Mad Matt, Grown-up

The urge to annoy people is so irresistible, sometimes. Especially when it’s somebody I’m paying to work and who wants my money. Tessa thinks I’m too hard on old Matt and he doesn’t understand when I’m teasing him. But he demonstrates that he understands by giving me regular dope slaps upside the head when I’m trying to help.

I had hired him to scrap the old van we towed home last week. The engine and transmission may bring a couple hundred, and several of the components were still good and will fit on another van in the family. So, old Matt tore into the job ripping out EVERYTHING! Even the lining and insulation. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing, but we had agreed on a flat price for the job, so I wasn’t paying him hourly.

When the time came to pull the engine, I hooked my tow strap up to one of the upright supports in the shed and the other end to the come-along chained to the engine. No. We didn’t pull the shed down. This story isn’t THAT funny. No, we just slid the engine forward so that we could hoist it upward. Remember, a van’s engine sits right under the windshield. Anyway, you have to wiggle it out of the compartment, sort of like a vaginal birth. In this case, Matt was the obstetrician, and his instruments were a yellow pine two-by-four and a come-along. His assistant, of course, was I. Me. But he could have managed without me in his opinion.

As Matt began to poke and pry at the sides of the engine, wiggling and working it out of its tight space, I grabbed another board and tried to help. “No!” he would scream at me. “Not there!” But his tone only encouraged me. That irresistible urge to annoy overtook me. I said, Want me to lift here? “No!” How about here? “No!” Want me to crank the come-along? “No! Go play!” he screamed. I’m not making that up. He really told me to “Go play!” Mike Goupil was there. He heard it. By this time, Mike and I were cracking up. Matt’s sentences had lengthened into indiscernible strings of syllables. I suppose he was listing his credentials at automotive engineering. I leaned back against the side of the house for support while I caught my breath.

I couldn’t resist one more jab as Matt strained to fasten the come-along to the steel A-frame support we had rigged to hoist the engine vertically. He was still in the midst of a stream of invective, the gist of which was very likely a review of my mechanical shortcomings. Want me to help you hang that up there? I asked. “No! You won’t do it right. You’ll git me kilt!” Yeah, I said. But at least I’m taller than you are. You need to get you some of them fancy brand of jeans. Shortass, I think they’re called. Matt told me to do something to myself. Mike nearly fell over backward in his chair.