The Tinkerer

by samovar

Call me Samuel.* Some months ago — never mind how long precisely — having no

money and nothing to interest me except playing Whale Trail on the iPhone, I thought I

would navigate a little in the virtual world. After roaming many shops, in a sound-proof

basement chamber I finally found what I was looking for: the ultimate old style PC that

would put me in touch with my fellow idle wasters of the world wide web.

Safe in the silicon armory endowed with an electronic brain, from my fish-shaped house I ventured the net only to experience its dangers. As soon as I started my journey, I came

across more pitfalls than just about my every other alias on- and offline. Then, at the P.A.N. National Geographic site where I had been looking for information on the sonic signals of my beloved cetacean, something happened: while the bees babbled and the birds piped, a spider appeared at the center of the homepage the exact moment I started listening to an old Kraftwerk hit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFLO2LslYx0.

Needless to say, the bug was no common spider, but the one GM organism that actually

kept the website into existenz. After the involuntary exposure to the soundwawes of the

German band, it attacked the avatar I had chosen for the occasion. The horror! The horror! With his last bit of energy that silly little twerp flashed through my hand and vanished into the dustbin.

Had I been a comic book character, the accident would have earned me dazzling superhuman powers. As it was, I lost my PC, and I got a sore hand and a persistent headache which interfered with my daily routine and — alas! — turned a die-hard daydreamer into an abominable insomniac. If all this were not enough, I was also somehow trapped in my virtual identity. Indeed, for some inexplicable reason, my actual features began to resemble more and more to those of my unfortunate avatar.

It was upon a midnight dreary that I realized how irrevocably I was doomed. A mere instrument in the hands of fate, together with my soul I lost my job and my peace of mind. Finally, after many sleepless nights I stumbled across an unexpected salvation. Almost starving, and in no mood to share the company of other sleepers awake, I crossed the dusky threshold of an infamous Pizza2go, where I hoped to steal the leftovers of a slice and win a beer at dices.

Upon entering Sal’s equivocal inn, I found a number of seamen gathered about a table,

examining by a dim light divers specimens of what at a cursory glance looked like a bunch

of boxes. Spellbound, I got closer to the congregation in time to hear somebody blurt out: “Why, everybody loves a bargain!” “Yes,” retorted another, “But sometimes it can be

dangerous to accept a bargain which is too good to be true!”

What on earth were they talking about? Peering deep into the darkness at the right corner of the room I saw a man with a shock of white hair, and black eyebrows and moustache. He was staring intensely at me, and soon as he saw me see him, he got closer and with a reassuring smile he said “Howdy, Peter,” no doubt thinking I was somebody else. “You are late. Anyway the job is yours, I’ll be waiting for you in my lab tomorrow morning at 9:00.”

Taken aback, I realized nonetheless that the mysterious fellow had probably been confused by my new look. Happy that destiny had presented me with a unique opportunity, I feigned confidence and nodding towards the assembly I said: “What

are those sailors looking at?” “Why, don’t you know?,” he said, “They’re arguing on the

cheapest and best radiorecorder repair shop in town.” “Not everybody share the same opinion,” I replied. “You’ll always find some skeptic, but they are wrong! I’ve handed over the man who runs the shop my crown jewel to fix!”

“One more thing,” I asked hesitantly, while his wonderful narration inspired me with strange feelings, “may I have your card?”. “Sure, lad”, he said, and as I spotted the guy’s name he added: “Get also the one from the shop, tomorrow morning you’ll need it for your fist assignement.”

Would you believe it? Doc wanted me to collect the holy grail of his collection! At the idea of getting back to work I felt dazed and confused. At the same time, I could barely conceal my excitement. For the first time in months, that night I fell asleep

in less than no time. In my dream, I stood amid a surf-tormented shore holding a

four-band radio in my right hand. Which, however, ached and pulsed and beat, and made me feel like it was melting into the organic circuits of that living unit.

I woke up in a sweat, the gong-like roar of the rabid sea still echoing in my ears. The hand was ok, so I shaved, I took a shower and after a quick breakfast I directed myself toward the small repair shop downtown.

The man who greeted me at the entrance was a second-hand creampuff old grandpa. Yet, if he was really able to repair the battered boxes that I had seen at Sal’s, he was undoubtedly a genius! Being myself unable to replace a light bulb, I have always kept in

great esteem those people — specialists, bricoleurs and, case in point, tinkerers — who know how to revive old mechanical and electr(on)ic devices. So, when the man went to the workroom, I started phantasizing about my future occupation as a part-time student and apprentice in a shop like the one I had just stepped in.

Then, all of a sudden, my head began to spin and my right hand to ache! At first I thought it was just my impression, but soon I realized not only that the hand ached, it also pulsated intermittently in unison with my temples, as if both were responding to some outside signal. It took a few seconds before the pain became unbearable and I fainted. When I recovered my senses, the pain had ceased. The tinkerer said that my low pressure must have been provoked by the heat inside the shop, and offered his help. He gave me

a glass of sugary water and sent for a taxi. I declined,

suggesting that a walk would do me good, and so it was. That night, however, I fell pray of

a terrible nightmare.

