It was mid-morning that school day when Mr. Machuca called us by name, both me and my partner in-not-quite-crimes, George. Lucky us, we had been selected for a special mission. What would it be?
Mr. Machuca had been our Spanish teacher that 8th grade, and it was my second year of attendance in that upscale private school. Mr. Machuca, who had the commanding voice of a military captain, was one of a handful of teachers who could put order into those feral teens that made up my junior high classmates. He made ample use of that imposing voice, often mixing jovial jokes that cracked us up, immediately followed by stern indications that made the room silent.
Mr. Machuca’s Kadett was a station wagon. The Mini-Brute Opel ads seem rather odd nowadays, but the term reflects quite faithfully my classmates’ manners.
Those of you with average Spanish knowledge probably gathered that Machuca means “smashing”, a peculiar and intimidating name for a teacher to have. While our school wasn’t Catholic per se, our behavior was still framed by those cultural religious codes. All Latin Americans behave as such, it’s in the blood, understandable after 4 centuries of colony: the easily induced guilt, the overbearing father figure always on the lookout for the mischievous youth. To sin or not to sin, that was the question; and Mr. Machuca was always on the guard to make sure that we did NOT sin.
In the early mornings we would see Mr. Machuca arrive to school, either on his Vespa scooter, or driving his early 70’s Opel Kadett wagon. His vehicles were offbeat, especially in provincial El Salvador, and announced to the world that he was quite a character. When on the Vespa he would approach school, his tiny helmet on, while saluting and scolding students from the distance. Some preferred him arriving on the Opel for he didn’t have the chance to be so ‘interactive’ while on arrival.
The Opel was one of a handful I had ever seen in the country. A rare vehicle and not in the best of shapes. Then again, it was the mid 80’s and the poor wagon had over a decade of wear riding on those slim tires. I knew of Opels from Mom, who loathed the brand, calling it the worst car she ever owned after a Hillman (Was mom a Car & Driver reader?). Probably too harsh a judgment on her part, as she had bought both vehicles used back when a couple of years of wear meant a big difference.
So, what did Mr. Machuca want from us?
- Ric, George! Here, take the keys to the Opel. I need you to bring me a pile of copies I left on the passenger seat.
Ok, easy enough. On school days, one wished for a break from the monotony of lessons. Mr. Machuca wasn’t done with indications though.
- Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT open the passenger door! Open the driver’s door and retrieve the documents from there! The passenger’s door is loose, and it tends to fall off. Do NOT open it!
Ok, that was one set of indications one doesn’t usually get. Falling doors? No wonder Mother reviled the brand.
We ran through the school’s hallways and exited the main gate. The Opel was at the dusty area that served as parking at the school’s back, an area filled with empty lots and houses in early stages of construction.
We ran through the school’s hallways…
George approached the driver’s door and with key in hand, unlocked it. I grabbed the handle, opened the door and stretched across the driver seat. I grabbed the rather large pile of papers in my hands and slithered back out. As I was exiting, George’s distressed voice cracked the air.
- Ric! Help! It’s the door! The door!
I looked around, when did he get to the passenger’s door? And why did he try to open it?
- What did you do? What are you doing over there?
- I don’t know… I just wanted to see…
His face was red and sweating already (from fear I suppose). I ran to his side. His hand was holding the –barely staying in place- handle, while trying to grab the door’s edges with his other limb. I joined him, in desperation. I grabbed the edges and now, both of us were wrestling with the door, trying to keep it from coming completely loose. Not good. Mr. Machuca probably wouldn’t look too kindly on these two thick-headed teens, who couldn’t tell the difference between passenger and driver.
Mr. Machuca was about to lose that grin.
We pushed, we wiggled, we shoved; those were seconds of horror and distress. Good thing no one was around to see the mess we had gotten ourselves into. Embarrassment is much more tolerable in anonymity. We gathered our will; better get that door in place before the whole mission goes to hell (and our grades too!)
A few more desperate moves and the door… suddenly seemed to click into place. Had it?
- Wait George, I think it’s fine now…
Not able to believe the emergency over, we stared at the door and each other. Our stiff arms started to slowly relax and let go; as we took our hands off, the door seemed to remain place. But was it really?
- You think it is ok? Is it secure?
As I asked, George was busy retrieving the dispersed copies. He wasn’t one to stay longer than necessary at the scene of the crime.
- Secure? Yes, sure, it is. Here, take these. Hurry, let’s go!
We rushed back, me occasionally looking back, hoping the door wouldn’t suddenly loudly fall to the ground. The whole event had lasted a couple of minutes, not enough to raise any suspicions. Right?
Back in the classroom, we did our best to hold our tempers and not transpire the errand had almost ended in catastrophe. As we gave the pile of copies to Mr. Machuca, he queried:
- All ok? No trouble?
