Christopher Boucher - How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive

I dusted the motor off, carried it upstairs and leaned it against the wall outside the VW’s bedroom door. Then I knocked. “VW,” I whispered.

He was snoring, loudly.

“VW,” I said in a normal voice.

I heard him stop snoring. He murmured something unintelligible.

“Gotta wake up, buddy.”

“Dad! What time is it?”

“There’s a story downtown,” I said. “We need to go.”

I heard shuffling across the floor, and then the VW opened the door. “I’m sleeping!” He was dressed in pajamas and his eyes were almost completely dark.

“I know, kiddo,” I said. “But there’s a story—”

“Can’t you just walk?” he said.

“With the power?”

He threw his arms in disgust. “I can’t believe this,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s totally—” Then he saw the motor leaning against the wall. “What is that ?” he said.

• • •

The night was amazingly, astoundingly dark . I carried a jigsaw, a screw-gun, some tools and the motor. The VW trailed behind me.

“This is crap,” he said. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“I can’t control when things happen ,” I told him. “All I can do is respond to them, alright?” I stopped and told the VW to stand still and I placed the jigsaw against the metal.

“Well it’s lame, Dad,” he said. “I finally get to drive and all I do is taxi you all over town.”

“I’m trying to concentrate, alright?” I barked, and I pulled the trigger on the jigsaw and began cutting a small hole in the VW’s engine panel.

“Ouch!” the VW said. “That freakin’ hurts.”

“That’s why they call it a job ,” I said between my teeth. “No one said it would be fun.”

“If it’s your job, why am I the one getting cut?”

When I finished cutting out the square, I drilled pilot holes at the corners. Then I fastened the motor to the sheet metal. It fit almost perfectly, but the VW complained that it was too heavy. “How am I supposed to drive with this thing?” he brumbled.

“I don’t have time to go through every detail with you right now — it’s my first assignment and the story’s getting cold,” I told him. “You’re just going to have to figure some things out on your own, alright?”

I took a spare morning cable from the VW’s storage compartment and ran it from the distributor to the second transmission. Then I started up the car, told the VW to stay still, and got out to check the outboard motor. Pure as pork, its blades were spinning.

I stood back. “Hey. Not bad, huh?”

The VW shook his head.

I got in and we pulled out of the driveway and down Crescent, the outboard motor bouncing and finning as we tore through the pre-dawn. We drove out to 9, took a left and approached the city center. As we came down the hill towards Main Street I could see the water line; it crept right up to the steps of the Academy of Music. Main Street, I saw, was completely submerged.

“Are you serious?” the VW said, staring at the water.

“Didn’t I tell you?” I said. “It’s like I’m always saying, you’ve got to be ready for anything. You can’t just assume things will stay the way you remembered them.”

“No shit,” the VW said.

“OK — you ready?” I said. I pressed the narrapedal to move us forward.

“No — wait a second, wait a second!” the VW said. We stopped abruptly. “I can’t do this, Dad — I’m not a boat! ”

“Just read the water and stay open to it,” I said. “Think very buoyant thoughts. And stay close to the curb, alright?”

The VW didn’t say anything.

I checked his fuel gauges. “You have enough fuel?”

“Right this minute? Plenty,” he said sarcastically.

“OK,” I said. “Release the break, will you?”

“ You’re on the pedals,” he said.

I shook my head. “They’re all the way out — it’s your fear, not mine,” I said.

Slowly, the VW let go of his fear and we eased towards the water. As he inched forward it covered his wheels and headlights, then rose to his fenders and almost to the windows. I felt the wheels leave the ground and the motor kick in — it kept us afloat and pushed us forward through the darkness.

I was immediately proud of myself. “You see?” I said to the VW “Your Dad knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?”

“Isn’t this really bad for my skin?” the VW said.

“Why do you always have to focus on the negatives?” I said. “Anyway, I don’t see why it would be — it’s no different than swimming in a pool or going through a carwash. Is it?”

“Those things aren’t good for my skin, either,” the VW said.

“Bah — you’re fine,” I said.

It was clear as we moved down Main Street that there wasn’t much happening yet; some CityDogs were standing on the sidewalk, staring at the water that ran from curb to curb, and a crane was shining its lights down into the black water and lifting cars out onto the sidewalk. But that was it — the stores were closed and the sidewalks were still sleeping.

I steered us past Cha Cha Cha and the Mercantile and towards one of the CityDogs on the curb. When we coasted up next to him I grabbed my book of power, How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive , pulled myself through the driver’s side window and up onto the sidewalk and asked the CityDog if I could speak with him. I told him I was ____________, that I was reporting for the Wheel . I held the book up to his face. “Can you tell me what happened here?” I said.

“Street filled with water,” he said. His eyes were glazed and he was eating a piece of fruit.

“Does anyone know how it happened?”

“Nope,” he said.

I could hear the engine of my book turning as it recorded his testimony.

“And what’s being done about it?”

He took another bite of his fruit, and when he did I saw what it was. This Dog was eating a Kaddish Fruit —a grown prayer, a religious high. “Right now we’re just trying to clear out the street,” he said. “Mayor Statue-of-Coolidge is supposed to address the town later today.”

“Do you know what time?”

“Don’t think they’ve announced it,” the CityDog said.

I tried to think of more questions to ask, anything to get at the story, but I was distracted by the fruit in his hand — the color of it, a violent blue. I lowered my power book and looked into the Dog’s eyes. His corneas were soft as pillows.

He stared back at me. “What?” he said.

I pointed to his paw, the Kaddish. “Mind if I ask where you got that?”

He smiled. “You can ask,” he said.

“There used to be a field of those near the house where I grew up,” I told him. “I didn’t think they grew around here anymore.”

“Well,” he grinned, “they do.”

“I could use one or two, you know?” I whispered.

“Who couldn’t?” the CityDog said.

“No, I mean I’m in a particularly bad lane right now. My father was killed by a tree not so long ago, his body driven off.”

The Dog pointed at me with his paw. “Those orchards out near Hampshire?”

“Yeah — Atkin’s,” I said.

“Sure, I worked that case,” the Dog said. “That was your Dad?”

I nodded.

“Man — I remember how bare that place was when we got there.” He shook his head. “Those trees strike and fucking vanish . Seen it happen a bunch of times. Anyway,” he said, looking down at his boots. “I’m sorry about it.”

I looked down at the VW. He was treading water and pleading with his eyes for us to go.

“Hey,” the Dog said. “Can you keep a secret?”

I turned the book of power off. “Of course I can,” I said.