Ordeal by Fremont All things considered, that saturday's events began earlier than necessary. Brian had to be delivered to the airport before 9:00 and Ken needed to pickup a part for his ugly-orange VW Rabbit before 10:00, in Fremont. The Rabbit had had a major attack there two days prior and a radiator transplant was the surgery indicated. As payment for airport limousine service, Brian loaned Ken his old Toyota Michael agreed to ride shotgun in order to drive Brian's car back from Fremont after the operation. They set off on a bright California November morning. Spirits were high in a cynically pleasant way. The tasks ahead seemed silly but achievable. On the way to the airport Brian begins to muse about what a European visitor would make of the apartment developments lining the freeway corridor, and the general underbelly of the American urban environment. Ken points out that most European towns have tourist offices and wonders what an office in Fremont would do when asked to direct an Italian to the nearest cafe serving espresso. They imagine there are tourist offices which sponsor tours of this sort for visiting Japanese. Driving past a particularly distressed looking mall Brian says, "I had to go in there once. Everyone who comes to the US should go there if they want to know what we are really like. I mean you see pictures of stores and neighborhoods in the Soviet Union and try to imagine how they live. Well, they should see this and try to imagine how we live." On the way out of the airport Michael notices the usual office and warehouse buildings. "They should put all the airports in one place, so all these awfully functional buildings could be contained. Maybe in the middle of west Texas, where no one would see them unless they had to." He looks around. "We could go to Alco Metals, at least one of these places has some weird stuff inside it." "Yeah, they are in fairly poor taste," Ken replies. "We can do anything you want on the way back", he is worried about getting the part, on which the days game plan depends, in a timely manner. "Aren't they Kitsch, though?" he asks to distract Michael. "Well, I think there's a difference between bad taste and poor taste. Kitsch is bad taste, this is poor taste." Ken's attempt at distraction works, Kitsch is one of Michael's favorite topics. "Yeah, so?" "Bad taste is wearing a red evening gown and black fishnets to your sister's wedding. Poor taste is dressing like that for your father's funeral." "So, Kitsch is context-sensitive, it depends on who you are?" "It would seem so." The freeway is sheathed by a wall, constantly under construction, to reduce its visceral experience for the occupants of housing developments on the other side. It's like shooting through a long noisy tunnel whose ceiling is obscured by haze. "Looks like we might make it. It's only 9:20. We might get this done before noon. Then what will we do?" Until then, Michael had assumed that they would be done before noon. "We can go to this retail fixtures store and look for postcard racks". He found the listing in the Yellow Pages and has been secretly waiting for an excuse to go to Fremont to accomplish this. "Fine by me." They get off the freeway and meander through side streets to the radiator shop. Apartment buildings, single family housing developments, and malls pass by in an orderly manner. "As far as I can tell this entire town is based on the automobile", Ken says. "I don't think they actually sell anything but cars and parts down here". "You know, this looks so normal to me, maybe I should go to some other country for a while. Its not even that disturbing anymore." They find the radiator guy and the radiator itself. The guy explains some of the details of his business and then directs them to a Kmart to get antifreeze. After they enter the store Ken stops and says, "Where's the music?" "And blue light specials, I'm disappointed". The music starts. "Ah, thats better. Do you think we can find the auto parts section without getting separated?" "I'll try not to wander off", Michael promises. "If we loose sight of each other, I'll send up a signal flare." Safely out of the store and weaving through a housing tract to the operating theater Michael says, "I always get the feeling that I'm going to get lost in one of these places and either starve to death or be killed by the natives. Look at the detailing on these houses, oops, I mean homes, that one's white, this one's brown. Cool." "It's in front of Jim's brother's house. At least they said we could use their hose. I've only met them once. He's a chemist." Ken isn't really paying attention. The radiator is installed, with only minor setbacks, on the second try. Ken begins to think about how to spend the rest of the day enjoying himself. Michael fills the radiator with antifreeze and water while Ken reinstalls the dashboard, which was removed to check the temperature idiot light on the previous day's diagnostic foray. They start the engine. Water seems to be dripping from the lower radiator hose. Ken guns the engine. Steam gusts up from below the carburetor. More steam is spewing from the exhaust pipe. Michael gets suspicious. They stop the engine. The water level has gone down significantly. Michael checks the oil dipstick. There is water on it. "I think the head gasket's blown, too. Maybe the head as well. And that hose must be bad. We should have checked it before we put it back on." "Do you think we can drive it anyway?" "Do you have any emotional attachment to this vehicle?" "Not really. I mean I never got laid in it or anything." "No, you know, do you actually care about it, like Max for instance." Max is Michael's rusty, but reliable, truck which he has owned for nearly twenty years. "I mean I would fix Max, but it would not be the rational thing to do." "Lets get some lunch and think about it." They find a tiny Mexican restaurant which has good burritos and posole. "We should come down here tomorrow morning for breakfast," Ken says. "The restroom does remind me of New York." "So I had dinner with Angela this week." "And how's it going?" Michael is curious because Deanna has been trying to fix one of them up with her for a month now. "I knocked over my beer and she said, 'So, you're not in your body'." "And you said, 'I don't want to be in my body right now, I want to be in yours,' hm?" "Yeah, sure. I said, 'No, I spilled my beer.' We were walking around North Beach and she pointed to that place that used to be El Cid, the one that's got the stupid 'Jazz and Culture in in the City or Whatever' mural with a Chinese fast food place in the basement. She says, 'Didn't that used to be . . . ' 'A strip joint,' I tell her. 