Gary's Garage

Not too long ago, my wife and I were talking about what we want to be. Not when we grow up, but how we want people around us to see us. I told her that I want to be just like Reed Palmer. I want to be known as the neighborhood bike guy that all the kids come to when their bikes aren't working right. We're already the most crowded yard in the neighborhood, so I have the clientele right outside.

Lately I've been feeling down. I'm going through a cycle where people crap on whatever I do. My work, my writing, my choices, whatever it is, someone, co-workers, clients, friends, family will find a way to take something I feel good about and make me feel like crap. People don't mean to do it, but when all you hear is "constructive" criticism about everything you do from the time you get up to the time the wife and kids come home and remind me what it feels like to be liked.

Today that turned around. I was about to do the dishes when I heard a knock at the door. It was the kid whose backyard meets ours. Figuring he was here to see my daughter, I started to tease him.

"I have a problem that only you can help me with."

These are not words you long to hear. Nine times out of ten the problem is either something you didn't want to know about or will only lead to someone being disappointed.

"What's up," I asked.

"My brother trashed his bike. I told him that you are the best bike rider I've ever seen and you can fix it." True, I did fix this kid's bike last summer, but that was just an easy adjustment. "Trashed?" This worried me.

But, flattery gets you everywhere so this great bike rider said sure. We wheeled the bike into the garage and I put it on the repair stand. The neighbor kid went through the story. His brother crashed and now the handlebars were all messed up and the chain keeps falling off. I quickly fixed the handlebars and then started looking at the chain. It would spin, start to drag and fall off. Hmm.

I started going through the diagnostics I could think of and was ruling everything out. The front derailleur was fine. The chain rings were all okay. Neighbor kid said he needed to call his mom because he forgot to tell her where he was.

"Hi tell Mom I'm at Matilda's. Yeah. I told you he can fix it. Yeah, the handlebars are already fixed and he's working on the chain. No, he can ride really fast it's amazing. He'll fix it. He can do anything with bikes!"

Now, this isn't true. My repair skills are rudimentary at best. But now I had to perform. An eleven-year-old and a fourteen-year-old are depending on me.

Just then, we found the problem. One of the links on the chain was bent. And it was rusty. It was a kid's bike after all. Well, I had another chain, by luck. So I scavenged it and . . . popped the pin all the way out. That was bad. But it needed to be shortened anyway.

I slapped the new chain on, adjusted its length and . . . it fixed the problem. I cleaned up the chain and the cassette a little (it's a Target bike, so I could only do so much). I wanted to double check the length on the chain, but he had to go home. So I told him to come back tomorrow because I had to take out another link.

"Thanks! We'll pay you for fixing it."

"Nah," I said. "I'm just happy that your brother will have his bike back."

"He'll be happy too! Thanks!"

And he was off. So, in about an half hour's time I was able to be a hero and was called the greatest bike rider some kid has ever seen.

I know I'm not a great cyclist. But, you know what? To an eleven-year-old I probably really do seem like Lance Armstrong when I go speeding through the neighborhood in my ESP team kit. And, you know what? That's good enough for me.

So, This is Christmas?

Here I sit in an easy chair in our bedroom typing on the laptop, hoping to squeeze in a few minutes, maybe even hours, of work while a pathetic five-year-old lays delirious in our bed, fighting a high fever. Her preteen sister is completely unconscious in her own bed, hopefully to wake before dinner. She’s not sick. She just sleeps a lot these days. And doesn’t bathe, unless we force her to. It’s like living with a monkey with fashion sense and good grades.

But the little one is fighting a high fever. She was attacked by the fever yesterday during the winter party in her Early Childhood class. Five minutes into it, just as they were starting all the activities, getting out the games and spreading out food, she had to go home. She cried. Nay, she wept.

You see, she had been waiting for weeks for this party. She had planned her outfit, made sure it was clean, tried on special shoes. She was dressed to the nines, in her velvet winter dress and fancy shoes that didn’t match, but were purchased for her cousin’s wedding. It didn’t matter. They were the nicest shoes she owns and this party was important.

She planned ahead. She had to go to the sitter’s before school and she planned on telling her to let her eat light because there would be lots of food at the party. And they did have good food. But poor Gert never got to eat a bite. Instead, she was at home burning like a furnace.

Now she’s lying on my bed watching Christmas specials. That’s right, she’s sick only a few days before Christmas, the Super Bowl of a kid’s year. There are parties and family gatherings that need to be gone to, presents to be gotten. But if this fever runs the course the school thinks it will run, she will be doing exactly this until next Thursday. Seven days of fever, high fever and general malaise. We’re hoping they're wrong. We’re hoping that Matilda doesn’t get it. Mom and I can handle it. Jack us up with enough Advil and coffee, we can do anything. But a kid? Missing a Christmas party?

Life sucks.

Last night she came into our room at four o’clock and crawled in bed with us. She told Mom that she heard a voice in her room and that’s why she was here, not because of the nuclear reactor generating heat in her body.

“What did the voice say,” Mom asked.

“Have fun,” Gert replied in her Tom Waits voice.

Not sure if the voice belonged to the Ghost of Christmas on Layaway, we all decided at that point it was safer to stay in bed until the sun rose. It was a chore because I really had to pee.

But there she lays. Three days before Christmas, two days before my family’s Christmas blow out. Sad, little lump that she is.

She’s perking up now thanks to the alternating course of Tylenol and Advil (whatever doctor came up with that idea was a genius), but we know that it’s fleeting. Soon the fever will rear its ugly head and send her back down. She’ll look at me with her heavy-lidded gaze and I’ll wish I could fix everything.

Instead, we’re going to the kitchen to have some Cinnamon toast. I think I’ll use red and green sugar to make it a little more festive. And maybe we’ll sing a carol or two while she feels okay.

After all, she deserves her holiday party. Even if it’s just on a piece of toast.