I am one of those rare men who is willing to admit he knows next-to-nothing about cars. I also ask for directions if I’m lost. Otherwise, I’m a regular guy-type person.

I’m not totally useless when it comes to my vehicle. I no longer avoid self-serve gas stations. I know where my dipstick is, what it does and how to check it. If one of my tires is a little low, I can swagger to the air pump and top it up. But when my car won’t go, or makes alarming noises while going, I rely on the expertise of my mechanic, Ed.

I've never met anyone quite like Ed. What makes him unique is not his ability to fix most anything that clunks, or even that he is honest and charges a fair price for his services. I’m sure, despite the horror stories, that there are many competent, honest mechanics in the world. No, what sets Ed apart is his face; or, more accurately, his demeanour.

If you were given a bunch of photographs of people and had to guess their occupation by them, 9 out 10 people would finger Ed as a Mortician. When he smiles, he looks doleful. When he assesses an ailing vehicle, his sadness is almost too painful to bear. But what endears Ed to all his customers, what makes the thought of having anyone else work on your car a treasonable offence, is watching him total up the bill.

He sighs deeply as he adds up the cost of the parts. The troublesome, worn-out parts are always there beside him on the counter, offering mute testimony of their guilt. He glares balefully as he picks each one up in turn, showing just where the fault lies; detailing exactly how this failed whatzit led to the problem which brought us here today. His unhappiness as he slowly punches buttons on his calculator is palpable. When he hits the “total” key, a tiny suggestion of shock flickers across his features. He gives his head a little shake and re-enters the numbers. The total is invariably the same and I want to comfort the man.

But it is too soon.

He has not added the labour charges yet. And then, of course, there’s the taxes. As he slowly punches in the additional numbers Ed’s mournful visage sags even further, well into abject misery. It's as if somehow gravity has doubled where he stands. This man not only feels my pain, he feels the pain of every person who has ever been betrayed by their car.

He silently turns the bill around so I can see the grand total. It is dismaying of course, but I have steeled my features to a calm serenity.

It is the only gift I can give him.

I even manage a smile as I write my cheque. Ed does me the honour of not looking to see if it is made out correctly and marks the bill “Paid."

As always, I must resist the urge to give him a hug, or at least a pat on the back. As I make my way to my car, I vow yet again to be a better owner, to change the oil regularly, to get a tune-up before the weird noises start, to invest in brake pads at the first squeal.

I’m not sure how much more of my money poor Ed can take.

This piece first appeared in The Journal of the
Blue Planet.