'Yeah. it's been this way for over a year now. Kind of sad, ya know . . . ' and she goes 'What?!'. So I say, 'Well it is . . . I mean, which would you rather have there a strip joint or a chinese fast food place with a stupid mural on it?' 'Never mind,' she says, 'I've got you categorized.' So I said, 'Fine. Now I don't have to do any more work . . . ' "At least someone can peg you." "We're having dinner together tomorrow night. She asked me." Ken shrugs. "Let's get the hose and try it." The first parts store sends them to a second. On the way, they check out a store called 'Guns and Ammo', which is exactly as advertised, nothing more. The second is next to a motorcycle wrecking yard. While Ken gets the directions to a third, Michael examines a line of badly scarred Japanese organ donor specials. They all look the same, with different scrapes installed. The third finally has the necessary hose. On the way back to the Rabbit they pass through an intersection from the only remaining uncovered direction. "I feel as if I'm getting to know this area pretty well", Michael says, "Do you know where we're going?" "It may not be the most efficient route, but I'm not lost yet." They install the hose, fill as many bottles as can be found with water, and set off. "I'll pull over if I think I need to. You flash your lights if you think I should. OK?" A couple of miles down the freeway, the amount of steam coming from the tailpipe diminishes radically and Michael flashes his lights. Just at that moment they enter a wall construction zone and there is no place to pull over. Five seconds later an explosion of steam comes from under the hood and Ken shrugs his hands in the air in defeat. They limp off at the next exit. A different hose has burst. Ken calls Triple-A from a Kentucky Fried Chicken stand. His membership has expired. They say they will tow him for six dollars a mile. He hangs up. "Its probably thirty miles," Michael does some quick estimates. "Lets' me an' you get a Co-Cola an' sit on that there bus bench ta think," he tries to imitate what Brian might have heard someone in Alabama say when faced with a similar situation. "How do you suppose they deal with this stuff in third world countries?" "Cows, probably." After a few minutes of talking about how nice the weather has been Michael says, "I guess you still want it." "I feel responsible." "Well, lets get Max, rent a tow bar, and get it back to your place then." "Traffic's going to get bad soon." "We can do it this evening. Maybe I'll have enough time to finish painting the back of my house after all. I've been trying to do it for the last four weeks." "I owe you two dinners." "In addition to the one you already owe me." "Oh, OK." They get a tow bar. Ken feels so guilty he helps Michael paint. After the sun sets, Michael makes Cappuchino with shots of Irish whisky to help in understanding the instruction sheet for the tow bar. The bar has three ends, four chains, five spring tensioners, and eight hooks. They realize that they will have to operate it in the dark. They leave Brian's car at Michael's house and set out in Max. On the way down Michael begins to use the hillbilly accent to excess. "Why this here hook don't go inta that there thingamajig." Ken has no choice but to maintain his sense of humor. "Looks like y'all got da balls on da wrong end." Michael then tells the story of the boat trailer that once disconnected from Max and pulled out to pass them on a downhill slope. After some initial confusion, it is determined that the tow bar is not designed for use on the bumper of a VW Rabbit. Each part is slightly too big, too small, too short, too long, or angled in the wrong direction. They fiddle with it some more. Wedge this in there. Turn that around. Finally they come up with a plan that involves a screw driver and an extra piece of chain which was mistakenly included with the tow bar. One of the spring tensioner nuts is stripped and can't be tightened. The plan evolves further to include a second, bent, screwdriver and a coat hanger Ken finds in his trunk. Two hours later they go for a spin around the block. Finally on the freeway Michael says, "I was supposed to have dinner with Jean tonight. Can I cash in both dinners at once?" "Anything. I'll buy it. I'll buy you anything. Masa's. We're going." A Firebird blasts past them in the next lane. "You gonna let him get away with that?" "Yup." Michael looks in the rear view mirror, "This car's been following us." "I know, amazing isn't it." The Rabbit remains dutifully attached to Max. Michael pulls up beyond Ken's house so they can roll the car down the slightly inclined street into an available parking space. They are two thirds of the way through disconnecting the vehicles when Michael has the only intelligent thought he's had all day. "Y'all better set the parkin' brake on this thang, Clem, or its gonna roll on down the street, an the doors is locked." "Good idea." "I'm not in my body right now, please leave a message and I'll get back to you." Michael takes Max back to his warm garage, gets the Toyota, and picks up Jean. He cannot explain, in a normal tone of voice, why he's driving Brian's car, which is full of auto parts, tools, rags, newspapers, and a cappuchino cup, with saucer. They decide to go to Chez Panisse, the home of California Cusine, because, even though it is nearing 10 o'clock, there is a 45 minute wait everywhere. By the time they are seated, they are discussing Kitsch again. The waiter comes over and says, "Is there anything I can explain for you?" Michael says, "Yes, can you tell the difference between Kitsch and poor taste?" They all laugh, so the waiter plays along, "Most of the time." "Well, we spent the day in the suburbs and we're not sure anymore. Maybe a bottle of wine would help." "I'm sure it won't hurt." Ken says, "You know it just occured to me. If you're considering writing any of this down, I'll kill you." By the end of dinner they have finally drifted away from the days adventure. Jean says, "Once I asked this guy what he did, and he said, 'I pierce', not 'I do piercing'. I thought it was a strange use of the word. He did the body piercing stuff. They do it to say, 'If I can endure this pain, I can survive being the way I am in this screwed up society.'" "Sort of post-modern Flagellantes, eh?" "Hell, piercing's for wimps," Ken growls in his best Bukowski voice, "We've got cars in Fremont." XXX (c) 1991 M. I. Smith