TumbleDweeeb

Episode 3.5: Mad Mechanics: The Stephanie Situation
Written by: Emmitt Owens
As narrated by: Waylon

Waylon, Intro: Well now, folks, let me tell you about the day that changed everything at Mad Mechanics – the day Stephanie Davis decided to grace the boys with her presence. Now, Stephanie was what you might call a “distraction on legs” – a 28-year-old blonde bombshell who could make grown men forget their own names just by walkin’ into a room.

   It all started on a Tuesday morning when the humidity was thicker than Aunt Myrtle’s peach cobbler and just as likely to glue your mouth shut if you don’t chew carefully. Chester was deep into the engine bay of a 1982 Camaro Z28 that belonged to Tommy Rutherford. That car was a real beauty – midnight blue with silver racing stripes – but it was runnin’ rougher than a gravel road in a thunderstorm.
       “Gary!” Chester called out, his voice muffled by the maze of hoses and wires. “Hand me that timing light. This distributor’s about as accurate as a dead clock.”
   Gary was just reachin’ for the tool when the shop door opened and in walked Stephanie, wearin’ a sundress that could’ve stopped traffic in downtown Muscle Shoals and a smile that could’ve melted steel. The timing light slipped right out of Gary’s hands and crashed to the concrete floor.
       “Well, ‘ey there, boys,” Stephanie said in a voice sweeter than honey on a hot biscuit. “Mind if I hang around for a while? Y’all know I can’t stay away from this old place for too long.”
   Now, Stephanie had been comin’ around Mad Mechanics since she was knee high to a grasshopper. Her granddaddy, Earl Davis, had owned the shop back in the ’80s before Chester and Gary took it over. She’d spent countless summer days playin’ in the shop while Earl worked on cars, learnin’ the difference between a wrench and a screwdriver before most kids learned their ABCs.
   Chester’s head popped up from under the hood so fast he nearly knocked himself unconscious on the air cleaner. Even after all these years of Stephanie droppin’ by occasionally, she still had the same effect on the boys that she’d had since she grew up from that grease-monkey little girl into the blonde bombshell standin’ before them.
       “Course, darlin’,” Chester managed to stammer, wipin’ his hands on a rag that hadn’t been clean since mullets were fashionable on purpose. “You know you’re always welcome here. This place is as much yours as anybody’s.”
   Gary nodded in agreement, remembering how Earl Davis used to let little Stephanie “help” by handin’ him tools and organizin’ nuts and bolts. “Your granddaddy would be proud to see how this old place is still runnin’,” he said with a grin.
   Stephanie walked over to a familiar corner of the shop where an old wooden stool still sat – the same one her granddaddy had made for her when she was seven years old so she could reach the workbench. “Y’all remember when Granddaddy Earl used to let me think I was helpin’ by sortin’ washers by size?” she laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
       “I remember,” Gary chuckled. “You were the most organized seven-year-old mechanic in Alabama. Had them washers wrangled like cattle—way better’n most full-grown fools with a toolbox.”
   Professor Thibodaux, who was normally immune to such distractions, dropped his notebook and had to scramble to pick up the scattered pages. Even knowing Stephanie’s history with the shop, he still wasn’t prepared for the effect she had on everyone’s concentration.
   The only one who seemed unaffected was Reedus, who was in the corner workin’ on what appeared to be some kind of contraption involving a bicycle pump, a rubber inner tube, and enough duct tape to cover a winder.
       “Well,” Gary said, findin’ his voice, “we’re fine-tunin’ the performance on this here Camaro. Got ourselves a new distributor to install, plus new spark plugs and plug wires.”
     “That sounds so complicated,” Stephanie said, battin’ her eyelashes. “Y’all must be real smart to understand all that.”
   About that time, the shop door opened again, and in walked three of the most regular fixtures of Mad Mechanics you ever did see. There was Old Pete, who spent most of his days sittin’ on the bench at the Chill n’ Fill’s parking lot watchin’ the world go by (and apparently had decided somethin’ more interestin’ was happenin’ at the garage), Cooter Williams from the feed store, and Bobby Jenkins, who never seemed to have a job but always had time to hang around and offer unsolicited mechanical advice.
