Machine Gun Becki and Old Chad Greasyhands

Last night after Becki went into the garage to be on her way to church handbell practice, I heard RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA-RACKA!!!  It was deafening, even with the door leading to the garage shut.  She immediately came back into the house, her face white as a pair of brand new crew socks. 

"It sounded like a machine gun was firing at me," she stammered.  It sounded like members of Al Qaeda were waging Jihad in our garage even from inside the house.  Perhaps they were.

"It's the garage door," she said.  "When I pressed the button to open it, it sounded like someone was shooting at me."

I looked at the garage door and, unlike most garage door problems, this one was fairly obvious.  The sliding metal track that the door glides along as it opens or closes was dangling from the ceiling, limp like a broken limb in need of a cast.

"Take my car," I said, throwing her my keys. 

"But how will I get to work tomorrow?"  She asked, a look of sheer panic strangling her face.  You won't, Dollface, I thought.

Within seconds she was gone, and I was on that situation like a jockey riding a horse named Old Catalina.  A nut and a bolt had rattled loose, no doubt from repeated raisings and lowerings of the door, and I managed to secure them both, reattach the track to its proper resting place parallel to the ceiling, and tighten said nut and bolt to a satisfactory degree. 

My hands were covered in grease. 

It reminded me of a dream I had during my sophomore year of college at Missouri State University.  I dreamed there was a bicycle obstructing my dorm room door and I could not go through it.  In my dream I fiddled with that bicycle like a fiddler on the roof, and it never sang for me - not even one bit.  I awoke the next morning and found my roommate staring at me. 

"You were messing with my bike at 3:00 a.m," he said. "Just sitting there, moving the pedals with your hands."  Indeed, there was a bicycle in our room in an upright position on a bike chock, standing freely between our two wardrobes. 

"I did dream about a bike last night," I said.  "But I doubt I was actually messing with yours."  He shook his head and went back to sleep.  Minutes later I stepped into the shower and, as I began to pour shampoo into my hand I looked at it and realized it was covered in black bicycle grease.  These dirty hands... 

I had indeed attempted to go for a midnight ride.

Grease does not wash off easily, Dear Reader.  I washed and washed and only managed to get all of the grease from the garage door track off of my hands this morning.  The garage door opened like a charm after I intervened, by the way, proving that I am not entirely incompetent in matters of home repair.  Granted, I did manage to leave several 4" nails jutting out of our front porch this fall in an attempt to repair two broken steps, but my friend Brandon undid all of my damage when he succeeded where I could not. 

That's beside the point though.  From here on out, I will keep my eyes peeled for more opportunities to save Becki from machine gun garage doors, and whenever I manage to fix something I will wear the evidence on my hands as proof to the world of my prowess as an amateur repairman in training.