Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 18 - Part 1

I crawled into bed later that night back at my apartment, tired and alone. Earlier in the day we had agreed that a break—even for just one night—was a healthy move. For a while I had half-expected Mikey to later succumb, to turn to me in the car, for instance, and tell me that he wanted to stay over after all. I knew later, certainly after our walk down the streets of my childhood, that the basis for this outcome was entirely my invention; it bore no resemblance to the reality of our situation.

I also knew, as I considered it rather heavily now left to my own thoughts, that our situation marched its way steadily toward calamity. I realized that no matter the outcome, it would carry with it a fair amount of drama. Troubled by the certainty of this, and perhaps even more by the uncertainty over which outcome it would be, I did not sleep particularly well.

"I'm a little offended that you didn't bring anything with you to stay over tonight," said Mikey the next morning at the bus stop. "I'll get over it, though. Don't worry."

"You expect me to carry it around all day?" I asked, flashing a grin. I found it alarmingly easy to drop all concern as I nestled back into his presence.

"No. I mean, you could've texted ahead and dropped it off at my place. Come on, Chickadee, a little prior coordinating never hurt anyone."

"Hey, you have to do that all the time, for work. It doesn't come as easily to me."

"Hmmm. Maybe so," he said. "How about we pick up your stuff on our way through Corbin after work? You're not getting out of learning to drive a manual."

"Oh yeah. I forgot about that."

"I'm sure you did," he said. "Anyway, I could stay at your place tonight if you prefer."

"I don't prefer. It's not even my home for much longer."

"I see."

"No matter what I decide," I added. "Someone's already signed to take my place on the first."

"Fuck," he said, casting a strange look down at the sidewalk. "It's scary how fast things like that can move."

I just nodded.

The bus approached with a deep, descending moan and we climbed on amid a small line of people.

That evening, my role as passenger became decidedly studious as Mikey drove us to my apartment after a quick dinner at his place, and only more so as we departed for open farm roads to the east. I viewed this desperate, last-ditch attentiveness as my only hope of avoiding catastrophe once seated behind the wheel.

"Do you always have to put in the clutch between gears?" I asked as he started south down the highway.

"Always." Mikey's driving had become correspondingly demonstrative. "Otherwise you're forcing the engine to change its speed immediately, which is very hard on the transmission—and the clutch, which is sort of a means of diplomacy between the two."

"Okay, I'm already not following you."

"Don't worry. You don't need to understand it like that. But yes, the clutch must be in when changing gears. It disengages the transmission from the engine, which is necessary when changing from one drive ratio to another. When you let the clutch slowly out, it facilitates the gradual reconnection."

I paused. "And why does the clutch need to be in when you're just sitting at a stop light?"

"Actually, you can let the clutch out at a stop light if you put the shifter in neutral, or turn off the engine. Obviously turning the car off doesn't make sense, but I use neutral all the time, when my foot needs a rest. But, assuming the car is in first, the clutch must be in because the engine is turning and the wheels are not. So the car is in gear, and the engine is turning at, say, seven-hundred times each minute. If the clutch is let out, then the wheels need to also be turning a certain number of times a minute, correlating to the drive ratio determined by first gear. When you're stopped, the wheels aren't turning at all, so letting out the clutch would force the engine to stop turning, too—unless you let out the clutch carefully, and with a measured amount of throttle, which is exactly how you start moving from a stop."