Moving to the Battlefords, I left a lot behind in Alberta, including a boyfriend.
Since we decided to tough out the long-distance thing, I visit him every chance I get. I used to think my desire to hang out with Tom was because he's so much fun to be around. Last weekend, I had to reconsider the validity of that statement.
Tom fiddles with engines for a living.
Well, he would say something like: "I design and fabricate race engine components," but at the word "engine" my eyes glaze over.
The first time he told me what he did, I replied, only somewhat in jest, "Oh, so you, like, change oil and stuff?"
He's so charming when his left eyebrow twitches.
Anyways, because Tom owns his own company, TechWorks Engineering, he's often busy with those "oil changes."
Sadly, this takes away from quality Tara time, and this past weekend was no exception. Since I had Friday off as well, I drove to Tom's place Thursday night, naively thinking my arrival would supersede any plans he had for Friday. This was not the case.
I believe our conversation went something like this:
"I actually have some work to get done tomorrow."
"Okay, I can just visit some friends."
"Well, you could always keep me company, maybe help out a little."
"That sounds great."
Oh joy, I thought to myself, a day in the shop.
There were three items on the to-do list: fabricate an exhaust system, assemble a short block and put together his new sandblaster.
Tom explained exhaust systems can be important to engine performance because blah blah blah. He took in my vacant expression, sighed and explained again.
I may or may not have understood.
"So, you mean the tube things that come out of the big metal thing also known as the engine block all have to move dirty air at the same speed because any air pushing the wrong way will make the engine go slower?"
Again with the left eyebrow twitch!
It is not my fault the only thing I know about engines is pushing the right pedal magically makes me go forward.
I am, however, insanely proud that I fully understand what a catalytic converter is. It makes dirty air cleaner!
"Like a Brita filter!"
"No, not like a filter. It's a chemical reaction using a catalyst. Don't you remember anything from chemistry?"
"It makes dirty air cleaner!"
"If by that you mean it converts the toxic by-products of combustion like carbon monoxide and nitrogen oxide into less harmful gases, then yes, it makes dirty air cleaner."
"It makes dirty air cleaner!"
I think Tom had enough of trying to explain basic concepts to me because he became quiet. Maybe he was concentrating on welding the pieces of the exhaust manifold together.
Or maybe, he was waiting for me to volunteer my assistance.
"Can I try?"
Silence.
"CAN I TRY?"
I think he may have sighed as he pushed his welding helmet up, but I'm not sure.
"What?"
"That looks like fun, can I try?"
Tom patiently explained that "those chunks of metal" are expensive and, no, welding is not as easy as gluing two pieces together, but he would find me a scrap piece of metal to weld after he was finished.
Tom found me a thick piece of stainless steel, handed me the torch and helmet, patiently listened to my best Darth Vader impersonation, and told me I could "draw" on the piece of metal, but not to bring the torch too close or it would stick to the metal.
I told him I wanted to do what he was doing, by which I meant "glue" pieces together. He explained it was all the same, TIG welding, except I would just be working with a thicker (read: cheaper) metal.
Even though I patiently explained to Tom that I wanted to weld a giraffe, which would require me to "glue" pieces together, he did not relent, saying if I wanted to weld a giraffe, I could buy the materials needed.
I sulkily resigned myself to writing my name on the hunk of metal.
It ended up being fun once I realized I could make different colours depending how hot I made the metal.
I also touched the tip a few times, but convinced myself that as long as I pulled it apart quickly enough, it didn't count. No one would know.
I considered treating Tom to a reproduction of the theme song of Flashdance, seeing as I was an ultra-cool welding chick now, but decided he didn't deserve it because he had departed to assemble the short block instead of raptly watching me weld.
When I was finished with my masterpiece, I came running to the shop (the welding is in a separate building) like a five-year-old with their first art project.
Tom's friend Rowley was visiting, so I was able to display my work of art to two people. Rowley, who welds professionally, was admiring my work, or so I thought, until he said, "You touched here, here, here, here, here, here and here."
"You don't know anything about art," I said, snatching it back.
Rowley made it better by twisting the cap off my beer bottle for me so I wouldn't hurt my delicate hands.
After visiting for a bit, Rowley left and it was back to assembling the short block. Tom started explaining what he was doing, so I interrupted and asked if he could just tell me what to do.
He pointed to another piece of metal and said I could clean it. The piece of metal was half an engine block.
"Half?" you say. Well, let me inform you. Subarus, Porsches and early Volkswagons are some of the only engine blocks that are split into halves. I have no idea what this really means, but I thought I'd say it to sound smart.
Cleaning it was boring and hurt my aforementioned delicate hands. I tired quickly.
I decided I could help Tom by playing Tetris on his computer.
After making it all the way to the 10th level for the 30th time, I told Tom I was bored.
Tom obligingly said we could put together his new sandblaster.
I was actually excited about this. Since most of my furniture comes from IKEA, I consider myself somewhat of an expert in deciphering obscure instructions.
Except Tom didn't want to follow the instructions. Well, he did, but he wanted to make them better by sealing all the joins. He explained that his friend bought the same sandblaster and sand comes out of the cracks.
"Well, if you knew that, why didn't you buy a better sandblaster?"
I wonder if Botox would help that eyebrow twitch
After spending waaaaay longer on the sandblaster than I have on any piece of IKEA furniture and winding up with sticky gray sealant all over my hands, I decided my day in the shop had come to an end.
"Hey Tom, we should get going if we're going to make it for 40 cent shrimp at the pub," I said in my most nonchalant voice.
Tom smiled at me, walked over and, putting his arms around my waist, said "Sure, let's go. The sandblaster can wait."
Sweeter words have never been spoken.
