. . .
Male - 27 Years Old
|As a member of a dance group – 10 women, democratically run – I know full well how hard it is to agree on anything. How does Godspeed operate as a community?|
Your car breaks and you take it to the garage – dirty room, five mechanics maybe, car keys hung on nails next to the front counter. Two cars on lifts, one car in the corner, all the other cars parked in the back. Everything and everybody is covered in grease, everyone's smoking like crazy. They have to fix 20 cars before 5pm, or else the backlog will fucking break everybody's back until Christmas. The parts suppliers roll in every half-hour or so, mostly bringing new brake pads and flex-hoses, but bumpers sometimes, oil-pans, headlight assemblies or timing belts.
In a good garage, the whole mess of it almost collapses all day long. Dudes yell and argue, everything's going wrong and why are we doing this anyways? The hose won't fucking fit, or the screwdriver slips and you lose the hose-clamp somewhere beneath the undercarriage. The sun starts to set and the floor gets littered with burnt bulbs, spent gaskets, oil, and sweat, and brake fluid. Someone's hungover, someone's heartbroken, someone couldn't sleep last night, someone feels unappreciated, but all that matters is making it through the pile, the labour is shared and there's a perfect broken poetry to the hammering and yelling, the whine of the air compressor kicking to life every five minutes or so.
It all seems impossible. But somehow we make it through the pile. The cars run again. The cars drive away. Rough day but now it's done, and everything's fine; everything's better than fine. Tomorrow we'll do it all over again. You deal with the Volvo, I'll deal with the Toyota. Heat and noise. All day, every day, until it's quiet again. We fix cars until we die. We love fixing cars.
Do people like me just take you too seriously?