My car broke down yesterday. Not emotionally – that was last week. And what a story! A sobbing automobile is hard to console at the best of times. No, this was just a run of the mill conk-out-in-the-right-hand-lane-ofa- busy-Richmond-intersection. On-the-way-to-a-gig-in-Jan-Juc. Good times. Before continuing the anecdote, I’d like to make the following observation: there are two types of people in the world. The first type is the one who knows about cars. They’re the ones who understand words like ‘gasket’, ‘spark plug’ and ‘muffler’. They’re the ones who’ll open a bonnet and put their hands inside the really loud, dangerous bit without a care in the world. I have great respect for these people. Regrettably, I am not one of them.
I switched on the hazard lights and contemplated my next move. Amidst an escalating chorus of hands and horns, two well-built gentlemen appeared behind my car and instructed me to ‘steer it into the gutter’ before pushing my vehicle forward. Not knowing anything about cars, I was taken rather aback at their ability to move me at such speed, and considered asking them to push me all the way to Jan Juc. However, once they’d deposited me in the gutter, they were off. This is in stark contrast to Melbourne’s underworld, where once you’re off, they’ll deposit you in the gutter.
Evidently, the sight of two buff strangers pushing a skinny man’s car was of much entertainment value to the latte-sipping crowd on the sidewalk. I pulled out my phone and pretended to text somebody in a desperate attempt to look in control of the situation. The Pretend Text is a dear friend of mine. It accompanies me to parties, shows, and funerals. Why texting somebody would make you look cooler is anybody’s guess, but it remains my social blanky to this day. If you ever see me texting for an unusually long period of time, do come and give me a hug.
Pulling my eyes away from my phone, I noticed with astonishment that an RACV vehicle was parked on the other side of the road. Not only that, but the driver had finished attending to a car and was about to drive off! I jumped into the oncoming traffic, leapt atop the bonnet of an approaching taxi and flung myself up into the tram lines, where I spun twice before gliding over two lanes of traffic and into the path of the RACV. (NB: This paragraph ceased to be true at the ill-timed exclamation mark. However, I did cross the road and approach the driver, and we shall continue our story from there.)
The kind man did a swift U-turn, parked his car, opened my bonnet and stuck his hand straight into the really loud, dangerous bit, instructing me to rev the motor. This I did, repeatedly upon command, for well over fifteen minutes. Sitting there watching the man tinker – nay, toil – I had an epiphany. For the first time in my life, I would try to understand what was wrong with my car. For the first time I would not nod blankly, nor feign comprehension. I would surrender my dignity, explain my ignorance, and emerge a better individual. Eventually, he summoned me to the bonnet. My heart raced. I took a breath. It was time to face my destiny.
“So, what’s wrong with her?” I asked. It was the first time I had ever gendered my car. “Gasket”, he replied. This was my chance. This was my moment. The opportunity was there. A million questions waited to be asked: What is a gasket? Where is the gasket? What does the gasket do? How does the gasket fit into the overall scheme of things? Can I touch the gasket? I took a breath. The onlookers paused. The trams stopped in their tracks. Shop owners came out to the pavement to observe. I looked him straight in the eye.
“Thought so. Bloody gasket.”
The dirtiest whore in the darkest of alleys has not sold herself as much as I did in that moment. The trams resumed. The shop owners returned to their stores. And I drove away, none the wiser, counting down the days until my car breaks down again.
Catch Sammy J in his upcoming festival show Sammy J’s 55 Minute National Tour