| Friday, June 13, 2008 |
12:10 - We used to use him to get the football out of the sewer
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Okay... "weight loss success" stories don't come much better than this one.
So I'm standing in an auto shop waiting for some work to be done on my car; and as various mechanics mill about and I idly steal glances at my watch, suddenly I notice a couple of guys in the back of the shop, coming in by the back rollup door, one of whom sporting long yellow wavy hair that one might associate with "eccentric flamboyant millionaire". And he's staring in my direction, telling his companion and the shop owner, "Yeah, him... he's the one."
I look in other directions, quite sure they're talking about something completely unrelated to me. Then they come up to me. "Hey, we've got a job for you."
This they then proceed to show to me. It's an extravagantly painted powerboat, which they describe offhand as being capable of doing a quarter mile in about 9 seconds at 125 mph. Judging by the gigantic engine in the back, and the ducts leading from the fuel line right into the exhaust headers (for maximum flame effect), I don't disbelieve it.
In front, at the bottom of the footwell that's barely tall enough to accommodate a pair of legs on either side of a central fiberglass bulkhead, is a metal anchor point bolted into the fiberglass bottom, for securing it to the trailer it's riding on. The fiberglass had been damaged and repaired, and now the anchor point needed to be tightened. Only problem was, the only way to tighten it was from inside the boat.
"I've seen it done before," the boat owner said hopefully to me. "This lanky kid, about as thin as you, but taller."
See, this is where the surrealness of it all comes home to me. I am now the thin one in a given gathering. The one people light on as being potentially able to squeeze myself into the fiberglass coffin at the prow of a speedboat and efficiently manipulate hand tools.
"What the hell," I say. "I'm game."
First—and bear in mind that at this point all the staff of the shop has dropped their existing projects, including the one I was ostensibly there for, and is crowded around to see just what hope in hell there is of me pulling this off. First they have to remove a bracket from the passenger-side footwell that would otherwise impede ingress; then they have to unbolt and remove a toolbox containing flares and air horns and such. And then... in I go.
 
(That's me with the white shoes.)
That nose cone is deceptively long. From the outside, it looks like I might only have to reach in three feet or so. In reality, I have to wriggle my entire body in under the dashboard (or whatever the nautical term is), getting my shoulders and then my hips through the metal collar formed by the pedals and structural members, until only my feet are visible. My arms are stretched out straight in front of me, because having one at my side means my shoulders are too wide to fit in; and there's no changing position once I'm in there. Never mind how unnatural this position is for my shoulders, or how my thumb is falling asleep, or how after a few minutes I'd pay handsomely for the ability to lower my arm to my side—just one, it's all I need. It's all I can do just to avoid brushing up against the upper fiberglass surface of the deck, which is sizzling hot in the unseasonable warmth of the last few days.
I reach the bolts. They pass me tools using a long magnetic rod, blindly, on the other side of the bulkhead that runs the length of the prow:
First the wrench they give me is a size too small. The next one is the right size, but it only moves a few awkward, ill-braced turns before the nut sinks too low into the countersunk fiberglass, and I have to pass it back in favor of a socket and ratchet. After a few minutes someone gets a hose and starts washing down the upper layer of fiberglass, cooling it off to the point where it can safely be touched and the radiant heat is somewhat abated, though there was only so much good it could do under those conditions. By the time I've finished tightening down both nuts, I've been in that sweltering tomb for over 15 minutes, and am covered with sweat and grime. And I have no idea how I'm getting out.
Actually, that's not true. That part was never in doubt. I knew ever since I wriggled myself in the last few feet, past all possible bracing points and trapping my last mobile joints, that there was no chance I was going to be able to perform the same feat in reverse—but I wouldn't have to. They were going to pull me out.
 
Man, that is a feeling unlike any other. Being able to stretch out, and move my arms freely, and then getting that hose water over my head to cool off, after being wedged in there... about the only way I can imagine it being more of a relief is if I'd been battling claustrophobia at the same time. But if that were the case I doubt I'd ever have said "I'm game" in the first place.
As we all made our way back to the shop to swap business cards and small talk, it was through a cloud of muttered disbelief that I actually pulled this off. I certainly wasn't used to being "that guy" in these kinds of situations... but now one thing's for sure: I'll have a tale that will precede me in situations where I need to be introduced. Plus a t-shirt with the shop's logo on it, since now they've got a reputation as the place where magic happens.
As we all shook hands and parted, the owner apologized profusely to me for having screwed up my day's schedule during what was supposed to be a routine bit of car maintenance.
"Are you kidding?" I said. "A chance for a story like this I'll pay good money for."
Now if only my arms would readjust from their semi-dislocated nerve repositioning and act like they know how to go where my brain directs them...
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Brian Tiemann
