Liam Gibler/The Broadside
November has always been a busy month for Frankie Gordon. The looming threat of snow guarantees an exodus of new and old customers; tire changes and chain purchases become the lifeblood of the auto body. Between the long hours and demanding conditions one can almost forget themselves. But not Frankie. Cause Frankie doesnāt have a job at a repair shop. He actually doesnāt have any job at all. November is a busy time of year because thatās what all his friends say when he wants to hang out with them.
Itās not that he likes cars, though he does quite a lot. Itās not even that he likes talking about cars and showing them off. The reason people donāt like Frankie Gordon is because he sucks.
Some people in this world are just unconversable. You say: āhey howāve you been?ā They rattle on and on about catalytic converters. You say āI need support.ā They say āfunny enough thatās why I bought those new catalytic converters, they really add support to the whole exhaust system.ā Then those same folks turn around and wonder where everyone went, because the mirror just isnāt as good at listening.
Now an observant fellow might’ve realized that they were the worst after a while. If not through a process of introspection, then just from hearing people say it so much. An observant fellow mightāve even turned to the scoop or the bottle to ease their loneliness, accumulating more debt then their therapy could ever cost. But Frankie has never been described as observant. And when he has a problem he solves it the old fashioned way; door to door, face to face.
At first, little was known about his āexpeditions.ā Neighbors had developed a method of anti-stalking to avoid him, so his day to day often went unnoticed. Until inevitably, some poor sap forgot their car keys and caught a glimpse of the bastard. Rookie mistake. After the ensuing five hour conversation, the neighbor left a note anonymously in our newsroom summing up the ordeal. It reads as follows:
āBefore explaining to me what he wanted or what was going on, Frankie insisted on giving me a full rundown of his medical history. Apparently the whole thing dates back to his early childhood, and no amount of āmhmsā or āyeahsā would keep him from elaborating. He was adamant that he was treated well by family and peers, with normal opportunities for growth and development. He even went so far as to describe a childrenās birthday party he allegedly went to. The colors of the cake, the number of the candles; he lost me when he claimed the kid had ninety three, and then out of the blue he drops a diagnosis. He tells me thatās around when he got diagnosed with CSBT.ā
Childsplanatory Behavioral Tendencies, or āChildsplainingā in the common vernacular, was a theory first proposed by the late Dr. Herbert Child in the 1990s. After running double blind testing for thirty two weeks, the results were surprisingly conclusive. Regardless of pairing, setting, or group size; children containing the mutated āGABā codon would incessantly talk about topics they knew little to nothing about. Biologically unable to pick up on social cues or use their listening ears, these kids would continue until dropping from a state of exhaustion. Something Frankieās family mustāve known all too well.
When left untreated, āchildsplainingā can manifest in adulthood, into one of several common strains in the U.S today. Including, but not limited to:
- The Fascist: Designer brand sneaker head
- The Cinematrix: Tarantino apologist
- And the garden variety Autologist: Prius praymaster, Hyundai worshiper
Very little research has gone into the evolution from āchild to adult splainerā and what causes the individual’s lifetime obsession, but immunologist Edi Mcentire has set about to change that. Her theory on autological development, from the condition she calls Oil-Nasalsnifferitis, can be found in her new book: Snuffleupagus. Below is an excerpt from chapter one, detailing Dr. Mcentireās thoughts and processes.
āPeople have wondered about car guys forever. So long that there are records in ancient Rome of āCurrum Vulputateā or āchariot guys.ā But wondering is the right word. Speculating might even be a better one. Because until now, there was never any solid idea of why they might exist. Oil-Nasalsnifferitis solves that problem. It directly accounts for the spectrum of car loving that occurs, and is completely re-testable using the scientific method. It sums up like this:
Oil is in cars. People are sometimes also in cars. People who like cars are in cars more often than people who do not like cars. Such people are then exposed to greater levels of oil, which secretes the love hormone oxytocin. Much like taking care of a newborn baby, or being the host for a parasite, car people develop a symbiotic relationship with their vehicles. And at the rate weāre heading, itās only going to get worse.ā
Between CSBT and Oil-Nasalsnifferitis, our anonymous informant certainly had their hands full of Frankie. Context satisfied, let’s continue the dive into their narrative.
āFrank proceeded to go on various tangents, leaving me no room to get a word in. His brother in law Alister, his sister Beverly, mailman James and postmaster Johnny. It would be nearly two hours before I could muster the ferocity to interrupt, (introverted as I am), and say: āForget about the warehouse, what do you want from me right now? Why are you knocking at all these houses, and what could you possibly hope to gain from this?ā
There was a pause before he spoke. It was an unnatural, uneasy sort of thing. Like a sudden ebb in the riptide, or a call from a number outside your area codeā actually any phone call really. I found myself hoping for the first time that he would say something, anything, and as he finally took a breath to do just that, I regretted the thought immediately.
āBrother, I have been given a holy quest. A purpose beyond your wildest understanding. It came to me in a vision, as I sat in my oily car, swaddling spare converters like a babe. I saw a world of broken parts, but we were the broken parts, cause it was a metaphor for humanity. And for cars; which sometimes have broken parts. Then I saw a man who ended all the madness. Who united car lovers and car haters alike. An autological Jesus, a Buddha of more reasonable proportions. I saw in my vision the truth. I am that man, child. I am the man, child.
Like the religious pioneers of old I will spread my message. My gospel of John is that of Delorean. My salvation of Henry fords steams in vitam mortem. Enzo Ferrari; forget the whole damn party, Karl Benz; even his name sends shivers through me. To every door I will bring the word of Toyota, Honda, Tesla, and Bugatti. To every heart the joys of Jeep, Kia, and Maserati. And you anonymous stranger, are coming with me.āā
The note cut off there, as if the writer had suddenly been interrupted. Begging the question; if this was in real time, why did the writer use the past tense? And if they had the time to chronicle all that, couldnāt they have better concluded it? Who knows, lifeās a disappointment sometimes. Things donāt always turn out the way you expect them to. I thought Iād finish this article two weeks ago. Dr. Child thought he had developed a perfect cure, until an intern dropped it and the formula was lost forever. Thereās levels to this shit.