In my delirium, the tinkerer made common cause with the most

stereotyped green evil aliens, and his repair work activity was

just a disguise for a devilish scheme aimed at the physical and

psychological destruction of the “heartlings”.

The dexterity with music boxes displayed by the little old man

was the product of non-human technology. My over-sensitive

hand, following the accident at the Panny site, did nothing but

react to the magnetic field surrounding the shop. Somehow, I

was part of a scheme whose rationale was beyond my

understanding.

The oneiric explanation for the ridiculous low prices and the insane miracles of the master

repairer did not melt like snow in the sun as soon as I opened up my eyes. Although my

head and my hand were doing great and I bursted with energy, I couldn’t wait to rush to

Doc’s lab. There I expressed some of the doubts raised by my strange acquaintance with

the odd repair shop.

Needless to say, Doc didn’t share my point of view. Basically,

he was of the Everybody loves a bargain! school of thought.

On the contrary, I could see myself siding more and more with

those who thought that bargains can be dangerous. Especially

if the bargain is being offered by someone like the Tinkerer!

As soon as my mentor left for a lecture on giant sea mammals

at the Panny Center, I devoted my attentions to the box that

had just been fixed. To my astonishment, I found out that I was

insanely attracted to the labyrinthine circuits of that amazing

unit.

Displaying a degree of expertise that I ignored to command — let alone to possess —, I

took all the sliders and knobs off, undid the screws, opened the back door and... lo! What I

saw defied my brain: unheard-of leds, futuristic belts, pioneering circuits... In short, I was

unwittingly exploring the twilight zone between technology and wizardry — all by myself

and without a roadmap!

Even in the aseptic room of a scentist’s lab, for the naive eyes

of an unqualified amateur all the bric-a-brac that shone in front

of me was suspicious, to say the least. I decided to investigate

and, as soon as Doc was gone, I rushed to the tinkerer’s shop.

Like in a cheap dime tale, the door was open and the site

desert. As I had anticipated, my head and hand began to pulse

when I stepped in. This time, however, I didn’t feel sick. On the

contrary, I felt terrific. For some mysterious reason, I knew! I

knew how to do the repair work, and it seemed to me that I had

also acquired the magic tinkering — toying, twiddling, fiddling,

diddling, call it as you like it — touch!

Anxious to try my brand new gift, I directed myself toward the jumbo white Fisher unit the

was undoubtedly the king of all the boxes in the room. I must have been in a trance,

because only when I was over the unit I realized that somebody had been shouting at me:

“Don’t do it! You are not ready!”

Too late! I had already opened the box in search for its

malfunctioning, when a sensational short circuit ignited between

the machine and a concealed control panel to which it was

connected. In the blink of an eye, the place was set on fire.

Ignoring the danger, the tinkerer braved the holocaust and

hastened to save his treasures. In vane I tried to keep him safe:

like an obstinate boy playing the captain in a white uniform, he

stood on the burning deck of his repair shop stammering

elocution while the poor vessel went down in flames.

Sensing that it would be difficult to explain my presence to the firemen, I got back to Doc’s

place as soon as I could, given the circumstances. Not only I made it in time for his

comeback, I could even do a complete check-up of his box. Believe it or not, there was no

trace of the tinkerer’s intervention in it!

Whatever had been there before my last visit to the repair shop, it had disappeared

forever. Whatever remained, against all odds, was my brand new know-how. I had learned

the hardest way, but I was not to forget so easily.

On his return, Doc was frantic. While leaving the Panny center,

he said, giant fingers of flame surrounded the place as if they

were to lift the building to the sky. When he was about to

panick, a deafening boom announced the end of the event that

for a split second had threatened to annihilate him and the

conference center alike.

When I urged him to tell the police, however, he pulled back

and said he might have been wrong after all... you know, those

glasses of whiskey after discussion time... He had already a

reputation of the absentminded, and certainly he didn’t want to

live up to it!

I smiled, yet I was not convinced. How could he have seen

something that myself, who was on the spot, had totally

overlooked? Wasn’t his story a bit far-fetched, especially for a

man of science? Why, while speaking, he kept smiling at me

like the night of our first meeting?

No daily news dealt with the fire downtown. What’s more,

nobody, not even at Sal’s, deemed to have ever heard of the

Thinkerer’s Repair Shop. The character had vanished into thin

air like my headache and sore hand, of all things.

But enough with flashforwarding. When Doc was finished with his storytelling, I couldn’t

help but thinking that had he put up this charade for me. Before his arrival, I had found in a

drawer of his bureau a list of names, from “G” to zx3red44, all filed under the voice “2go”.

All those names, I was aware, were compatible with the thinkerer’s identity.

Yes, the thinkerer’s id! The one of

the master repairman who had

endowed me with unique healing

power and an endless passion for

portable audio.

The tinkerer who had

disappeared when the sullen read

flames beat against the steep

sides of his shop, leaving behind

him a rubber mask, an

impenetrable mystery and, what’s

more, an unfathomable addiction.

________________________________________________________________________

* My Samuel Warren extended id is better shortened into Samwar

© samovar 2012

with a little help from stan lee, steve ditko, and a

number of xix and xxth century novelists, poets

and songwriters in the english language.