Baby Steps

Eugene cradled his baby girl and stared at the black and white TV screen. The 1969 moon landing was one of many firsts that year.

“You see Mr. Armstrong, Sweetie? He’s like our ambassador to space, taking the first steps for us all.” Eugene kissed the baby. “You’ll be walking soon, stepping into your future.” She reached out and gripped his pinky. “Who knows? Maybe you and I will walk hand in hand on the moon one day. Dream big. Every step of the way.”

Eugene was the first in his family to graduate college. He was going to research crop nutrition and prevent global famines. But before donning cap and gown, he wore a suit to his first wedding where he married his first girlfriend and mother of his first child.

He watched the moon walk after signing a contract to be the first Mr. Olson to teach mechanics and carpentry at Lincoln High. Teaching the trades to pimply kids hadn’t been his first plan when he left the farm.

But now Eugene had his own family to feed.

In the morning when he kissed his wife and daughter he promised, “There’s more to come. I won’t retire from this career. I’ve got a plan.”

“I know you do,” his wife smiled, baby tucked on her hip. “But this is enough for now. And here’s a little something for keeping your promises,” she leaned in with a warm, wet kiss.

Eugene blushed.

“Careful nothing squirts up on your tie today,” she winked.

His ears blazed. “What do you mean?” Eugene stammered.

She tugged his ear. “When you’re pouring oil into Old Blue. What were you thinking?”

Eugene perched on the pickup’s frayed seat and muscled the rickety truck into gear. Fumes billowed up through the rusted floor and Eugene rolled down the windows. Breathing in fresh air, he caught a whiff of something fruity. Were those May blossoms? His wife’s perfume? Another sniff. Milk? He glanced down. Clean tie, but spit-up stained his shirt.

Old Blue idled in the drive while Eugene raced inside to change.

Eugene cooled down as they cruised along the highway, but Old Blue seemed to be heating up. Smoke spiraled from the hood.

“Sorry to push so hard, buddy.” Eugene patted the truck’s dusty dash. “I know you don’t like it when we rush, but I need to be in class before the bell rings. My future depends on it.”

Eugene had made a good impression this first year. Punctual. Organized. He was assertive yet easygoing. He’d earned the respect of students and colleagues. His principal, Mr. Jones, wanted to keep the young man on campus. Jones tempted him with an offer to teach the earth science and chemistry classes next year provided that Eugene “finished strong.”

Eugene didn’t know what Jones meant by a strong, but he was excited to update the school’s lab. He kept a mental checklist of supplies and was adding a few items when the pickup lurched, wheezed, then slowed to a stop.

Tires screeched behind them. Horns blared. Eugene pleaded, “Don’t quit on me, buddy. 5 miles to go. You can do it.” Eugene cranked the engine, but Old Blue sat stubbornly still.

Eugene glanced at his watch. 45 minutes before his first class. Should he run to the school? No, bad idea. He’d be a mess and might not get there on time. And if he was late, would Jones notice? Would that compromise his strong finish? Sweat stained Eugene’s fresh shirt.

He began to imagine what the kids would say if he arrived after the bell and then laughed. Who was he calling a kid?

His boyish grin and tall, lanky frame encouraged the pranks and jokes young people play on each other. Mr. Olson’s car had been soaped. Worms dumped in his shop boots. Someone always unscrewed the projector bulb or hid the chalk and eraser.

There was nothing to do but roll with it and keep spares in his briefcase.

“Hey,” he said as he sat in his pickup, “aren’t you the guy teaching auto mechanics?” He ran his fingers through his hair mutter, “Go fix your damn truck. That’s a strong finish. To your commute, at least.”

As Eugene escorted Old Blue to the highway’s narrow shoulder, a passing red transAM slowed and a young man hollered, “What’s up, Mr. Olson?”

Eugene saved. “Hello Sam.”

The kid pulled his car in front of Old Blue while Eugene parked the truck beside a patch of Maples that dappled the sunlight. He felt the day’s heat building.

Sam stood beside his teacher and stared at the ancient engine.

“Glad to see you made it to class.” Eugene hoped humor might mask how embarrassed and worried he felt. He opened the truck’s hood and hunched over for close inspection.

 “I almost forgot about this field trip, Mr. Olson. Didn’t you call it ‘what to do when your pickup turns into a heap on the side of the road’?”

Eugene grinned. “Too bad you’re the only one who remembered where we were meeting.” Sam was a smart kid and Eugene appreciated his jokes. His banter kept other kids engaged during class.

“Well, that’s a problem I can fix. But, I’m not so sure I can do much for your truck.” Sam turned and flagged down a car cruising by.

“I’m not sure what to do either,” Eugene sighed to himself.

The 1950 Chevy had been a bargain and reminded him of sitting in his granddad’s pickup, driving circles around the farm when Eugene was 9. The old man laughed and cheered from the porch. He’d helped Eugene into and out of a fair number of messes.

For one, he let Eugene drive so long and fast that first time that Eugene got car sick and threw up in the cab. As Grandpa cleaned up the vomit he’d said “Next time, when you feel sick, pull over and get out of the truck.”

Eugene threw up again after guzzling all the root beers Grandpa handed him one July 4^th family reunion. After he laid the boy on the sofa with a cool compress he explained, “Next time, when your stomach hurts, stop drinking.”

And after the well pump broke when his folks left him and his little brother home alone, Grandpa hugged him close and explained, “It’s not your fault, Eugene. Little boys are supposed to fall asleep at night. You don’t have to stay awake trying to water cattle to keep them alive.”

