Because we killed God and bulldozed Heaven, it’s impossible to get someone to repair the engine on my eleven-year old grandson’s go-cart. And that is no joke.
Okay, okay. First things first.
On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day.
On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls commenced.
On the third day-ish, it was discovered that no one is willing to work on go-carts and not because they’re hard or frustrating or tricky . . .
They won’t work on them because no one wants the legal liability inherent in repairing a vehicle designed to give maximum thrills while flipping over when they hit slightly mounded gopher holes. Crazy times.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven.
Without the promise of life after zits and middle age bulge and shingles and death (i.e. Heaven), people get weird about the here and the now. They want heavenly in a world where fire ants do the fire ant tango on babies. They want heaven in a world where dogs do bite, cats absolutely scratch, and the endings aren’t always happy. They want a place where nothing hurts, promises are kept, and everyone always does what they should. They want Heaven.
And what do they get? Sued. Because when the world doesn’t turn out cotton candy swirly goodness, people sue and sue and sue—to get even, to get “fair,” to get what they “deserve.”
Which makes it tough to find someone willing to take on the liability of working on a recreational vehicle built of pipe cleaners and bread ties. Sure. They’re out there, the ones who love the engines more than they fear the legal angels of lawful retribution. Sure. They live in storage sheds in strange off-grid communities ruled by real live super heroes with their own secret identities: Master Legend; Google it.
Sherwood and Phillip found the go-cart repairman brushing his teeth in front of his storage shed in the hinterland of Orlando, who fixed the go-cart, who introduced them to another man, who is a super hero, patrolling the streets of greater Orlando on a motorized bicycle, ensuring truth, justice, and the American Way. Super heroes make the world righteous, and we love them for it. They’re not real, but don’t tell anyone, because they could get sued if the do-gooding goes awry.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven and then wanted heavenly returns on earthly dirt.
Linda (Go-Go) Zern