Compassion in the corners of life

David Sherman

If you needed a mechanic and lived anywhere near Lachute, QC, rated 200th on a list of 200 best Canadian cities, your neighbour would tell you, “See Kevin Madden.”

Kevin had a two-bay garage, a third bay reserved for his motorcycle and retired engine blocks and rusted junk. The detritus of a mechanic’s life.

His philosophy on the machines that paid for his life: “All cars are pieces of shit.”

Kevin spoke four languages. French joual, International French, English and a George Carlinesque colloquial, reserved for men. Every third or fourth word was … nevermind. You can imagine. His profanity was never sexist and was aimed at automobiles and components. When Kevin fixed your piece of shit, it stayed fixed. He’d cut me a deal for reasons known only to him.

“I always like to talk to you,” he told me more than once. “Come any time.”

So, I’d drop in when I lived 10 kms away, bring a six-pack, have a Friday afternoon beer. I didn’t know he had an exceptional thirst for after-hours brew. His wife Josée, who did the billing and accounting, did not look at me with fondness.

“Your wife hates me,” I told him one afternoon, as we stared at my tired engine.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “She hates everyone.”

Like fabled, small-town barber shops, men would come and go all day. If Kevin wasn’t under a car or under a hood or calling suppliers for parts, he liked to chat. He liked people. They were more attractive than the “pieces of shit” he wrestled. Under the tire-throwing brawn and 10-letter descriptors banned from radio, was a soft-spoken, soft centre.

I moved and Kevin would say, “come by anytime.” I did. Too few times. He put my aging piece of shit in shape earlier this year, saving me money with inventive Jerry-rigging.

I admired the guy. He had suffered cancer and two mini-strokes. Ask how he was doing, he’d say, “Hanging in there. How’re you?” He actually cared.

I kept saying I should drive down the 329 and see Kevin. It’s a 20-minute excursion through the mountains. Hardly onerous.

I called this week to get his opinion on our ancient Subaru’s latest illness. His mechanic answered, the kid he was going to sell the garage to.

“Kevin died,” he said. “Heart attack.”

We visited his wife. Kevin had been having chest pains. He didn’t want to go to a hospital. He was a stubborn son of a bitch. He felt better the next morning. She went out and came home to find him dead.

We had nothing in common. But Kevin was one of those in the corners of our lives we hold in esteem, depend on, take for granted, are friends once removed, of a time and place. They’re kind of a glue. Could be the woman at the café, the pharmacist, the bartender, the osteopath. Strangers we bond with. People we don’t invite for dinner but drop in and chat without intruding, give a call at New Year’s and expect them to be there as they always have.

Kevin was barely 60. He was going for walks and looking after himself, he said. Kevin was not an afternoon football on TV kind of guy. His weekend recreation was sawing through a truck-full of logs to split into firewood with a few guys until drinking became preferable to splitting.

You had hard times, Kevin was there.

I needed a cheap car. He said take mine. He didn’t need a car anyways, he said. He lived over the garage and there were all sorts of shit boxes for sale on his yard he could drive, he said.

So, he sold me his 1999 Chevy Impala, 90,000 kms old, fully loaded, for $1200. I said I don’t know when I can pay you. He said, “I’m not worried.”

I needed firewood. He sold and delivered several cords. Good hardwood is gold when you heat with trees. I told him I didn’t know how fast I could pay him. He said, “I’m not worried.”

It gave me an excuse to drop by with a couple of hundred every few weeks, a freelancer’s instalment plan, and we’d chat.

I loved the old Chevy, idiosyncrasies and all. It took us in style on a few road trips. When my knees complained it was too low to the ground, Kevin sold it for me for $1,700, kept a few bucks, gave me the rest.

To pacify his wife’s distaste for my offerings, instead of beer, I repaid his kindness with gift certificates to his favourite restaurant. She finally warmed to me.

I would ask him why he didn’t get more help in the garage. He was always doing heavy lifting, changing tires, pulling engines. He said every time he hired someone, they spend their time in the bathroom on cellphones. More probably he didn’t want to stop doing the heavy lifting. He liked the work, he liked the people, he liked keeping the customers satisfied.

At New Year’s, I would call, trade pleasantries. He always said he appreciated the call. Asked about my partner. Wished me well. Asked to see me.

Vehicles in the mountains are a lifeline. You need to get around and you need Kevin to assure it.

He was more than the guy who kept the car running. He was a trusted part of everyday life, taken for granted but integral. More importantly, it turned out, we were two strangers with nothing in common, but an unusual bond, a mutual respect and affection.

I always thought when I called, he would answer. He didn’t this week and I’m still stunned. He was too young, a reassuring part of my life and dozens of others, gone.

There’s another neighbourhood mechanic whose mortgage we subsidize. A good man but not Kevin. I should have visited him.

Sometimes there’s no tomorrow.