(Can be found when the AC breaks down in NC)
Back in 2015, I wrote a book of poems and short stories called, Cool Don’t Live Here No More–A letter to San Francisco. The titled was inspired by Miles Davis’ album, Birth of the Cool. The city of my birth, San Francisco, was becoming unbearable. I’d grown up with cool people, people with a certain style but within that style, a sense of humility, a sense of being part of something bigger than themselves; that the world didn’t revolve around just them. After more than 50 years of living in the city, I left in 2020. To me, the cool had left the city and I didn’t want to stick around. I moved to North Carolina and, unexpectedly, I ran into the cool. Calvin is one of the cool one’s. He’s what I call an all-weather kind of guy. If you need him, he’s there regardless of the forecast—and you don’t have to call him. He seems to have a sort of internal barometer that can take the temperature of your mood and hence, the predicament you might find yourself in. In this age of global-warming, it’s good to know some cool people still exist. But Calvin is unique, he’s cool yet he’s warm. I live in Western North Carolina, the place that Calvin has called home for most of his life—homegrown. He’s a few years older than I, early 60’s when we look at the speedometer of life that progressively moves faster. I have been here close to 4 years and I’m still gauging the temperature of the area. People are warm, friendly, polite; but I’ve learned not to be too consumed by politeness. There is nice and there is kind and the two aren’t necessarily the same.
In this age of global warming, we need cool people; cool people that can give a bit of relief from the rising temperatures, the anger, the rage. The rising temperatures have begun to hit Hendersonville, the town I call home—20 minutes or so from Asheville. The town is populated by people from many different places who work, eat, play, frequent thrift stores and say, thank you, please, excuse me and appreciate you.
I drive an early 2000 model Subaru whose driver’s side door is encrusted with rust. The engine thinks it is new. I drive in the increasingly warm weather around Hendersonville with a steady stream of cold air in my face via the AC. I drive looking at the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains thinking, this is the life. I drive a while longer and the weather gets warmer and as I begin to head home I was hit in the face by a gust of warm air that turned into hot air. I reached over adjusted the AC controls and still nothing but hot air. I pulled in front of my house when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey man, your air-conditioning go out?”
“Who’s this?”
“Calvin.”
“Oh, hey Calvin. Yeah, it went out. How’d you know?”
“I’m from here. I know the weather. Know when it’s cool, ain’t cool…”
Calvin says he’ll drop by tomorrow and take a look at my AC. I’ve never been mechanically inclined so I am relieved that Calvin reached out. He arrived the next day—5 foot 8 inches, graying hair cut into a neat semi-flat top. He is trim, no excess weight in the middle. He pops open my hood and explains where the freon gas for the air conditioning goes. To me it’s a matrix of valves, hoses, wires and plugs. But to Calvin it is all interconnected. Most of the jobs he’s held have been in a logistical capacity. He knows how to set things up, how to break things down. We drive to the auto parts store where he continues to break things down—this time to me. He shows me the freon canisters, which one to buy and the valves to use when injecting. We pop the hood. He locates where the freon needs to go.
“You put the freon in there.” he says. ‘B-B-But be sure to check it. You wanna make sure you get enough. It might be real low so you want to make sure.”
He tells me to start the engine and turn on the AC. The air is warm but suddenly becomes cool then cold. Calvin peeks at me from the side of the hood. I give him the thumbs up sign. I get out and Calvin tells me to drive the car around a bit before parking it for the evening. He lowers the hood when a white Ford Bronco pulls up next to us. A short Latino man gets out. He wears a white baseball cap and knit sport shirt. He gets out, looks at Calvin, then me.
“Espanol?” he asks
“Muy poquito.” I answer.
I am Filipino-black and Irish. I am mistaken for Latino often. He says something in Spanish. I only recognize one word, frio. This guy’s AC isn’t working is my educated guess. I got in the driver’s side of the Bronco and I was right—just hot air blowing in my face. We went into the auto parts store and got some freon. Calvin got back to work.
“Ok, p-p-put this freon in there…ok?”
I translate into Spanish even though I don’t speak Spanish. The cannister hissed. Calvin told me to check to see if the air from the AC was cold. I got into th truck and the air in the AC cooled until cold.
“Frio.” I said, giving the thumbs up sign.
The Latino man typed something into his cell phone. I read it. It said: How much?
“No, no, no…gratis.”I replied.
Calvin looked at the man.
“Be sure to drive it around for a while, to make sure you got enough freon.”
I made a driving gesture with my hands. The man pulled out 60 dollars.
“No.” I said again. “Para niños.”
The man waved to us as he drove off.
Calvin and I get into my rusted Subaru and head to my house. The cool air hits our faces as our laughter rises as high as the distant Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s good to know that there are cool people like Calvin, a guy who is there in all kinds of weather. A cool brother who is there as the world rages with fire.
© 2023 Tony Robles
