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#11
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Midnight Repairs
An old favorite. Thanks Bob.
Merry crinklewrappen. Max |
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#12
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Midnight Repairs
Great story! Hope to read it again next year.
Andy "Veeduber" > wrote in message ... > > > > He came down the back drive just before midnight on Christmas Eve. I > was out in the shop, about to call it a night when I heard the > unmistakable sound of a Volkswagen running on three cylinders. Bad > valve. > > It was an early model high-roof delivery van. Bright red with white > trim. He pulled up behind the shop. As he shut down the engine it made > that unmistakable tinny rattle of a dropped valve seat. Good thing he > shut it off when he did. > > There was a barber pole logo painted on the door: "NicEx" A young old- > guy jumped out, came toward me offering his hand. He was wearing a > snowmobile suit, red & white like the van. I could smell the engine. > It was running 'way too hot. > > "Fred Dremmer," he said. We shook. He was about my age, mebbe a little > more, but young, if you know what I mean - alive. Phony beard, though. > It was his own hair but too shiny and perfectly white to be natural. I > eyed the get-up he was wearing, took another gander at the door. "Nice- > x?" > > "Nick ex," he corrected me. "I've got the franchise for this ZIP > code." He looked around, noted the tumbledown appearance of the shop, > victim of an earthquake that never happened, thanks to politics. "Are > you still building engines?" he asked. > > "Not so's you'd notice." It was pushing on toward midnight and colder > than a well- diggers knee. His shoulders slumped down. > > "But you used to build engines," he said hopefully. I didn't deny it. > "They said you offered a lifetime warranty." Actually, I didn't offer > any warranty. Most of the engines I built were high- output big- bore > strokers. A firecracker doesn't carry any warranty either. And for the > same reason. But if I built it, I promised to fix it if they could get > it back to the shop. And if the problem was my fault, there was never > any charge. So I told him, "Something like that." > > "My van has one of your engines," he said. "In fact, I think all the > franchisees use them." > "This I gotta see," I laughed. He ran around to get the church-key but > I'd popped the engine hatch with my pocketknife by the time he got > back. I twisted on my mini-maglite and sure enough, there was HVX > stamped right where I'd stamped it. It was one of the lower numbers, a > bone stock 1600 I'd built back in the seventies. Big sigh. > > "Can't you fix it?" I gave him a look and he shut up. It had just > gone midnight, clear and cold and silent. The on-shore flow had > increased, bringing with it the charred smell of disaster. About a > mile to the west of me a family's house had caught fire and burned to > the ground only hours before. Merry Christmas indeed. I straightened > up, knees creaking, and went to fetch the floor jack. As I moved away > from the vehicle the guy got all excited, plucked at my arm. "Really, > it's very important... " I snarled something appropriate and he let me > go, stood like a dejected lump in his idiotic outfit. He brightened up > when I came back towing the floor jack, a pair of jackstands in my > other hand. > > "You're going to fix it?" If he was a puppy he would have been licking > my face. > > "Nope. You got a bad valve." I got the jack under the tranny support > and started pumping. "Which ain't my fault, by the way. I built this > engine nearly thirty years ago. You've gotten your money's worth and > then some." I got the jackstands under the torsion bar housing, went > around and chocked the front wheels. > > "I wasn't complaining... " he began. > > "Well I was," I shut him off. Veedub valves don't last thirty years, > especially when they're pushing a van around. > > "It always ran perfectly." His tone was placating. And it was > Christmas Eve. Or rather, 0015 Christmas Day. "And it never gets > driven very much, or so I was told." I gave a snort of disgust. Thirty > years is thirty years and every salesman always sez the thing was only > used to take the family to church on Sundays. I got a tarp and my > small tool bag, rolled the tarp out under the back of the high-roof, > dug out my head lamp, checked the batteries. Dead, of course. Began > taking the battery case apart. > > "Need some batteries?" He was right there, offering me a 4-pak of new > Ray-O- Vac's. Right size, too. I put the thing back together, tested > it. "What are you doing, exactly." > > "Swapping