Jeep Widow's Lament
Once upon a time, I had a wonderful man in my life. He would surprise me with hand-picked flowers. He would rub my work-weary feet after a long day. He would endure back-to-back episodes of “Friends,” for the sake of my entertainment. His every evening was devoted to doing nothing more significant than cuddling with me for hours on end. He was my knight in shining armor-------until she came into our lives. We’ll call her “Phoebe”. He spends his days and nights with her. She can get him on his back, in a feverish sweat, as his lusty cries rise from their greasy little love nest in the basement. He would rather spend time under her hood than mine, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge). I am a jeep widow. Only another jeep widow can appreciate my loss, or can appreciate the changes that I have been forced to make in order to survive in this cruel, unforgiving hobby.
We jeep widows have accumulated more worthless knowledge than most women ever dream acquiring. I can give you a brief history of the Jeep (GP, or general purpose, if you will), originating in Butler, PA, and its evolution to today’s Humvee. I can identify a Willy’s as opposed to a GPW from ten paces. (It’s that cross-thingy on the front---it’s round rather than flat---and don’t correct my parts-identification---it’s bad enough I know where to look, much the less know the name of every blessed part.) I know the significance of such terms as “F-marked,” “repro,” and “top dead center.” This, and 60 cents, will get you a coffee at the local mini-mart.
As a jeep widow, I have had to brush up on my acting skills. I’ve perfected my look of angst/horror when presented with yet another F-marked part on my husband’s Willy’s. (Insert huge “gasp” here.) I’ve also developed an earnestly interested look when he is on yet another tangent about how he is planning to trade out one engine for the other engine so that he can send the first engine to some other guy who works on these things…. (Insert realistic “uh-huh,” here.) The one expression I have not mastered, however, is a look of calm when I am faced with explaining to my husband why it is more important to have money for gas in my car, so that I can go to work, and bring home a paycheck to buy groceries, than to have original bumper gussets.
Being a jeep widow has also forced me to brush up on my interpersonal skills. It is a somewhat fragile situation to be in when you are forced to ride along on road trips to strange-people’s homes (in all essences of the word strange), at indecent hours, to trade this part for that part, then to listen to the one-sided banter of why the part is in better/worse condition than he had hoped, how the trade was fair/unfair and in whose favor, and how much the part is “actually” worth. Heaven forbid that you speak out of turn, or innocently ask, “Honey don’t we already have three of those thingies in the basement already?” (Insert “big-fat-freaking-deal-sigh” here.)
I have also had to develop heightened senses. My hearing is now tuned to listen for distressed calls from the garage indicating the imminent loss of life or limb, or the discovery of a crimped fuel line. I can spot a dilapidated jeep frame from 500 yards, in a farmer’s overgrown field, covered in old scrap metal and rusted to transparency. (“Honey, isn’t that a windshield frame protruding from that haystack?”) I have developed a taste for the small insects that embed themselves in my teeth during a 3 am “drive” around our residential development, sans windshield, as he tows me in the Willy’s behind his first (a.k.a. pre-marriage) restoration, testing the motor, transmission, and flammability of the jeep. And what good jeep widow can’t identify the smell of “Army.” You know the smell. It’s a cross between old canvas and motor oil. I swear he’d be the first in line to buy me a bottle of “Eau de OD,” if there were such a concoction. Another scent I have become keen to is the smell of “jeep,” also known as “sweaty metal.” If you are unfamiliar with this aroma, go find yourself a nice shiny nickel. Wait until the temperature hits about 97 F, and carry the nickel around in your hand for 24 hours. At the end of the day, put your hand in your armpit and inhale slowly. This is the smell of jeep. It is more authentic if you omit anti-perspirant for the day.
I remember the last time I saw my husband. He was shaven, he smelled of soap, and had on pants with no holes in them. That was before “Phoebe.” Last time I looked in the garage, there was some barbarian down there, unshorn, filthy, with a visible odor emanating from his body. It was a mixture of underarms, starter fluid, and carb cleaner. His hair was a permanent olive drab. I threw the being a raw steak. He grunted and mumbled something about the “(expletive) gunplate.” I can’t confirm it, but I suspect that this monster knows what happened to my husband. However, interrogation is impossible as he speaks only in curses and jeep parts.
