Mecanico

21/06/2009 11:24

This little encounter yesterday gave me a good deal to ponder about today. Today, being Fathers Day.

I was out yesterday to purchase a few things from a computer shop and was driving through the exit of a paid parking lot when my car conked out the minute I reached the guard post. I was helpless to put the car to first gear and far more helpless to assuage irate motorists from behind. Finally with the help of the guard who redirected exiting traffic to the entrance, my car was pushed off the driveway back to the parking lot.

Failing to reach my regular mechanic on the cell phone, I tried looking around the adjoining road for a car mechanic. This road is lined with motorcycle, bicycle and related supplies and spare parts stores. Right along the sidewalks you’d find makeshift repair shops for these two-wheeled conveyances. So obviously there wasn’t any shortage for their sort of mechanics but finding a car mechanic thereabouts was providential.

After asking around, one and only one name surfaced “Boy Ilong,” but I was cheerlessly warned I would be lucky if he’s not off to some repair engagement somewhere. As it turned out, luck was on my side as I came across him seated on a long wooden bench talking with some men in a run-down tricycle shop at the far end of the road. Case heard, he grabbed his tool bag and together we walked back to my car.

Sixty, shabby, sooty-faced with scruffy silvering hair, a burly physique, a firm stride and a bulbous nose which he said, earned him the alias “Boy Ilong.” It was people’s way of identifying him from two more mechanics he used to work with, sporting the “Boy” name.

I was captivated by how he got my car fixed in no time, knowing exactly where and what’s the cause of the problem and working on it with the dexterity of a master. You’d know it’s his thing because he does it excellently. “Comes with forty years of experience,” he said self-effacingly. “I’m nowhere near retirement yet but maybe I will think about it at sixty-five.” Even as he declared it, I could see that he will keep on doing his thing as if it will never end.

We got a bit chummy and our conversation was carried over a serving of pansit guisado, loaf bread and soft drinks in a nearby restaurant. I wondered whether he has gotten to pass on his expertise to anyone in his family. Well, he’s got a son he tagged along as a child who picked the tricks of the trade.

Then suddenly he told me something that made me think more highly of the person in front of me. He said he was hoping his son would take after him and his beloved profession but it was not for him to choose. He told me that from his honest-to-goodness job as a mechanic, he was able to send his son through college, graduating with a degree in Criminology. His son did not turn out to be a policeman either. According to him, his son is now a rising basketball coach of high school and college level students in one of the universities in town. He spoke with profuse fatherly love and pride for his son’s accomplishment.

Somehow I realized here was a man who knew that his being a mechanic was secondary to his being a father. He did not push upon his son the tools of his trade but instead had given him the tools to succeed and be happy in life. He did not deprive his son the right to decide for himself, knowing it was his son who was going to live with that decision. He gave his son the freedom to dream his dream. He allowed him to find his thing.

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