July 14, 2025

“Rain Delay”

 Rain was part of the Boston soundtrack—drumming rooftops, soaking sidewalks, and, like clockwork, choking the life out of my old Datsun hatchback. It was a relic from the late '70s, pale blue with rust freckles and a habit of playing dead whenever the clouds cried. In other words, it was the worst kind of car for someone who lived in a city where it rained four days a week.

Sunday morning started in a drizzle, but by six it was a steady downpour. I was up early, as promised, to give my brother a ride to Logan Airport. He was heading back to Southern California after a week visiting our aging parents. It was his last rainy Sunday in Boston, and mine, apparently, was fated to include automotive tragedy.

I climbed into the driver’s seat with my umbrella dripping on the floor mat, turned the key—and got the usual wet weather protest: a sputter, a cough, then silence. I tried again. And again. No dice. The Datsun was ignoring me like a teenager with earbuds.

The bedroom window slid open upstairs.

"You trying to wake the dead or just arguing with the car?" my brother called, his voice half amusement, half concern.

"Both!" I yelled back.

A few seconds later, he came down in his hoodie and sneakers, eyes still puffy from sleep. “Pop the hood.”

I shrugged and pulled the latch. He leaned over the engine, blinking against the rain, then gave me a long sideways glance. “You ever going to change these spark plug cables? These things look like cooked spaghetti.”

“I bought new ones. They’re in the trunk,” I muttered.

“Of course they are.” He shook his head and smiled. “You’ve been busy. Parents. Work. I get it. But I’m here now. Let’s fix this thing.”

We worked under the hood with the rain falling steadily on our backs, passing tools, loosening clamps, replacing each wire one by one. I held the umbrella awkwardly over him while he did the precise work. The street was quiet except for the hiss of tires slicing through puddles and the occasional rumble of a passing T train in the distance.

By 7:15, he nodded. “Try it now.”

I slid into the seat again, turned the key—and this time, the Datsun came to life, coughing out a breath of gray smoke like an old man stretching his arms. I gave the steering wheel an affectionate slap.

“Miracles happen!” I shouted.

“Not a miracle,” my brother called, closing the hood. “Just maintenance.”

We hit the road with fogged windows and hot coffee in hand. It was still raining, but now the rhythm of the wipers felt like a small victory. Maybe the old Datsun just needed the right hands. Maybe I did too. Either way, my brother didn’t just make his flight that morning—he left me with a car that worked and a reminder I hadn’t known I needed:

Sometimes, help is already in the house. You just have to open the hood.