corrosion

The minivan in front of me finally pulls off to the third garage from the left. The sedan that was there when I first pulled up is still in the second stall. The break lights flash on the car in the first stall. It pulls forward and a man, slightly younger than me, in a blue jumpsuit presses a button to the left side of the door. It rolls on its track and comes off the ground until it’s a few feet over the man’s head. He gestures his arm, beckoning me forward, and directs me to line my tires with the markings.

Once I’m in, he puts his palm up and I stop, placing the car in park. I keep the engine running, reach down to the left, near the floor, and pull the hood release. There’s no resistance. The toggle swings back and forth. I didn’t feel the typical tug and tell Jumpsuit that I don’t think it’s released. He tries to pull up on the front of the hood. Maybe there’s dirt encrusted in the latch, or water along the edge creating suction.

The hood won’t budge. He bumps along the edge, trying to determine if something’s stuck or loose. A second after he drops to the concrete to inspect from the bottom, a larger man in a button-down and pants of the same color comes toward us from the right. He’s taller than I, by at least a foot. He must weigh just over two hundred pounds. He wipes his hands on a stained towel. He has a familiar face.

He asks how things are going, looking at me oddly. I mention how my release cable is likely broken. Jumpsuit gets back up from the floor and rubs his hands against the sides of his jumpsuit, wiping the sand of his palms. He tries again to bump along the edge of the hood. I turn back to the bigger man, see the name stitched into his suit, and realize, obviously after he had, what the familiarity was.

Mike had been one of those many friends that I’d had in grade school and lost during high school. There had been far more that disappeared between high school and college just as there were many that faded away after that. It's how things go. I hadn’t talked to him in at least eight years. He stood there, maybe noticing my recognition, maybe not, and watched Jumpsuit try to get to my engine.

I used to spend a lot of time with Mike during school, but our friendship lagged outside of its walls. I remember recesses where we’d play tag in third grade, race through imagined obstacle courses in forth, and then test how high we could swing in fifth. We were on different teams in a bowling league during middle school. I’m sure we talked about important events of the day. Events I can’t remember now.

I looked up at him not sure if I should remark on how long it’s been. Ask him how things have been. Tell him how college was, how my job’s going, where I’m living and other things he’d never care about. The small talk would be tiresome and he’d go back home able to say that he’d seen me, randomly, today. No one else would care. I hadn’t talked to him when we shared a building for eight hours each day. Why talk to him now, when we didn’t even share a state.

I wonder why he works at the quick oil change shop in town. I wonder if he’s got a kid, like so many of our classmates already. I wonder if he still spends his time drinking with the same friends he did ten years ago. He’s thicker than he was. I wonder if he has a house in town. I wonder if he’s still living at his parents’. I wonder a lot of things, but don’t bother asking.

Jumpsuit explains he’d have to get in, track the cable, and replace it, none of which he had time or resources for now. He says that once I get where I’m going I should have a mechanic fix it up and get the oil changed there. I briefly remember that I’m a thousand miles over the recommended already, with four hundred to put on today, but the awkwardness makes me turn and get back into the car. I shut the door behind me and look up at Mike.

The recognition I thought was there had faded. My hair is much different than it was and I’ve obviously aged. Maybe he didn’t remember me. Maybe his recognition was a reflection of mine. I don’t remember any specific activities we shared. We weren’t close. We didn’t share too many interests and the superficial friendship disintegrated easily. He’s one of many people with familiar faces and forgotten stories.

Like the cable between the toggle at my feet and the latch of my hood, the connection is broken. It was strained with lack of use. It grew brittle with changing environments. It’s corroded and fragile, but, unlike the release cable, there’s no motivation to fix it.