Check Engine

Your check engine light comes on because it loves you. This is my working hypothesis.

This is not what the sensor will tell you, but what do they know? Those things will declare that you have a “multiple engine misfire” on a perfect day. They will mock you on the first of September. They will blow out the candles of Earth, Wind, and Fire when all you wanted was to sing along.

They will bode an awful autumn, but what do they know? Their kingdom is crass and small.

Their kingdom does not extend to AutoZone. This is precisely the place to be when you are out of sorts because the sensors are censoring September first.

The sensors do not know about the two witnesses.

I did not recognize them, but such is the preference of holy beings. One Zone denizen was consuming an ambitious sandwich. It was 9:16 am, but he would prevail upon two pounds of provolone, chartreuse peppers falling like comets. I made a wish.

His kinsman was Santa Claus of the summer, woolly beard dyed with cherries jubilee. A careless eye would liken him to a Viking, but the warrior was an elf. His nametag read BENJI. His eyes sparkled over me, blessing my wrinkled T-shirt before I spoke.

“Happy September!”

“Happy September.” I remembered that it was. I remembered that Septembers are not dimmed by sensors.

The sandwich man unhinged his jaw to efficiently dispatch his feast. “Do you need help?”

I contemplated a confessional. I sensed these men had access to absolution, between the pine-scented Tiny Trees and the wall of wipers.

Yes, I need help. I need words to tell the Italian man why I vanished from daily Mass. I need a PowerPoint to reassure my mother that I am not a Marxist, except in the few ways I kind of am. I need a hair product that will dispatch the frizz that makes me look all forty of my years. I need my favorite month to be kind this year. I need to stay on September first until all the saints and elements remind me who I am.

“I need a check engine light diagnosis. I understand there’s no charge?”

A banana pepper ring fell from the sandwich man’s shirt. “No charge.” He was biding his time, wise not to reveal his full powers at once.

Benji was less patient. His beard was as red as Beaujolais. “Have you been to the soda store across the street?”

He was gesturing. He was enormous. His arms could take down tyrants. He was flexing the hidden art of inspiring instant fondness.

I responded appropriately. “Huh?”

Benji bore witness. “The soda store has every obscure beverage in the world. It’s their thing. It’s heckin’ awesome.”

My red and yellow wires touched, and I sizzled. I tucked “heckin’” in my front pocket.

“Sodas?”

“Best thing that happened to me all year!” Benji was telling the truth. Telling me this was the best thing that happened to Benji all day, but I suspect it was tied with fourteen other best things. “The day they opened, I bought twenty-eight different orange cream sodas. Did you know there are twenty-eight different orange cream sodas?”

“That’s spectacular.”

“Most of them are awful!” Benji was as proud as Galileo. “I can’t wait to go back! Will you go today after you finish up here? You should.”

I didn’t know why he was telling me any of this, but I knew that Benji wanted the best for me. The sandwich man wanted to get me back to September. He had a ray gun with tentacles. “Let’s check your engine.”

We walked into the light. The sandwich man had no nametag, but vinegar had etched a code on his shirt.

“Turn on the engine. No, all the way on.”

Earth, Wind, and Fire picked up where they left off. Benji had followed us, which was formally unnecessary and entirely necessary. I shut the radio. Benji continued to dance.

“We wantcha safe,” Benji confirmed, which was unnecessary. “She runnin’ okay?”

“If I didn’t know there was a problem, I wouldn’t know,” I shrugged. Benji turned solemn, hearing this statement in full.

The sandwich man released a groan that I could only assume was Aramaic or indigestion. He had connected the tentacles and awaited the truth.

Benji beheld my bumper stickers, the school locker of an oversized preteen. A man I once intended to love had been embarrassed by “all those self-declarations, prancing yourself around like that.” It would have been one thing to stick with my alumni sticker – “showing off, but people do that” – but to add a cat magnet and a Ukrainian flag and that pink “Love God, Love People” sticker… “it’s the goody-wagon. Aren’t you embarrassed?”

Benji was not embarrassed. “That’s the thing, man.” He was poking “Love God, Love People.” “That’s the whole damn thing.” He stared across the highway and appeared to be crossing worlds. When he exhaled, I had to brace myself against the car.

“That’s the soda place.” He pointed. “Tell me you’ll go. Whatever you like, they got it.”

I hoped that was true.

“Well, this ain’t right.” The sandwich man rose from his knees. “Multiple engine misfire. Bad news, but there woulda been symptoms. You say she’s runnin’ alright?”

“Like a dream.” I don’t think I’d ever uttered that phrase before.

“Yeah, this is a lie.” The sandwich man shook his head at the tentacles. “Probably just somethin’ dirty inside.”

“But you should get it checked out,” Benji had to say this, but he also wanted to. “Gotta be safe. Gotta keep this rad little beast rollin.” He patted my Subaru like a point guard slapping the star shooter on the buttocks. He patted my Subaru like he was dabbing ashes on its forehead, but in the shape of a smiley face.

The sandwich man led our procession back inside. “Need anything while you’re here?”

I need to start September with songs that escape the censors. I need to remember that men come in cherry red and creamsicle orange. I need sacraments that won’t burn my throat. I need small silliness that makes me large again. I need to write to AutoZone to insist that they give these men a raise.

I grabbed a Little Joe, a moon-white man who would plug into my vent and cause my rad little beast to smell like A New Day.

“There are Vanilla ones too.” Benji grabbed a yellow Little Joe. “Two for one. Stay away from the Midnight Rain ones, though. They smell like a motel bathroom.”

The sandwich man has summoned a pastry. “They smell like malice and discontent.” He waited for me to laugh and was pleased that I didn’t.

I paid the men. I bumbled around for the right benediction. Benji beat me to Amen.

“Just gimme some comfort before you leave, awright?”

“Um?”

“Promise—” he raised one enormous finger “—you’ll get that Subaru checked out for real, and” – he gestured to the promised land two lanes away – “you’ll get yourself some fancy soda.”

He was grinning and gleaming and swinging New Day and Vanilla censers at me. I had returned to September first.

“I promise.”

I jingled the bells. I knew I would not see these men again. It wouldn’t be necessary. I spoke the word I’d been given. “Have a heckin’ beautiful September.”