The Socratic Jamaican Mechanic

Of course I go would go to the only mechanic in Long Island who uses the socratic and constructivist methods to bring you to an enlightened undertstanding of the nature of your car problems. Mr J is a tall man in his thirties, who speaks softly in a Jamaican accent and carries a big pedagogical stick. A conversation with Mr J goes a little something like this:

Mr J: Which is your car?
Me: The Camry.
Mr J: Ahh. (looks at young man in front of him) Which is your car?
YM: The Maxima.
Mr J: The stick?
YM: Yeah, yeah.
Mr J: You know how to drive stick?
YM: Uh yeah, yeah.
Mr J: 'Ow you learn how to drive stick?
YM: Blubbity blub driving school.
Mr J: Driving school?
YM: Yeah.
Mr J: 'Ow long you been driving stick?
YM: Huh?
Mr J: (more slowly) 'Ow long you been driving stick?
YM: (just looks up at Mr J)
Mr J: ...
YM: ...
Mr J:...
YM: Uh three years.
Mr J:...
YM:...
Mr J: You know why I'm asking?
Me: (silently) NO GODDAMIT! Just tell him what is wrong with the car.

Then it dawns on me that Mr J is leading this man to realize that his clutch is fucked up, right? Please God, I pray to myself. Don't let Mr J fix my car. As with anything having to do with my mother's death, even something innocuous as a conversation (much less a socratic dialogue) even tangentially related (it's her car, I wouldnt have it if she weren't dead, I'm here because my mother is dead, and so on...) can put me over the edge.

Of course, Mr J is my car doctor. He brings it from outside and parks it in the bay. I sit in the lobby to bore myself to death rereading the tedious _Emperor of Ocean Park_.

I look up at some motion in the corner of my eye and a low, "Miss." It is Mr J at the doorway to the garage, beckoning me closer with a hand towel. "Follow me."

We walk over to the car, and Mr J turns to me.

Mr J: You had this car from the beginning?
Me: Uh no.
Mr J: What year is it?
Me: 2002.
Mr J: So you had this car pretty close to the beginning?
Me: Uh. No, It's my mother's car, so I don't know much about it , actually.
Mr J: Your mother have warranty?
Me: Uh, I don't know.
Mr J: How the brake feel to you?
Me: I don't know. The tires and alignment were so messed up...
Mr J: (now allowing me to contruct my own knowledge) Get in the car and press the brake. (I do) 'Ow does that feel? (I shrug) Now keep pressing. (He smiles as I press it all the way into the floor.) Is that what should be happening?
Me: Going all the way down you mean? Um, no?
Mr J: (Smiling, cuz I constructed my own knowledge) Yeahh. Right. That should not happen.
Me: Oh okay.
Mr J: What you think that means?
Me: (i send my brain on a search for anything having to do with brakes) Um, the brake pads are shot? The calipers?
Mr J: (smiling at evidence of my use of prior knowledge) Not in a car this new. In a car this new, what you should do if something like that happens?
Me: Bring it to the mechanic?
Mr J: Right away. Bring it to the mechanic RIGHT AWAY. In car this new, could be the rear brakes need adjusting, could be the master cylinder is bad. Master cylinder is bad, you need to replace it under warranty. You have warranty?
Me: (teary eyed) I don't know. It's my mom's car and she died and I didn't even think to look for something like that. I guess I'll look for it.
Mr J: I am sorry about your mom.
Me:...
Mr. J: ...
Me: Well.
Mr J: We'll see if I just adjust the rear brake if that fix it all up. Okay?

He sends me back to the lobby.

It was the rear brake.

I did feel more enlightened. Thanks, Mr J.