       “Afternoon, boys,” Old Pete said, settlin’ into his usual spot by the tool cabinet. “Thought we might just stop by and see how the work’s comin’ along.”
     “Brought cards,” Cooter added helpfully, pullin’ out a deck that looked like it had survived few family feuds.
   Bobby just nodded and started examinin’ the Camaro like he was plannin’ to buy it, which everyone knew he couldn’t afford even if he sold everything he owned.

Intermission: “Now folks, what happened next was like watchin’ a Rube Goldberg machine designed by people who’d never heard of Rube Goldberg but had plenty of experience with things goin’ spectacularly wrong in the most complicated ways possible.

   While Gutglor went to fetch his moonshine, Chester tried to continue workin’ on the Camaro, but the rubber cement had made everything sticky. Every tool he picked up seemed to be permanently attached to somethin’ else. Gary was stuck to a spark plug, which was stuck to the workbench, which was somehow connected to Bobby Jenkins’ coffee cup.
   Reedus, meanwhile, was tryin’ to fix his contraption, which had apparently achieved some kind of perpetual motion. He’d rigged it with a canister of rubber cement—”for sealant,” he claimed—which was now continuously sprayin’ a fine mist of adhesive while makin’ a sound like a dying accordion. Half the workbench, most of his shirt, and a passing fly that didn’t make it out in time had already paid the price.
       “Turn it off!” the Professor shouted, but Reedus was frantically pressin’ buttons and pullin’ levers, which only seemed to make the situation worse.
     “I can’t!” Reedus yelled back. “It’s achieved sentience! It’s beyond my control now!”
   Stephanie had climbed up on her old wooden stool to get above the chaos, and from her perch, she had a perfect view of the automotive apocalypse unfoldin’ before her. “This is exactly like the time Granddaddy tried to use a paint sprayer to apply undercoating,” she called out over the noise.
   Old Pete, still tryin’ to play cards despite being partially adhered to his chair, looked up at her. “Your granddaddy did some crazy things, but this takes the cake.”
      “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Stephanie replied with a grin.
   Sure enough, Gutglor returned with a gallon jug of his moonshine just as Reedus’s contraption reached peak malfunction. Without hesitation, Gutglor started pourin’ moonshine on everything, which did indeed dissolve the rubber cement but also created a highly flammable fog that hung in the air like an alcoholic cloud.
   Meanwhile, the three visitors had set up a card game on a workbench, sippin’ coffee from mismatched mugs and pretendin’ to be interested in automotive repair while obviously just enjoyin’ the scenery and each other’s company.
   Stephanie wandered over to look at an old photograph pinned to the bulletin board – a faded picture of her granddaddy Earl standin’ next to a ’79 Trans Am, grinnin’ and holdin’ a wrench like it was a trophy.
       “Chester,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, “you think Granddaddy would be proud of what y’all have done with this place?”
   Chester stopped what he was doin’ and looked at the picture, then at Stephanie. For a moment, the chaos of the shop seemed to fade away. “Darlin’, Earl Davis was the finest mechanic and the best man I ever knew. Every day we try to run this place the way he would’ve wanted. And seein’ you here… well, it’s like havin’ a piece of him still around.”
   Stephanie’s eyes got a little misty, and she squeezed Chester’s greasy hand. “He always said this shop was about more than fixin’ cars. Said it was about fixin’ people’s problems and givin’ them a place to belong.”
       “Still is,” Chester replied, his voice thick with emotion.
   The moment was interrupted when Gary, who’d been tryin’ to impress everyone with his spark plug expertise, managed to drop an entire set of plugs, which scattered across the concrete floor like metallic confetti. The sound was so loud it made everyone jump, including Axl, who’d been nappin’ peacefully in the corner.
