Letter from the Editor: The Right Tool for the Job

Robert Ross

06/02/2004

After much anticipation, Saturday arrived. I had set aside the day—and late into the night—to spend time with a new machine. Given the many complex mechanical procedures that an enthusiast can undertake, it is the simplest activities that often offer the greatest pleasures. Chief among them is the changing of lubricants and coolants, a ritual that is a metaphor for the cleansing and renewal of man as well as machine.

The best garages are places of tranquility, and even modest ones should be equipped with sufficient amenities so that one can live out there for quite awhile. Air-conditioning and heating are a must, and carpeting is a plus for activities that are performed horizontally. Classical music or jazz promotes calm and patience, although packing a bearing to the Goldberg Variations is a capital crime in some high courts. Comfortable furniture—a dumpy couch or lounge chair—is requisite for perusing manuals, schematics, or thinking through problems that go beyond the removal of a drain plug. Abetting thought and relaxation are food and drink of varying strengths, kept in sufficient quantities to make oneself and the occasional guest feel very much at home. (Click image to enlarge)

Of course, an ample assortment of tools is key, and without them, even the simplest project is doomed to frustration. But like religion, politics, and Scotch whisky, it is best to avoid arguing over specific brands. Delicate fingers may chafe when handling anything other than the smoothest Snap-on, while some recoil at the effete finish and demand the grainy, honest surface of Craftsman. Regardless, what gives pleasure is having the right tool for the job, however modest that tool or job might be.

It is my lot in life that even the simplest jobs have a way of becoming not so simple. And not so clean. Despite the best-laid plans to maintain spotless order of space and self during the exchange of vital automotive fluids, the weekend mechanic was soon bespattered with oil, grease, graphite, anti-seize compound, coolant, and assorted stuff that comes from containers with skulls and crossbones on them. Halfway into the evening, the garage resembled Pollock’s studio and I looked like one of his canvases.

And I was starving. I had gone the entire day without eating, save for morning coffee. Engrossed in fruitful activity, one frequently overlooks essentials like food and cocktails, and I had been too long without either. But while I opted to enjoy a victory Scotch in the wee hours, the matter of food was more urgent, and I remembered a Styrofoam cup of instant noodle soup gathering dust in the dark recesses of a shelf populated with solvents and aerosol cans.


I peeled off my gloves, wiped sweat and petroleum products from my face, and set the cup to spinning in the garage microwave. Within moments my appetite would be perfunctorily sated and I’d be back at work on the Goose*. Or so I thought. The contents of the pseudo-soup were scalding, and I rummaged for a plastic spoon where one should have been. Nothing. I rattled drawers and rooted through boxes, and still no spoon. In vain, I tried to gulp the white-hot liquid and a pile of boiling noodles slid into my face. Recoiling in agony, I realized that there was no way to consume my dinner without the aid of a spoon. A friend once told me that the only utensil entrusted to guests of our county jail was a humble spoon, though he was quick to point out that in the hands of an expert, it was a killing—as well as eating—machine.

While I could have stripped down to my underwear and capered into the house to fetch a piece of Mother’s silver, that would have made a mockery of my master plan to stay put in the garage. I pondered all the tools occupying the toolbox, lying on shelves, and hanging from the closet wall, imagining how any of them might be pressed into service as a spoon. I aimlessly examined a flexible magnet from all angles, like one of the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Finally espying a pair of stout forceps, I wiped them off and tweezed a load of the horrible noodles into my mouth.

Although gorged, I felt shame, for my victory was bittersweet. I was no better than the shade-tree Neanderthal who uses his wrench for a hammer or his pliers for a wrench, demonstrating utmost disrespect for a purpose-built tool. From now on, I will keep a full set of cutlery alongside the open-ends. I wonder, though, whether any brands of flatware offer a lifetime warranty.

*The DeTomaso Mangusta; Italian for mongoose, from which owners have coined the nickname Goose.

Robert R oss
editor/creative director