Grandpa loved his trucks and loved that Eugene loved trucks, too. “If you’re gonna drive a truck, you gotta know how to take care of it.” Since buying Old Blue, Eugene had been the one to tend the pickup. He’d replaced brake pads, fuel lines, and spark plugs. He would one day soon overhaul the engine, but didn’t have time at the moment, so fed it oil daily. Had he spilled some this morning? Was that what was smoking?

Eugene began to feel dizzy as his mind raced around the variable that could have stranded them along the road. And with Sam looking on, he felt pressure to show how well he could do his job especially for machinery that was supposed to reliably get him to and from work.

Sam had returned to Eugene’s side. “You look worried, Mr. Olson. This is no big deal, right? School is almost over. Our brains are full. This might be your ticket to a relaxing day.”

“Sam, I have a lot riding on my own good attendance right now. If I don’t make it in today, I’m not sure I’ll be around next year.”

“Really?” Sam whistled. “That’s a steep penalty. Mr. Jones doesn’t start with a warning?”

“I have a pending opportunity that means a lot to me. And if the offer didn’t work out, I might have to leave the school.” Eugene cleared his throat. “It has nothing to do with you or the other students. This is about me and what I want to accomplish.”

Sam hadn’t thought about accomplishing much of anything until Mr. Olson arrived. The guy was driven and funny, always tossing ideas around. He had helped Sam learn to like learning. At least, working with his hands. It’s how his mind worked best. If Sam was going to graduate next year, he needed Olson in the classroom or he’d never finish high school.

Eugene brushed his hands off and turned to Sam. “Time to dig out the toolbox.” He walked to the truck bed trying to recall where he last saw the tox. Was it under some of the lumber he’d stashed for the baby’s swing set? Or pinned between the bikes he was repairing to surprise his wife?

After several minutes shifting things around, Eugene returned, toolbox in hand, and found a dozen kids peering under the hood, pointing and joking around.

He was surprised and really pleased to see them. “Oh, good,” he smiled, “you’re all here.” 

The students looked up and greeted their teacher. “Hey, Mr. O.” “Cool relic!” “Is this, like, a model T?”

“How did you all find me?”

Rusty, a tall, red-haired kid explained, “When Sam pulled me over he asked if I would round everyone up. I stood outside class, spread the word, and we shared rides. It’s not far, man.”

The young men nodded and some held up two fingers for peace. “We carpooled, Teach. You proud?”

Eugene smiled. “I’m honored you came to my aid like this, but…” Eugene glanced at his watch. School started in 20 minutes. He debated options: should he catch a ride with someone and return for the truck later? Was it irresponsible to have the kids assembled on the highway like this? Would Jones disapprove?

Rusty interrupted his thoughts. ““This is so cool, by the way. I’ve been wanting to tune up your truck’s engine. I think your timing belt is about to go. Maybe that’s what happened today.” More nods and discussion.

Eugene admired his enthusiastic class. It was rare to see them so curious and eager. He decided the moment was too good to pass up. “Sure. We can make Old Blue our project,” he offered, “but first we gotta get this grumpy guy back to school.”

“You seem stressed, Mr. O, but I wouldn’t call you grumpy.”

Eugene laughed along with Sam’s joke and his mind relaxed. He felt something click and by his next thought he had likely solved the problem with Old Blue.

“But guys,” Sam continued, “Mr. Olson needs to be at class on time today. Muy important. So, we need to help him. He’s gotta be there before the bell.”

Rusty chimed in, “How about if we don’t get the engine turned over in 10 minutes, we take Mr. O to class and swing by after class for Old Blue. What do you say, Mr. O?”

“Alright, Rusty. Sounds good.” Eugene circled around surveying the group. “Now, let’s see what you’ve learned this year. Where would you start with fixing this truck?”

Rusty leaned over and examined the engine. “There’s a lot to choose from,” he observed, sparking more laughter.

“You’re not wrong,” Eugene smiled. “But what’s the first thing to check? As a rule of thumb?”

A few students shouted out ideas. Did it overheat? It’s the carburetor! My money’s on the timing belt.

Eugene raised his hands for quiet. “You’ve got great ideas and we can sort through the list in due time. But you’re missing that crucial first step about what might get this truck back on the road right now.”

“Should we check the gas, Mr. Olson?” Sam raised the spare can he’d rummaged out of the truck bed.

“Yes,” Eugene clapped his hands once. “When your car or truck stops running, start by adding some gas to the tank. Especially since Old Blue here doesn’t have a working fuel gauge. And I’m the father of a baby who doesn’t sleep through the night. I can’t recall the last time I filled the tank.”

The kids smiled and shook their heads, exclaiming some embarrassment at missing the obvious.

“It might seem like an easy thing to remember. And maybe you thought I had already done that” Eugene admitted. Heads bobbed all around. “You know, I wish I could say it was the first thing that came to mind. But in the heat of the moment, worried about getting to class on time, I panicked and didn’t think of the obvious until you showed up and helped me get my bearings.”

Rusty patted his teacher’s back. “We’ve all been there, Mr. O.”

Eugene smiled at each boy. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Okay, Sam,” Eugene directed, “give the old guy a drink and let’s see what happens.”

“Happy to, Mr. Olson.”

Five minutes later, Old Blue was leading a small parade of cars back to the high school, and Eugene was thanking his granddad for helping him get into and out of another mess.