The Art of Truly Fixing Things by Carol Scheina

Samson had a way with metal, just like his father before him.

For two generations, Samson’s family auto shop had kept cars purring. Like every other small town repair shop, the place hit the nose with a wave of sweat and oil. Tools hung on the wall in all the proper places, collecting coats of dust.

For Samson didn’t usually need tools. With nothing but a stern stare, he could uncrumple a bashed-in car frame. He could carefully coax rumbles from a worn-out engine. Samson didn’t talk much with customers, but he would pat a car’s door or hood and whisper, “That’s it. You’ve got it.”

Samson’s father had taught him well.

Still, Samson was just one man, and the town was growing. When a tall man with stunningly long fingers asked for a job at the shop, Samson was intrigued.

“What skills you got?”

The man’s fingers waved about like playing a piano, and Samson saw a nearby cracked windshield knit together like a closing wound.

“I have some talent with glass,” the man explained.

Samson whistled. “You got a name?”

“Adwin.”

They shook hands.

Adwin talked well with customers, far better than Samson. His way with glass meant cars could get another level of fixing. With Adwin’s help, Samson kept his father’s legacy going strong.

Though Adwin seemed a mite different from other folks in town. He wore his hair a bit longer, clothes a bit tighter. These differences made more sense when Samson spotted Adwin shaping bits of spare glass into thin strands, weaving them into an impossibly tall sculpture.

So Adwin was an artist, Samson realized. That explained things. Artists could see the world with different eyes. They weren’t ones to blend in. But art didn’t fit into the auto shop’s world. Years ago, Samson stood outside the shop and took in the sunset colors, the way they burned deep at the horizon, then faded to gentle pinks and blues. When Father stepped outside, Samson tried to share the moment.

“The colors are really pretty, huh?” Samson had stammered.

 Father’s reply was a cold, metal stare, then a sharp, “Back to work.”

There were things you just didn’t talk about. Art was one of them. You were strong, stoic. You fixed cars.

Samson didn’t say anything about the sculpture. It was only one creation, after all. But, while tidying the shop, Samson found another piece of Adwin’s work. Bits from the glass scrap pile, somehow tinted soft colors, molded together to form a scene of flowers and birds. Even prettier than that other artwork.

It gave Samson the same ache as a brilliant sunset. This was something to stare at, to memorize the curling leaves and angled wings, to drink in the gentle colors as light filtered through them. Then he stepped back. What would Father say? Never mind that Father was long gone; Samson could imagine his steely gaze, his furrowed brow. Flowers and birds did not belong in this world of grease and metal.

Samson raised the glass, heavy and awkward, and slammed it down, hard enough to shatter.

He brushed past Adwin. “We’re not that kind of shop. Back to work.”

They didn’t say anything more. Adwin stayed out of sight the rest of the day.

But Samson couldn’t sleep that night. There was Father’s gaze, his silent rules of what made a man. But something else rubbed on Samson. He didn’t want to be that kind of man who destroyed things. Not like those men in their shiny cars, driving like they were kings and all others needed to get outta their way. They crashed often, and he fixed their shiny cars. But the poor cars that got crumpled by those men’s driving? Well, Samson fixed those too. At discount.

Above all, he wasn’t a destroyer; he was a fixer.

Plus, he’d never have told Father, but he thought Adwin’s art was stunning.

Samson went back to the shop that night. He assembled the glass shards as best he could. He coaxed metal scraps to melt around all the cracks, welding the whole piece together. He finished with a little pat on the glass’s top.

“I fixed your glass last night,” he said as Adwin walked in. “Didn’t feel right leaving it in pieces. We can find space for it here.”

Father would never have said anything more to Adwin. He’d never apologized to anyone, as far as Samson knew. But that didn’t sit right with this situation. Samson felt like something more was needed. Something else needed fixing.

“I’m awful sorry.”

Adwin gave an encouraging smile. “Thank you. I think it looks even better. Metal and glass work quite well together.”

Samson took a breath. “Could we make more? Maybe teach me some art?”

Adwin’s face lit up like a sunrise. The two men shook hands with a promise behind them.

This was Samson’s auto shop. He could have the beauty of colors and art alongside crushed cars, and he still could fix things just right. He’d do things his way.