       “Sunny Beaches!” Gary hollered, then immediately looked apologetic. “Sorry, Stephanie. Didn’t mean to cuss in front of a lady.”
   In the corner, Reedus was still workin’ on his mysterious contraption, completely oblivious to the emotional moment or Gary’s spark plug catastrophe. He’d now added what appeared to be a kitchen colander, three bicycle spokes, and a section of garden hose to his creation.
       “Reedus,” the Professor called out, desperate for any distraction from the chaos around him, “what exactly are you buildin’ over there? It’s starting to look like something from a science fiction movie.”
    “Glad you asked!” Reedus replied, his wild hair now decorated with rubber cement and duct tape residue. “This here’s my revolutionary flat tire repair system. See, when you get a flat, instead of changin’ the tire, you just hook this pump up to the valve stem, connect this rubber tube contraption through the colander for filtration, and it’ll seal the hole from the inside while inflatin’ the tire at the same time!”
   Professor Thibodaux adjusted his spectacles and stared at the contraption like he was deciphering instructions from IKEA . “The colander is for… filtration?”
       “Course!” Reedus explained enthusiastically. “Gotta filter out any debris that might be in the air before it goes into the tire. That’s just common sense.”
   Gary, who was still on his hands and knees collectin’ scattered spark plugs, looked up from the floor. “Reedus, that don’t make a lick of sense. Air don’t need filterin’ when you’re puttin’ it in a tire.”
       “Shows how much you know,” Reedus replied confidently. “Clean air makes for better tire pressure. It’s science.”
   The Professor opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, apparently decidin’ that some battles weren’t worth fightin’.
   About that time, Gutglor came wanderin’ in from the back of the shop, carryin’ a watermelon under each arm and grinnin’ like he’d just discovered the secret to eternal happiness. Behind him, Axl trotted along carryin’ a bag of hot dogs in his mouth like a furry grocery delivery service.
       “Boys!” Gutglor announced, “I brought lunch! Fresh watermelons from my patch, plus some hot dogs for grillin’. Now I just gotta figure out how to cook ’em without a proper grill.”
   Stephanie clapped her hands together. “That’s so sweet of you, Gutglor. But how are you gonna cook hot dogs without a grill?”
   Gutglor’s eyes lit up like he’d just solved some unsolved mysteries. “That’s where my engineering skills come into play, darlin’. Watch this.”
   He disappeared into the shop and returned draggin’ the portable Millermatic, but somehow managed to trip over Gary, who was still crawlin’ around collectin’ spark plugs. Both men went down in a tangle of limbs, with the welding unit cart rollin’ across the shop like a runaway grocery cart until it crashed into Reedus’s tire repair contraption.
   The collision caused Reedus’s creation to activate, sendin’ a spray of rubber cement and air through the colander, which created a shower of filtered adhesive that coated half the shop in anorhee fine mist of sticky residue.
       “Not again!,” Bobby Jenkins observed from his card game, as rubber cement dripped from his hair.
     “REEDUS!” Chester hollered, but his voice was muffled because he’d instinctively ducked under the Camaro’s hood, which now looked like it had been attacked by a very artistic vandal.
   Stephanie, somehow, had managed to avoid the chaos entirely and was laughin’ so hard she had tears streamin’ down her face. “Y’all are better entertainment than cable television!”
   Gutglor, meanwhile, had untangled himself from Gary and was surveyin’ the damage with the calm acceptance of a man who’d seen worse disasters. “Well,” he announced, “I reckon we can still make that grill. Just gonna need to clean this adhesive off the welding equipment first.”
       “With what?” Gary asked, still covered in rubber cement and holdin’ a handful of spark plugs.
     “I got some a’ma’moonshine in the truck,” Gutglor replied cheerfully. “That’ll dissolve just about anything.”
       “Gutglor,” Chester said carefully, “are you makin’ a barbecue grill out of car parts?”
     “Shore am!” Gutglor replied proudly, sparks flyin’ from his welding torch. “This brake rotor makes a perfect firebox, and this exhaust pipe will be the chimney. Gonna be the most unique grill in Alabama!”
