability is mutant; my son’s, preternatural. He knows his way around the inner workings of machines as surely as if they spoke to him aloud.

You understand, of course, why this troubles me.

Or maybe you don’t, in which case you reveal something about yourself: You are a woman.

Got to be. Because any self-respecting man knows what I’m talking about here. Call it the Myth of Male Competence, the ironclad, unwritten rule that says men are at home around machines or else they are not, well … men.

Which about sums me up. Not a guy. Not a real one, at any rate. Mind you, I fake it tolerably well. When the mechanic explains that the manifold coil to the induction grid has malfunctioned, I nod and look concerned. When he tells me the gasket cover on the left filtration seal has a crack in it, I purse my lips and shake my head as if hearing that my favorite ballplayer has been injured for the season.

Who am I kidding?

No one with eyes.

Why am I kidding?

Because I’m a guy.

We are supposed to love and understand machines. But evidently something happened to me at birth; I didn’t get the machine gene. Indeed, I have only one valuable skill, and you’re looking at it.

And while writing stuff is fine and dandy, it doesn’t exactly make you big whoop in the house or around the neighborhood. It doesn’t replace the ability to dive into a greasy engine and make it hum.

It doesn’t make you respected, looked up to, a real guy’s guy - like Mike. He’s the most popular man on the street because, for the price of a six-pack and parts, he’ll fix any car. Indeed, most conversations with him begin as follows: “Hey, Mike, could you take a look at this?”

He fixed our Jeep recently. Left my front door, having collected some brews and saved us some bucks.

I felt envy as I watched him go. Thought about what a wonderful thing mechanical competence must be. Wished I could be like Mike.

And indulged a not-infrequent fantasy. In it, a worried neighbor brings me a piece of paper with some writing on it. It’s a letter, an essay, whatever. He says, “Hey, Len, could you take a look at this? Something’s not working right.”

“Sure,” I say, “let’s just get in here and see what’s wrong.” After a few minutes of tinkering, I surface, wiping my hands on a rag. “Well there’s your problem,” I say, pointing to the third paragraph. “You’ve got a conflict between your subject and your verb. And your conjugation is off.”

“Is it going to be hard to fix?” he asks, anxiously.

“Nah. You’re going to owe me some chocolate chip cookies, though. Hand me that thesaurus over there, would you?”

I still haven’t given you permission to laugh at me.

xxxx