George and I looked at each other, probably looking guilty as sin, but just nodded affirmatively. All good sir! Class resumed. The remaining of the day, worrier that I am, my head kept spinning: “What if we didn’t get the door quite right? What if it falls midway to his home? Should I tell him, to prevent Mr. Machuca?”
The Catholic in me won out. I kept the door-opening-sin for confession at church, and left Mr. Machuca clueless about the potential dangers of our rickety fix. After all, if an accident happened, the priest would be the one to absolve me, not Mr. Machuca.
This Kadett’s sighting brought me immediately back to Mr. Machuca’s school days, flailing doors and all. Much has been said on the Kadett in previous posts; I’ll only add that whatever impressions mom had on the brand, Mr. Machuca owned the car for ages and never complained about it. The car gave him years of service.
On this shot, I can’t hide the little Autobianchi’s photobombing. Presence revealed, let’s take a closer look at this beauty.
I came across both cars at a VW salvage yard I found a couple of months ago. It’s quite a place. The Opel hadn’t moved in some time, while the Autobianchi is a runner. It’s the prized possession of the salvage owner’s sister, and she has refused many offers from potential buyers who keep insisting on purchase. She loves her little car and it’s perfectly understandable. The tossable little runt is cute as could be.
As for Mr. Machuca’s Kadett, next morning he arrived on his Vespa. Once again, grinning and shouting. No mention of falling doors on his way home. Seems the repair we performed worked well enough. Last time I saw him was at high school’s reunion back in 2004. He smiled widely when he saw me, while my junior high classmates swirled around to greet him and reminisce about those long gone days. No comment on the Opel from my part during that meeting. Some sins are better left in the past.
More on the Kadett:
1966-1973 Opel Kadett – It Dethroned Volkswagen
It is funny how we can remember many of the cars owned by the teachers from our youth. And how being entrusted with keys to get something from or take something to a teacher’s car was always a rare treat. I never got a warning about a door falling off, but Mr. Franzman had to give instructions on how to open the trunk on his 69 Chrysler Newport convertible (“turn the key then press down on the lid and listen for the latch to release.”)
The world needs more Mr. Machucas.
A terrific find, and a great story to go along with it.
This Kadett B sedan reminds me of one that my brother’s best friend drove; t replaced a tired ’55 Chevy six. He and my brother would have races; my brother driving my father’s Kadett A. I can’t say that one of them was definitively faster; maybe the B by a hair, thanks to the extra 100 cc its engine had. The sound of their engines is deeply ingrained in my memory banks.
Mr. Machuca reminds me in no small way of my junior high science teacher, Mr. Monroe. He was an expat of British Guiana. However, his ride was a brand new full on 1976 Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser wagon, replete with Di-noc.
As JP notes, a car kid will know his teacher’s cars. And, I too experienced the occasional parking lot errand, as well as a few science club field trips in teacher cars along with a few volunteer parents, all on the authority of a blurry blue ink mimeographed permission slip. Those days are quite gone.
Some memorable cars; fittingly, the elementary principal had a black over brown 1971 Buick Skylark four door hardtop. It looked authoritative sitting in reserved spot #1. Occasionally, she drove her husband’s turquoise 1966 Skylark sedan. It was looking a bit tired. Her husband was a high school science teacher. They never had kids, and their devotion to the school system was somewhat legendary, enough that her passing in her 90s was noted in a newspaper article. Apparently, she was a heiress of a ranching fortune, and gave away several million dollars at her passing. Where on earth was the Electra 225 Limited?
A few others, a ’64 Rambler Classic wagon with a home paint job and riveted steel over the fender tops, a ’71 Toronado belonging to the one male teacher at the school.
The most memorable car a childhood teacher had was way back in first grade. My teacher Ms. Ryou was a first generation Korean-American who had immigrated, I believe, during the Korean War. She was stern and sometimes, in retrospect, bold in the horrors of adulthood she related to us, a class of young Korean Americans.
One of the things she always instilled was *NEVER* buy anything from Japan; she made us pretty aware of the atrocities committed during the war(s).
One thing I itched (but didn’t dare) to ask as a 6 year old but now sorely regret, was why she drove a Toyota Camry. My mom to this day admires the gen2 Camry and Ms. Ryou’s navy blue 90 or 91 sedan, so I knew she must have chosen it as a reliable steed when a comparable Hyundai/Kia was still questionable (my mom always was and is a Toyota devotee) but I wish I could see my teacher’s face freeze and squirm as she had to explain to the class why she was in fact, a hypocrite!
A rare find, and excellent story. I suspect your fix was identical to Mr Machuca’s fix. With a bit more sweating 😓
Good god, what great writing. Do you have a novel in you, waiting to come out, Rich ? Whether or not, thanks for a fine short story !
A friend in college bought himself a Kadett wagon, c. 1964, as his first new car. White, it was . . .