Whoever did not keep the car in a garage cooperative - think, not a man. Garages, especially during the Soviet era, were a mysterious and captivating territory, where all imaginable male entertainment was naturally intertwined. You could spend all the weekends there, enjoying conversations about politics, hunting, work, gardens and gardens, treatment of diseases... that is, all that the internet has taken now.
Now it is hard to imagine, but then you could repair the car yourself. Any disruption. any node. There were garages. There were neighbors.
My neighbor on the right, Uncle Leha, spent the whole evening in the garages. He knew everyone and walked into any open door. For a glass (and even for a good conversation) he gladly helped to overtake the suspension, to boil a jelly, or to overboard the wheels.
That time he fell to me when I was sitting in front of four boxes of greenhouse glasses, thinking how to shorten each one by two centimeters. I bought a expensive glass cutter, read the instructions, but nothing worked. The glass was broken on the curve, and not there.
Uncle Lecha assessed the situation immediately. He took a diamond from me, asked for the size, and, somehow playing, broke the glass into the pieces I needed and perfectly smooth incisions.
Uncle Lecha, and cut them all! I have begged.
What about Hera? I will teach you better! Go for the bottle! The Aboriginal Garage.
Having brought the desired from the basement, I was very surprised when he did not hide the bottle, but asked for cups and poured it out on two. Following was the dialogue from the "Pepper":
Well, dear cruciferous, can we start cutting now?
“No, dear Cinderella, let’s put it on and put it on again.
In the basement everyone kept potatoes and salmon, so there was something to eat.
The bottle was empty and we had fun. And the greenhouse and the glass went somewhere very far. And then Leha asked:
Well, you don’t have a fuck, will you cut the glass, or not?
I’ll fuck you, I honestly answered.
Okay, then get rid of it! Get rid of that damn ambulance! Reduce in the eye! Break the box right away!

After a moment, I looked at the result. Everything was within permission. I thought, and likewise cut off three more pieces. Uncle Leha drove the last crushed "prima" into his smiling mouth and left.
A few years later I told this story to a familiar psychiatrist, and he explained that that neighbor from the garages just masterfully healed me from the typical self-sustaining phobia, when the fear of mistake begins to destroy kinetics.
Actually, why did I remember that? The neighbor (programmer) yesterday came in, the glass wanted to cut off... Well, they pulled. Now it cuts itself.