engines," I grunted. I handed him a ratchet with a 13mm > socket and pointed at the rear apron bolts. "Whip'em outta there. And > don't lose the washers." > > I skivvied under and got the surprise of my life. The thing was clean. > As in showroom new. No road rash. No oily residue. Original factory > axle boots so clean and new they gave a tiny squeak when I touched > them. But no heater ducts. In fact, no heat exchangers, which > explained why the guy was wearing a snowsuit. > > "Does this mean I can finish my route?" He was bent over, peering at > me upside down. > > "Not unless you get those damn bolts out, it don't." I was running my > hand over the paintwork. It had been treated with some sort of > surfactant. It felt oily smooth but left no residue on my fingers and > didn't seem to attract dirt. There were steel rails re-enforcing the > frame on each side. They ran as far aft as the bumper mount. I > couldn't tell how far forward they went. "You do all this?" I shouted > as I crimped-off the fuel line. The breast tin had one of my early > bulkhead fittings, the ones I made out of brass before discovering > lamp parts worked just as well. I popped off the hose. No dribble but > I plugged it anyway. > > "I don't maintain the vehicle," the fellow shouted back. "They do all > that at headquarters. What should I do with the bolts?" > > "Put them in your pocket." I skivvied back out, popped loose the > battery ground strap, removed the rear apron, disconnected the > electrics and removed the barrel nut holding the accelerator wire. I > gave it to him. "Keep this with them." I put the little plywood pallet > on the floor jack, got it positioned under the engine, jacked it up > and pulled that puppy outta there. > > Fred Dremmer was impressed. He even told me so. "I'm impressed," he > said. Then he said "Happy Christmas." It was 0030 and I was tired. > "Balance that," I told him, tapping the top of the blower housing. I > grabbed the handle of the jack and used it as a trolley to pull the > engine into the shop. > > He stood looking around while I dug the spare engine out from under > the bench. It was already on a scooter. "What happened?" he asked > softly. > > "Look down," I snarled. "You'll figure it out." > > He looked down, toed the gaping crack that ran across the floor like a > lightning bolt, saw the way the shop was sloping. "Earthquake?" > > "Northridge. Popped the foundation like a pane of glass." I pulled the > engine out into the open, keeping it on the level part of the floor. > > "Don't they offer special loans... " > > "Only if you're in the 'official' earthquake zone," I laughed. He > started making apologetic sounds. "Balance that," I told him. We > scootered the spare engine out of the shop. > > I had to swap mufflers. His came away okay, thanks to the lavish > amounts of anti-seize someone had swabbed on the fittings. It was one > of those lifetime stainless steel bus mufflers from Germany or England > or some damn place. Cost the earth. He looked around, sat down on the > workbench when I nodded toward it. We were out back of the shop, under > the shed roof. Plenty of light. > > "So what are you getting for Christmas," he asked, smiling. > > I just looked at him, shook my head. I work best without an audience. > "You want some coffee or something? This is going to take me a few > minutes." > > He said No; he had a thermos of tea in the van. "Seriously, what do > you want for Christmas?" he smiled. > > "Not being pestered in the middle of the night would be nice," I > muttered. > > He just laughed, as if I was joking. "Seriously," he said again. > > "You want 'seriously'? Howabout a new house for those folks down the > hill?" > > He gave me a blank look and I realized he didn't know about the fire. > So I told him. He ended up looking as sad as I felt. "What do you > think they'd like for Christmas?" I goaded him. I shook my head, "It's > mostly bull**** anyway. A birthday party that's gotten outta hand." > And the best evidence of that was right there in front of me, some > yuppie asshole Yuletide delivery service running around on Christmas > Eve in an antique bus. He stood gazing off toward where the fire was. > It had been a huge blaze, you could see it good from the house. Hopes > and dreams and Christmas trees are all highly combustible. > > I finished transferring the J-tubes and muffler to the spare engine > and he helped me shift it on to the jack. We pulled it out to his bus > and I started putting it in. > > "It's unusual to find someone who doesn't want anything for > Christmas," he said. I'd given him a pair of vise grips to hold. I > didn't need them but I figured it would make him