"

ope. 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, 00:15 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 00:30 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."

Continue to ...