A Gathering of Old Men

a collard greens and smoked sausage soup

The duck tape barely holds back the stuffing in the ancient naugahyde chair. I suspect that if I shift, the whole damned contents might explode onto the linoleum floor. I had plopped myself down in the chair seven hours earlier, about 9 in the morning, after my truck was towed to a small-town Georgia repair shop. And this is where I remain, not moving except to take the occasional leak and walk next door for lunch.

It all began when I came sailing down an exit off I-59S at 60 mph and applied my brakes … only to discover that there was zero fluid in the lines. Now that, as they say, was an “interesting” experience.

I had gotten up and out early from the farm for a nine-hour drive to Louisiana. My plan was to attend the annual gathering of the men of the Miller family, and my truck bed was loaded with two large coolers of frozen pork and lamb. That now appeared not to be happening, at least for me.

Other than the parking lot full of vehicles waiting to be worked on, from the outside the repair shop does not look like a going concern. The sign is faded, the paint is faded, and the window tinting is cracked and peeling. A bath towel is rolled at the entryway, on the outside, to keep cold air from drifting under the thresholdless door. Inside is more of the same: a battered wood-and-glass case packed with random used auto parts and partially opened boxes of ammunition (no idea), and an 80-some-year-old owner who matches the decor.

Throughout the day the door periodically opens and an elderly man comes in and takes a seat. A revolving club of cronies who have known each other since childhood share news, regale me with stories of hunting trips gone wrong, and, without fail, give me the same tip: order the chicken stir-fry for lunch at the restaurant next door. Each sits for an hour or two in conversation before inevitably saying, “I better get to the house.” The door opens and they leave the group.

The temperature outside stays in the 30s all day, and there is a rhythm and consistency to the calls that come in every fifteen to thirty minutes. “My car’s engine light came on, and it says my tire pressure is low.” “It’s just the cold morning,” the owner says patiently, “but stop on by if you want us to check it out.” Like clockwork, a car pulls up ten minutes later, and an elderly man or woman gets out. The owner then asks either his son or grandson (both are mechanics) to go check it out, reassure the owner. Invariably, one of the old men gathered around me will say kindly, “Old people.” All the other old men will nod their heads, secure in their own knowledge that they haven’t reached that age. It reminds me of when my aunt, in her late nineties, said the same about a woman in her eighties. Clearly my aunt was glad that she wasn’t yet old. (I’m sure, with any luck, that this mystery of relative age will be revealed to me one day.)

Late morning in the repair shop the door opens again. Another old man enters, this one carrying only a shotgun barrel. Everyone seated nods in greeting. The barrel is passed around, deer hunting stories are told, and the man with the barrel, who remains standing next to the door for the next hour, turns around and leaves. A few minutes later he returns, this time with a double-barrel shotgun. The gun is passed around and commented on before he reclaims it and resumes his stance by the front door. After another hour he allows that he had better head to the house. And since this is his third declaration to that end, he does, bringing the shotgun with him.

The owner’s wife pops in for the second time this morning. “You still here?” she says. “Apparently I am moving in,” I say with a chuckle. I stand and allow that it is time for lunch. I walk next door to the old-school Italian restaurant, which means I order a hamburger. The thing about automotive repairs is this: when you have no place to go and nothing to get you there and nothing to do but wait, all day, you do whatever it takes to try and kill time. So I linger as long as I can. I nurse my coke, eat every last one of my fries, chewing slowly, I twiddle my thumbs, and finally I get up and mosey on back to the shop.

The owner is alone for now, and he chats with me for the next hour. He is knowledgeable about global supply chain problems with auto parts and, for some reason, about the impacts of climate change. After we thresh it all out and I learn the family’s history and that his grandfather had rolled his own cigars and made a much-sought-after cider-cured chewing tobacco, the door opens again. Another childhood friend plops down in the cracked chair next to me. He asks politely who I am. Neither he nor any of the other old men ever asks why I am here or what my repair issue might be. Perhaps they all just thought I was here on a tryout as a younger version of themselves. I tell him I have been next door to eat. “I hope you got the chicken stir-fry.”

By mid-afternoon it becomes clear that the truck will not be ready until morning (supply chain issues, you know). I call Cindy, who drives to small-town Georgia from East Tennessee and takes me home. We reverse our path the next day and pick up my now-repaired truck. I missed the gathering with my brothers and nephews. But as I opened the battered shop door with the towel underneath, on the outside, I was greeted with polite nods by the inhabitants and, when I’d paid and collected my keys, an invitation by the owner to come back for an extended visit.

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Reading this week: My Early Life (W. Churchill), a book that will easily make my top-ten list for the year. Because, as he says when being fired at in battle, “What fun!” And P. G. Wodehouse, I’m reading lots of Wodehouse.

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Note: My book published by FPR, Kayaking with Lambs, is still available for $13.60 (normally $22). What an excellent time (he says shamelessly) to buy a copy or three for presents.