Hammerhead

Years after my time at Emily Griffith I learned through another Emily Griffith student that our esteemed leader, Brad, was prone to throbbing migraine headaches which would keep him bed-bound for a solid day. But at the time, I just assumed that he had witnessed enough stupidity in a session that his tolerance was maximized and he needed some time away from the mayhem. The days when he was gone were days when a lenient and uninformed substitute would take his place and the lackadaisical approach of the other students to normal activities transformed to pure sloth. All the rules were broken (people parked in the shop instead of at the meters outside, pocketed tools from the rental area, smoked even more dope and departed from the garage hours before class was to end). The teacher who took his place was nice enough: an inquisitive fellow from one of the other shops in the school, but he had no idea what to make of the ragtag group of individuals who purported to be learning something about cars. He himself knew less than we did, which was not good.

On these days, there was an unusually abusive streak of insults leveled at Charlie, to the point where he would hole himself up in a room somewhere with a book or often just leave. Charlie's short stint with David's group had ended badly. David admitted that even he, who seemingly could tolerate any type of grating personality flaw, struggled to assist in Charlie's education.

"So what was the problem?" I asked David one afternoon as we sat gathered in the lunch area.

"I don't know man. He just didn't seem to want to listen. I mean, I was going really slow trying to explain how to get a strut out the car. Not a big deal right? But every time I would show him how to use a tool or where to put it, that dude just wigged out. I tried man, really I did. I just couldn't get him to cooperate and everybody else in the group took off."

The following week I came in to find my group partner John chatting with his girlfriend on the cell phone and everyone else milling around the shop aimlessly, and knew right away that Brad was not going to be around.

"Brad sick today?" I asked John when he reached a point with his girlfriend where she was still talking but he had stopped listening.

"No, he had a little accident," John said, has voice low so as not to alert his girlfriend of the break he was taking from her rambling, "I guess he was climbing up a latter to fix one of the lifts and he left a hammer on the highest step. When he came down he forgot to take the hammer off the ladder and when he closed the thing up, the hammer came right down on his head." John muttered a few more words to his girlfriend. "I guess he's luck he isn't dead."

In the far corner of the shop I could actually see Brad with one of the school administrators. I could tell, even from a distance, that Brad's perfectly rounded pompodour was marred; a fluffy triangle of normal hair poking out like a couch cushion that had been punctured.

When he was done with the administrator he came over to me, his eyes with the faraway look of Dorothy dreaming of Oz.

"I need you to do me a favor," he said, "I need you to help Charlie to get those CV axles out of the Malibu today. I know you have experience working with teenagers and Charlie just needs some help. I would really appreciate your assistance with this because he really is having a tough time with the other people in the class. Could you do that for me?"

Even though I was transfixed by Brad's hair I pulled myself out of my daze long enough to hear what he had said. I actually felt honored that Brad would ask me for this favor and that he understood my abilities enough to seek my assistance.

"Sure," I said with little or no understanding of what I was in for.