feel useful, mebbe > shut him up. Wrong. > > "I've got everything I want." I'd checked the splines. Things were > lining up good. His seals looked new. I gave them a spray of glycerin > so they wouldn't grab the engine. > > "That's even more unusual," he said. He was smiling, acting a little > antsy but working hard to keep me happy so he could get the hell out > of there. About the worst thing that could happen to him would be for > me to slow down. So I did. > > "People spend too much time wishing for things they don't need." I > patted the red high- roof. "I'll bet this thing is chock full of > yuppie junk, eh?" He looked uncomfortable, passed the pair of vise > grips from hand to hand. "And what about you? I'll bet you're some > sort of retired executive, working a little Christmas-time tax dodge > to supplement your retirement, eh? Bleached beard with a platinum > rinse, funny suit and this oh-so-cute Santa's Helper delivery van, > popping up in the middle of the night to trade on an implied warranty > almost thirty years old?" > > "What are you saying?" He looked kinda angry. The sight was as silly > as his costume. > > "You wouldn't understand," I sighed. I fished the throttle wire thru > the blower housing, plugged the engine back in, started the upper nuts > and shanghaied him into holding the wrench while I skivvied back > under. Did the nuts, torqued to spec, did the fuel line, checked > things over, skivvied back out. With everything installed underneath, > I began putting the engine compartment to rights. > > "You mean the religious aspect," he said. > > "You heard about that, eh?" I kept working. > > "Are you a religious man?" he asked softly. I was connecting the > generator leads. I wanted to ignore him but couldn't. I stopped, > rocked back so I could see his face. > > "Yeah," I told him. "I'm religious as hell. And so are you. But the > difference is you worship money and I don't." > > "And you can tell all that just by working on my van?" He was smiling. > He was no longer angry but really cheerful. > > "Yeah, I can. You've had some sort of anti-stick powder-coating > process applied to the whole undercarriage. That must of set you back > some major bucks. But it's not a car- show kinda van otherwise it > would be all original underneath. That tells me you did it so you > could impress your customers with your shiny, never dirty ride and > that tells me you probably charge some big bucks for your Christmas > Eve delivery service gig." > > That wiped the grin off his face. "Very astute," he muttered. Then > frowned. "But if you knew it was all just another Christmas-biz > scheme, why are we standing out here in the middle of the night while > you repair the engine?" > > I laughed at him. "See? I said you wouldn't understand." > > I finished the hook-ups, connected the battery, replaced the rear > apron, connected the throttle wire, wiped everything down. "Go run the > starter for a minute. We gotta prime the carb." He clumped around to > the front and got in. I hadn't noticed the boots until then. Or the > buckles. Ridiculous. > > I held the throttle open while he ran the starter. He held it down for > about thirty seconds then came clumping back. "Won't it start?" > > "It'll start." > > "Shall I do it some more?" > > "Not right now." I sat there, loaded a pipe, got it going. He turned > out to be a pipe man too. Some foreign smelling crap. I've got Prince > Albert in the can. I mentioned that fact but he didn't get the joke. > Or mebbe he did. It was about a quarter after one. > > "What are we waiting for?" > > "For the starter to cool. It'll start now." And it did. Nice steady > idle. > > I took his credit card and driver's license, did the paper work. He > balanced the clipboard on the steering wheel, signed both slips > without question. "This is just a deposit," I explained. "Bring back > my engine, you can tear it up." But right then I had a premonition I > wouldn't see him or my engine again. > > "What was it I didn't understand?" he asked softly. It sounded like he > really wanted to know. > > "Christmas presents?" I motioned toward the back of the van. There was > a partition behind the driver's seat that blocked my view. He nodded. > "That's what you don't understand." He looked blank. "I get mine all > year 'round," I laughed. > > "Like what?" > > "Like my family." He gave me that frown again and I laughed. "See? You > haven't got a clue. A smile from my wife is a better thing to have > than any of the crap you've got back there." > > The dawn of understanding began to break across his brows. "That's... > that's pretty old fashioned." > > "Old as the hills," I agreed. "Older than Christmas, too." > > Now he got it. