e 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 and 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 but too shiny and perfectly white to be
natural. I eyed the get-up he was wearing, took
another gander at the door. "Nice ex?"
"NICK ex," he corrected me. "I've got the franchise for this area."
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.
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