   The Professor watched this improvised metallurgy with the fascination of a scientist observing a new species. “That’s… actually quite innovative. Though I question the food safety implications.”
       “Food safety’s for sissies,” Gutglor declared, puttin’ the finishing touches on his creation. “This baby’ll cook hot dogs better than any store-bought grill.”
   Meanwhile, Chester was still tryin’ to work on the Camaro while dealin’ with the triple distraction of Stephanie, the card players, and Gutglor’s welding project. He’d managed to get the old distributor out, but installin’ the new one was provin’ challenging with so many distractions.
       “Now,” Chester explained to Stephanie, who was watchin’ intently, “the trick to installin’ a distributor is gettin’ the timing just right. You gotta line up the rotor with number one cylinder when it’s at top dead center.”
     “That sounds real complicated,” Stephanie said, leanin’ even closer. “You must be awful smart to know all that.”
   Chester puffed up like a peacock and promptly dropped the distributor cap, which bounced across the floor and under the workbench where the card players were seated.
       “I’ll get it!” all three card players volunteered simultaneously, nearly knockin’ each other over in their eagerness to help.
    “This is like watchin’ a comedy show,” Reedus observed, still workin’ on his tire repair contraption.
   Gary was havin’ his own troubles with the spark plugs. In his distracted state, he’d managed to cross-thread two plugs and gap the rest to completely wrong specifications.
       “Gary,” the Professor said gently, “I believe that plug is gapped to approximately point ohhh-six-five inches. The specification for this engine is point ohhh-four-five.”
     “Right,” Gary mumbled, completely flustered. “I knew that.”
   About this time, Gutglor had finished his automotive barbecue grill and was ready for a test run. He loaded it up with charcoal, lit it up, and stood back to admire his handiwork.
       “Boys,” he announced proudly, “feast your eyes on the finest grill ever constructed from recycled automotive components!”
   The grill was actually workin’, though it looked like somethin’ that belonged in a post-apocalyptic movie. Smoke was risin’ from the brake rotor firebox, and the whole contraption had a distinctly automotive aroma.
       “That’s amazing,” Stephanie said, clappin’ her hands. “Y’all are so creative!”
   Gutglor beamed with pride and pulled up a jug of his moonshine. “This calls for a celebration! Who wants a taste of the finest ‘shine in the county?”
       “Maybe just a sip,” Old Pete said, abandoning his card game. “For medicinal purposes, you understand.”

Intermission: “Now folks, what happened next was like watchin’ a carefully orchestrated machine suddenly lose all its timing and start firin’ on random cylinders. With Stephanie as the center of attention, Gutglor’s moonshine passin’ around, and the aroma of cookin’ hot dogs fillin’ the air, any pretense of actual automotive work went right out the window.”

   Chester finally managed to get the distributor installed, though it took him three times longer than usual due to constant interruptions and requests to explain what he was doin’ to Stephanie. Gary eventually got the spark plugs sorted out, but not before the Professor had to quietly correct his work when Gary wasn’t lookin’.
   Reedus, meanwhile, had completed his tire repair contraption and was eager to demonstrate its capabilities.
       “Who’s got a tire with a hole in it?” he asked, lookin’ around hopefully.
     “I might could put a hole in one,” Gutglor offered helpfully, still wieldin’ his jug o’shine.
       “That’s not exactly a field test,” the Professor pointed out. “You need a naturally occurring puncture to properly evaluate the device’s effectiveness.”
     “Professor’s right,” Chester agreed, lightin’ up a non-filter’d cigarette and blowin’ smoke that mixed with the aroma from Gutglor’s grill, Stephanie’s perfume & Reedus’s rubber cement disaster. “Can’t test a tire repair system with artificial damage.”
   By this time, the hot dogs were ready, and everyone gathered around Gutglor’s automotive grill for lunch. The hot dogs actually tasted pretty good, though they had a faint hint of rust that Gutglor insisted was “extra flavor.”
