Midnight Repairs
Posted: Wed Dec 23, 2009 7:26 am
I posted this last year, but thought it would be nice to do so again for the new members.
Midnight Repairs by Bob Hoover
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 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.
"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 bullshit
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 pissed 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.
Midnight Repairs by Bob Hoover
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 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.
"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 bullshit
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 pissed 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.
