Fix It

My car is 16 years old. Yesterday it broke down again in the hospital carpark, just as I was about to leave. I called my uncle, because I come from a line of people who fix cars for a living. It was storming outside.

By the time he came in his van it was already 9pm, and the carpark was empty. My uncle is a very short man due to the fact that his back is a twisted S, burnt that way when he was a child by zealous sensehs eager to purge the spiritual ailments they perceived in him.

He brought out his toolkit and opened the bonnet, refusing to let me help or even touch anything. This was because "I knew fuck-all and would only get in the way," and that I should save my hands for peoples' teeth.

At last he jacked up the car, crawled underneath, screwed tight the faulty pump and let the engine rev. His arms were scratched soot black - he waved them brusquely when I said, "kam sia." From all angles he looked like my father, minus the suit and tie. He smiled awkwardly when I touched his shoulder, and turned to wash his hands.

The only thing I could do then, was exercise my season parking. I said, "follow close behind me when I leave so the barrier can't read your cash-card." He did, and I watched him overtake me and speed away in the rain. For some reason I still felt inadequately rotten. I guess that's the price we must pay when no payment is made.