Parker Rowe was one of the finest mechanics Southport Island had ever seen. He could fix outboards, cars, trucks, lobster boat engines. If it had a motor and it didn’t run, Parker was your man. He was a solitary fellow and looking back on it now, I suppose I was a pest, a ten-year-old boy, hanging around the garage, asking questions and using his tools to work on my bicycle. He never complained, though, and I spent many an afternoon shadowing Parker around the shop while he worked on one thing or another.
One summer morning, when you could hear gulls squawking overhead and smell the salt in the air, I pedaled over to Parker’s. My not-so white Converse All-Stars braked as I turned left into the driveway, creating a trail of dust behind me that glittered in the morning sun before gently settling back into its place on earth. Goofus, Parker’s elderly hound, barked and then took one look at me and waddled off into the shade, apparently more interested in taking a nap.
“Parker? Parker? Are you here? My brakes are gone again.”
“In here, boy. What’s all the commotion?”
“Can I work on my bike today? The brakes let go on Burnt Piece Hill and I thought I was a goner! The town truck pulled out of Molly’s Point Road and I couldn’t stop. I had to go into the spruces, and I scun my knees up something fierce.”
“Set it up in the corner. You know where the tools are. Just make sure they get put back in the right place when you’re through with them. Mind you don’t get underfoot. I’ve got a lot of work to do today, but first I’ve got to run up to Pinkham’s Store and pick up a few things. Will you mind the shop for me while I’m gone?”
“All right Parker. I’ll do my best.”
His ’32 Pontiac started up without hesitation. I walked slowly around the garage my fingertip tracing over each and every wrench and screwdriver that lay on Parker’s workbench. The tools were shiny and work-worn from years of use.
One of Parker’s hats hung on a peg and I reached for it as I neared the end of the bench. Tentatively, I glanced over my left shoulder and then my right. All clear. I slipped the orange hunting hat on over my head. It was much too big for me, and something scratched my ears. I lifted the hat off my head and took a look inside. There was a piece of tinfoil, neatly folded and lying in the top of the hat. “That’s odd.” I thought and carefully placed the hat back on the peg. I set to fixing my brakes and before long I heard the sound of a car rolling into the driveway. Parker was muttering something to himself when he got out of the car. I leaned out from under my bike.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t they have what you needed?”
“Not exactly.” Parker replied, and he went straight to work without saying another word.
Before long, my bike fixed and tools put away, I thanked Parker, but he didn’t seem to notice, so I slipped out and rode home.
The next time I was at Parker’s shop, he was having a heck of a time trying to get a nut off an engine. I gave it my best shot, but I was no match for it. Mr. Sherman walked in with an outboard, and by and by, Parker asked him to have a go at it. Mr. Sherman grinned and took the wrench. The wrench shook under the pressure he applied, and before long his face turned as red as a boiled lobster just coming out of a pot. I thought for sure the wrench would break, but it didn’t. Finally, shaking his head in defeat, he said, “Parker. That nut isn’t going anywhere.”
Parker shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll see about that.” Mr. Sherman left his Evinrude at the shop and got back into his red Chevy, driving toward the west side of the island.
Come week’s end, I rode up to the store with Parker. He seemed awfully determined to get something there. I asked him why he just didn’t go over town to get it. He smiled in a way that led me to believe I had just asked a really stupid question.
“Town? They don’t have the brand I want. Charlie special orders things for me. Besides, do you know how much gas it takes to drive over there?”
“But Parker. It’s only five miles.”
“Five miles too much if you ask me,” replied Parker.
I knew I was fighting a losing battle. Parker never exceeded 15 M.P.H. and he pinched every penny he made. That, together with the thought of how long it would actually take to get over town and back, soon silenced me.
When we got to the store, I immediately walked over to the glass candy case and studied the cornucopia of confections that were displayed inside. I figured if I looked at them long enough Parker might latch on to the idea that I wanted something.
“Here you go, Parker. Just what you wanted – heavy-duty aluminum foil. Now that didn’t take so long, did it?” Mr. Pinkham inquired.
“Long enough with all that’s going on and in the air around here. I would have preferred to have it three days ago,” Parker stated matter-of-factly.
Mr. Pinkham looked a little puzzled but decided to let it lie, and went about his business behind the counter. A delivery truck had just backed in, and the driver had come in with an invoice.
Just then, Mr. Sherman walked in. “Did you get that nut off, Parker?” Parker smiled and slowly pointed to his head and tapped the side of it with his index finger.
“Left handed threads,” he said, obviously pleased with himself for solving the problem. He turned to pay Mr. Pinkham and bought me three pieces of bubble gum and two bull’s eyes. Things were beginning to look up.
We got back in the Pontiac and headed down to Cozy Harbor to work on Jimmy Marr’s lobster boat. She had been overheating lately, and he had called the shop earlier to see if Parker could fix it. Jack brought her over from Five Islands and had her tied up to the float. He met us on the runway as we walked down.
“I should be out hauling,” Jack grumbled as we walked towards his boat.
“Don’t worry, Jack. She’s done this before. I’ll have you back at your pots in no time,” Parker reassured.
The men went to work on the engine and I watched for a while, but in the end opted to look for crabs along the shoreline. Two pinched my fingers and I was just reaching for a third when I heard Parker call for me and say it was time for lunch.
We wandered into the Alley. The smells of burgers and fries cooking on the grill met us at the door and drew us in. Mr. Pratt had a large lunch crowd that day. The tables in the dance hall were full, so we had to sit on the stools at the lunch counter. Mr. Pratt turned around from the grill and greeted us.
“What will it be today, fellas?”
“Three Cokes, please,” I replied, feeling quite important as I sat among some of the island’s finest workmen.
“Coming right up. Parker, are you still wearing that plastic hat? It’s going to make you bald,” Mr. Pratt scolded.
Without a word, Parker placed a hand on each side of his orange hunting hat and lifted it straight off his head. He was bald! Completely bald. I’d worked with him all this time and I never knew. At this point, not knowing any better, I chimed in, “Parker, is that why you wear tin foil in your hat?”
Suddenly it was as quiet in the Alley as it was Sunday mornings in the Methodist Church. Everyone was looking at me, and I could feel the color rise in my cheeks like the high tide on the night of a full moon. Parker leaned over and looked me square in the eye and said, “Death rays boy. Alien death rays. I wear it to protect my brain.”
By the seriousness of his tone of voice, I knew he wasn’t kidding. I didn’t know what to say, so I ate my lunch and kept my mouth shut the rest of the day, until it was time to go home.
From that day forward I never looked at Parker quite the same way. I continued to visit him a the shop, and as the years rolled past, I became a good enough mechanic to take over his business when he wasn’t able to run it any longer. As it turns out, Parker continued to place his “special order” at Pinkham’s Store until the day he died. As for me, I can’t look at a roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil without smiling, and when I meet someone wearing a hat, I can’t help but wonder what’s underneath it. Who knows? Maybe Parker was on to something. Aluminum foil, anyone?
S. A. Sherman lives in Southport, Maine.