As I left the gym today, I heard the sound of a Volvo in distress. Someone was cranking the engine of a 1983 Volvo wagon but the engine wasn’t catching. I kept walking, “Don’t meddle. No one wants car advice from a girl…” but the faded maroon wagon kept cranking loudly. I walked back.

      “Hi, I have a Volvo wagon and it sounds like your fuel pump…”
      “Yeah,” a young man grinned up from the driver’s seat. “I just replaced the relay, but… ”
      “There are two fuel pumps. One in the gas tank and the other under the driver’s seat. It’s different in every model, I don’t know exactly where yours is.”

He knew where the fuel pump was and he had tools. He had recently purchased this elderly Volvo, Eleanor, for $250 and had been working on it with great enthusiasm and affection. I offered to crank the engine while he applied “percussive maintenance” to the fuel pump. He crawled under his car and yelled, “Ready!”

I cranked, he whacked, the Volvo started right up. He whooped and jumped to his feet. Brandishing his ratchet handle, he showed me his tattooed forearm. “And I’m the one with the Volvo tattoo! My name is Bryce.”

I smiled, shook his hand and walked away. He will never know if I, too, have a Volvo tattoo.