One July night I’m awakened at 2:20 a.m. by a loud voice and a hammering sound outside. I get up, shake off the six Pilsners I enjoyed earlier, and take a look. Guy’s out there in his t-shirt and greasy denims, hammering at something under the hood of his ’70-something T-Bird. He’s cussing like a sailor at low tide, something like this: Clang! “Fuck!” Clang! “FUCK!” Clang clang! “FUCKING FUCK!” 

I crack the window and yell. “Buddy, what the hell? You know what time it is?” 

The guy doesn’t even turn around for his reply: “Shaddup, kumquat.... Who asked you?” 

“Kumquat”? Who says that? 

He continues hammering and cussing. I flip the light on and get dressed, grab two beers from the fridge just in case. Down in the parking lot, the guy’s still swinging his ball-peen and throwing out the fucks. Might not be wise to approach a man swinging a hammer, but come on—who works on their car at two in the morning? If he turns nuts, I can always offer him a beer and hope for the best. I walk up to him. 

“Hey man, what the hell? You’re waking the place up.” 

Head still under the hood he growls, “Don’t give a rat’s ass.” Takes another swing. CLANG. 

I decide to go the peaceful route and offer the guy a beer. I take one out and crack it, take a sip. “Beer?” I ask him. Puts his hammer down, wipes a rag across his face. Eyes me up square for a solid 10 seconds, like we’re in a staredown. He’s pushing 45, maybe 50. Arms like treetrunks. I’m thinking this could go either way and I haven’t been in a fight since high school. 

Finally wipes his hands and says, “Why the fuck not?” He lights up a smoke and we get to talking.

“You from here?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I’m a lifer. Northside all the way.” 

With his smoke dangling he asks, “Northsider. What is it with you guys? Northside. Southside. Who gives a shit?” 

He moved to E-Town from Vancouver three months before. Drove that failing T-Bird the whole way with little more than a suitcase and a few grand. “Kinda like New West and North Van,” I tell him. “Splitting hairs, y’know?” 

He continues his story. “My ex is here, so my kid’s here,” he explains. “Little daughter. Turns 10 in August.” 

“She stays with your wife?” I ask. 

“Ex-wife, compadre. Don’t forget the ‘ex.’” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

He takes a pull and a drag and nods at me. “Got any kids?” 

“No. No wife. No ex-wife.” 

He pauses with a smirk. Takes another hit from his smoke, silent. I ask him what’s up with the T-Bird. 

“Needs a new head gasket,” he says. He can’t afford the garage bill so he’s doing it himself. “Know anything about Fords, kid?” 

Kid? Nice touch. 

“Fuck no. That’s my shitheap over there,” I say, nodding at my decrepit Pontiac. 

He gives a sympathetic chuckle under his breath and asks, “How much you pay for that bag of ass?” 

I couldn’t remember. “Couple grand. Bastard’s seen better days. Needs a new fuel pump. Or a bullet.”  

We bullshit for a few minutes: The summer heat, the Esks and the Lions, the traffic, the Whyte Avenue circus. 

Trying to wrap it up he says, “Sorry about this, kid. This damn engine’s been ringing in my head for days, y’know? Had to get it out.” 

I take my last swig and offer him a “cheers.” 

Throws his butt in his mouth and extends his arm. Bottles clink and we drink. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called a kumquat,” I offer. 

“I don’t even know what a kumquat is,” he says. 

“Well, take ’er cool with the kid and the car, man. Hope all goes well.” 

He says nothing and gives me a nod. Lights up another smoke. Slams the hood down for the night.