Christopher Boucher - How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive

The song of that tree’s death rang out from my saw on Summit Mountain and rained down over the Valley. I hoped that somewhere, my Heart Attack Tree was hearing it, that he was realizing his fate, and that he was frightened.

I cut that tree into tiny logs and I left him there in a pile. Then I put my heart back in my chest and walked down the mountain.

BOW LAKE, NEW HAMPSHIRE

And now all of these ideas are coming to me — all of these stories.

One winter, I rented a small cabin on Bow Lake, New Hampshire — miles and miles away from Northampton — and the VW and I spent a week out there, walking along the deserted dirt roads that ran around the lake, reading books, renting movies and doing the things we were always too busy to do at home.

We’d gone there, though, because my son was growing more ill. Areas of his skin — his armpits, his neck — had started to turn brown. He had a terrible cough, and sometimes his scanner misfed stories. Often, he had trouble sleeping or lost track of time. Then, the VW and I were having breakfast at a diner called the Northwood and I struck up a conversation with an old wood stove. I told him a little about our situation — where we’d come from, that we were here on vacation, what we were vacationing from (Those days I spent most of my time either chasing stories for the Wheel or going to auditions with the VW, who’d decided in the months prior that he wanted to be an actor.). When the stove saw the VW shivering on his stool he said, “Looks like that kid could use a mechanic.”

I said, “You know of one?”

The stove nodded. “Cod’s name is Jerome. Lives at the bottom of the lake,” he said, “but he’s good.” The stove gave me the mechanic’s number, and I called him that very same day. I told him my son was a Volkswagen, explained his symptoms.

“Where you guys coming from?” said the voice on the phone.

“Western Mass — a town called Northampton.”

“No, oh. Oh, I know Northampton,” said the fish. “Did my cousin give you my number?”

“A wood stove that I met at the diner gave it to me.”

“Your son’s a Beetle?”

“A seventy-one,” I said.

“Right. Buzzy told me about him. The actor, right?”

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“I’ve been to Northampton many times — mostly for auditions.”

I was having trouble following him. “Can you fix him?”

“Oh. Oh, right, sure,” said the Cod. “No problem. Bring him by—,” he paused, “—how about Thursday?”

So I did; three days into our stay at Bow Lake, I helped the VW put on his wetsuit and we drove to the bottom of Bow Lake to see the fish mechanic. Deep we went, unconscious, hidden mind. It wasn’t a big lake, and there were only a few businesses at the bottom, so the garage was easy to find. We pulled up to the bay door, waited for it to raise and drove in. Then the fish mechanic came into the garage and pulled the door closed behind us. He was dressed in a grey jumpsuit and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. His flippers were dirty with oil and his eyes carried stories of steel. He immediately approached the VW and extended his hand. “Mr. Volkswagen,” he said.

The VW shook his hand but didn’t say anything.

“I’m very, very excited to meet you,” the Cod said. He stared at the VW and then at me. None of us said anything for a moment. Then the Cod pointed to the lift. “Let’s get started, yes?”

My son rolled onto the lift and the Cod raised it. As the platform rose, the fish pretended to investigate my son’s skin and engine. “Well,” he said, broccoliing it. “A lot of skin color change.”

“I’m pretty sure the problem’s with one of the transmissions.”

“I’m not sure about that — have you noticed all the rus—”

“Or the engineheart, which I still can’t find,” I said. “Can you give me any suggestions there?”

“For locating the engineheart?”

I nodded.

“It’s very hard to explain — they’re in different places in each car,” he said.

“Well he’s not burning right, or something. I tried to figure it out,” I said, shaking my head, “but I just can’t.”

But that garage turned out to be a scam. After a few minutes, I realized that this mechanic was nothing more than a lonely old trout from another book, looking for a few more pages. Like most of the mechanics that I’d brought the VW to, this fucking fish didn’t know the first thing about my son’s storyengine — he looked at it as if he’d never even seen a story before. All he did was run a few tests — then he just stood there with his fins crossed, staring at the car.

I stepped up next to him. “You said it’d be no problem over the phone,” I said.

He snapped his fingerfin. “Have you changed his memory oil?”

“His suffer oil?”

“Right, right. Have you changed that?”

“Of course I have — I change it every chapter.”

The fish leaned towards me. “Hey — he still going to casting calls?”

I stepped back. “He’s sick,” I said. “He’s really sick. You told me you could fix him. We made the trip down here.”

The fish’s eyes tried to send wires to mine. “Listen: This is a role, friend — it’s just something I’m doing until something better comes along. Right?” He nodded at the VW. “He have an agent?”

“What?”

“No, nothing. I’m just, well — I’m just asking. I’m an actor, too, and I’m looking for—”

“Take my son down,” I told him.

The fish’s face grew cold. “I haven’t figured out what’s the matter yet,” he said.

“Take him down, I said.”

The fish mechanic walked guiltily over to the lever and lowered the lift, and the VW rolled off. His face was bright. “Am I fixed?” he said.

I didn’t answer him; I just put his flippers back on and prepared him for the trip back up to the surface. As I did, the Cod sidled up to me. “Here’s my card, at least,” he said. “If you know anyone who needs an extra or something.”

I ignored him; I finished putting the VW’s wetsuit on and then I stepped into the driver’s seat and closed the door. As I did, the Cod reached for the VW’s hand and shook it. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. VW,” he said.

The VW smiled gently.

“I read a review of one of your performances in the Wheel . I was very impressed.”

“Let’s go,” I said. I pulled the VW out of the bay and the fish closed the garage door behind us.

As we coasted along the lake bottom, the VW pressed me for details. “Didn’t he say anything ?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him about my skin ?”

“Yes.”

“And he had no reaction?”

I didn’t answer him.

“It’s something serious, isn’t it?” the VW said.

“He’s not a real mechanic, kiddo,” I said. “He’s never even seen a storyengine before.”

The VW pounded his blue fist on the watery pavement. “Why is it that no one has ever seen my engine before?” he said, his voice quivering. He glared at me. “What’s wrong with me?”

Soon I would accept the fact that it was futile — that neither I nor any of the mechanics that I visited knew exactly what was wrong with the Volkswagen. My son was a mystery.

“Nothing, buddy — there’s nothing wrong with you,” I promised him. I turned the pagewheel and steered him up, up, up towards the bright surface.

TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE

Not long after I spoke with him, the Cooley-Dickinson Hospital was found dead in his hospital bed, his face stumped beyond recognition. Two Dogs were guarding the door at the time, but the Tree got in anyway — by scaling the building, apparently. The Dogs heard the smashing of glass, but by the time they got inside the Tree was gone, Cooley-Dickinson defaced.