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I assumed you were a > Christian... " > > "I am," I laughed. "Of a sort. And a Muslim, if it comes right down to > it. And a Buddhist and a Jew and Inuit too." And maybe a touch of > White Buffalo. > > Now he was laughing and nodding. "Okay, I get it. I think." But I > didn't think he did. He cocked his head, gave me a thoughtful look. > "Yours must be an interesting wish-list." > > I smiled back at him. Maybe he really did get it. "Sunsets are nice. A > good sunset is a thing to be thankful for." > > "Good health..." he offered. I nodded. He was clearly getting it. "Good > friends..." > > "That's the idea. All that..." I gestured toward the back of the van, "... > is just... stuff." > > "It's the thought that counts..." > > "Yeah, but only if the thought is there all year 'round. Christmas > dinner for the homeless followed by 364 hungry days? Gimme a break." > > He nodded again, slower this time. "What about the engine?" > > "Because I said I would." > > That one took him a minute. Then he got it. "Trust..." > > "And honor... yeah, stuff like that. Telling someone you'll do something > then actually doing it... That's a present of sorts in today's world." > > "But... thirty years later..." > > "Doesn't matter. What got me ****ed was you showing up in the middle > of the night. And that silly suit! Do you know you look like Santa > Claus?" This time we both laughed. > > "But haven't you ever wished for something at Christmas?" he asked > softly. > > "You mean, like world peace or wishing no one's house would ever burn > down on Christmas Eve..." > > He interrupted me with a gesture. "No, I meant something personal. A > tool, perhaps?" > > "I've got all the tools I need." > > He kept looking at me. "Never wished for anything? Not even once?" > > "Sure," I laughed. "When I was a kid." > > "What was it?" > > Time sucked me back more than half a century. "A wagon," I admitted. > "A 'Radio Flyer' wagon. It was about the same color as your van. > Roller bearing wheels. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever > seen." > > I was five years old. I can still smell the oiled wooden floor of the > Montgomery Ward store in the little California town as I knelt to > worship the marvelous machine. They had it propped up so you could > spin the wheels, listen to the oily purr of the roller bearings. I was > sure it could go at least a hundred miles an hour and carry me any > place I wanted to go, a magic carpet disguised in steel. > > "Did you get it?" The soft question drew me back. Overhead the stars > snapped back into focus on the velvet cape of night. > > "Take care of my engine," I ordered as I shut his door, stepped away > from the vehicle. > > He slid back the glass. "Did you?" > > "You're going to be late. Wouldn't want to upset all those yuppies." > He considered that, conceded the point with a nod. He fired it up and > backed cautiously up the drive then went rolling down the hill toward > the road. > > I slept late. When I stepped out of the shower there was a steaming > cup of coffee in my favorite mug. Someone had laid out my shaving > tackle. The kitchen was full of smiles and good smells of things to > eat as the women prepared our Christmas dinner. My wife gave me a big > kiss and a bigger smile. "I almost tripped over it when the kids > arrived," she laughed. I had no idea what she meant, gave her a blank > stare. She gave me a playful punch. "Fool. It's perfect. I can use it > for moving flower pots and carrying potting mix..." Something exploded > in the microwave and she joined the fire brigade. I took my coffee out > to the patio. > > It was parked on the walk under the hibiscus, just inside the redwood > gate. A coaster wagon agleam in red. It looked brand new. It even > smelled new. Radio Flyer in white script along the side of the bed. > The handle was black. The wheels white with thick black rubber > tires. > > My wife came out, slipped her arm around my waist, leaned her head on > my shoulder. "It's beautiful. Where did you ever find it?" > > In the kitchen, my daughter overhead her. "He probably made it!" > Everyone laughed. Even me. > > "Is this what you've been working on? You came to bed awfully late." > > I shook my head, sipped my coffee. My great-grandmother was Kiowa. > Coffee was 'burnt-bean-soup'. And still is, to me. "No. I think it's a > gift." > > My wife gave me an odd look. "Who would give us something like > that?" > > "I don't know. Maybe a white buffalo." > > She laughed, hugged me a little harder. "You're crazy." > > "Yep," I agreed. > > -Bob Hoover > -Christmas, 1998 |
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