To be unforgettable and to never forget

            I check my dipstick often when traveling and this morning I notice I’m suddenly over a quart low. Peering under my truck, I’m troubled to see a couple oil stains that I didn’t register last night. I don’t want to add oil but instead I’ll go get an oil change immediately before I head to Tucson and ask those oil change guys what they see.

            I’ve been getting oil changes at this particular shop many times in the past when traveling across the country.

            I’m deeply touched with the greeting I receive from the men working there – both the ones who remember me (ufb – not) and the new hires. I never worry when I go to get mechanical help if there are few or no white men working there, like here!

            The mechanic points out the hose that is dripping oil.

            Oy vey – a few years ago, at this very shop, the same mechanic pointed out to me that my oil pan was leaking oil. I was referred to a truck repair shop round the corner, up a little hill, about a block away. I’m sure I blogged about this encounter with the brothers’ tRump that began with our witnessing their sign “Lincoln freed the slaves; Obama is enslaving us”.

            These truck mechanic guys, our polar opposites, ended up not only fixing the oil leak but not charging us a penny. They even gave us their shop t-shirts that we donned and demanded they take our pics pointing to the back of my truck which at the time read, I think, “tRump is not fit to be president.”

            This time when I pull in, first one brother, than the other brother come out slowly, wide grins frozen on their faces – could be because it was fuckin freezing (same as the last time). The first thing they do is ask me about Liz, my companion who was traveling with me the last time we met, who is still at home in California. Then grill me on where I’ve been, where I’m coming from.

            They don’t respond with the wide-eyed terror they displayed last time that heard our truths we laid on them, not because their views have changed I don’t think, but because one of their daughters has committed suicide only a few months ago.

            We still talk about the border: they still want to keep people out even though their parents and grandparents migrated over that very border.

            They fix my oil leak – it’s a small hose that has worn out – and without making me wait until the new part is shipped to El Paso but find parts they have around and manufacture a hose for me.

            They also notice I’ve another leak, but this time a radiator fluid leak, which thankfully is only the clamps needing tightening.

            The brother who has lost his child to drug overdose feebly expresses his appreciation of talking with me and Liz, this time and last, without having to yell and scream and threaten to shoot each other.

            “It’s about hate,” he states, “there’s no reason for me to hate you.” I cannot say the same as I know he will act with hate, parroting what tRump says, what Fox news says, what his terrible sign says.

            But I do pause, look him in the eye, and ask him if he thinks his anti-Obama sign is hateful.

            “No, no” he protests but I tell “Yes, yes. It is.”

            I hope I have no other leaks traveling around the country but if I do, I hope they happen here in El Paso so I can stop in and see if the brothers tRump have taken down their hateful sign.