       “This is the best lunch I’ve had in ages,” Stephanie declared, bitin’ into a hot dog. “Y’all really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
   The three card players nodded in agreement, though they’d completely abandoned their game in favor of hangin’ on Stephanie’s every word.
       “So,” Judge Henderson asked, tryin’ to sound casual, “you plannin’ to stick around long, Miss Stephanie?”
     “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied with that smile that could melt engine blocks. “Depends on how much I can learn about cars. This is all so fascinatin’.”
       “NOBODY LIGHT A CIGARETTE!” Chester hollered, though he was still holdin’ his, which had somehow become permanently attached to his lower lip via rubber cement.
     “Too late,” Bobby Jenkins announced calmly, holdin’ up a lighter he’d just struck to light his own smoke.
   For a moment, everyone froze, waitin’ for the shop to explode into a fireball. Instead, the moonshine fog just sort of… shimmered… and then settled into a sticky rainbow that coated everything in a thin layer of alcoholic residue.
       “Well,” the Professor observed, consultin’ his notebook, “that defied several laws of chemistry.”
     “Chemistry’s more like guidelines anyway,” Gutglor replied, surveyin’ the destruction with satisfaction. “Now, about that grill…”
   Despite everything that had happened – or maybe because of it – Gutglor proceeded to construct his automotive barbecue grill using a brake rotor, some exhaust pipe, and expanded metal that had somehow become available during the chaos. The grill actually worked, though it smelled faintly of rubber cement and moonshine, which Gutglor insisted was “extra seasoning.”
   By the time they’d finished eatin’ lunch (watermelon and hot dogs with a hint of industrial adhesive), cleaned up most of the mess (with more moonshine), and finally completed the Camaro repairs (using tools that would probably never come unstuck from each other), the sun was settin’ over Buzzard Roost.
       “Boys,” Stephanie announced, climbin’ down from her stool, “this has been the most entertainin’ afternoon I’ve had since… well, since the last time I visited y’all.”
   Chester, Gary, Reedus, Gutglor, and the Professor all stood there covered in various combinations of rubber cement, moonshine, and barbecue smoke, lookin’ like survivors of a very specific type of industrial accident.
       “Same time next week?” Old Pete asked hopefully, finally managin’ to peel himself off his chair. “This beats watchin’ folks pump gas from that bench across the street.”
     “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Stephanie replied, givin’ each of them a hug that would probably leave them smellin’ like her perfume for days.
   After she left, the shop fell silent except for the sound of the Camaro’s smooth idle and Gutglor’s improvised grill cracklin’ in the background.
       “Boys,” Chester finally said, “I think we might need to establish some new shop policies.”
     “Like what?” Gary asked.
       “Like maybe we should focus on fixin’ cars instead of… other distractions,” Chester replied diplomatically.
     “Speak for yourself,” Reedus said, still admirin’ his tire repair contraption. “I got more work done today than I have all week.”
       “That’s ’cause you weren’t payin’ attention to anything but that crazy machine,” Gary pointed out.
   The Professor was takin’ notes, as usual. “From a scientific standpoint, today provided fascinatin’ insights into the effects of external stimuli on workplace productivity.”
       “In English, Professor,” Cooter requested.
     “Pretty girls make smart men act stupid,” the Professor translated.
   And with that bit of wisdom hangin’ in the humid Alabama air, another eventful day at Mad Mechanics came to a close. The Camaro was runnin’ better than ever, Gutglor had invented a new kind of grill, Reedus had created a tire repair device of questionable utility, and every man in Buzzard Roost had discovered that automotive work could be considerably more complicated when performed under the influence of blonde hair and blue eyes.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a learning experience. Sometimes the most educational days aren’t about what you learn from books or manuals – they’re about discoverin’ just how easily a well-oiled machine can get thrown off its timing by the right kind of distraction. And if Miss Stephanie ever does come back to Mad Mechanics, well, they might just have to invest in some safety equipment – though I doubt it’ll be the automotive kind.”