Volume Four Number Three

2 pages, 1,131 words

I think I’m going to get rid of my tools. I don’t even want the option of being able to ever use them again. The saws I’ll keep, and my hammer and screw gun, I suppose. But my wrenches, every last one of them, I’m going to pitch them into the lake and cackle with delight like a madman.

I changed the starter in my Isuzu the other night. . . and morning. Two bolts, two electrical connections, that’s all there is to it. Simple, right? Hush! You have no idea. It’s fortunate my Trooper has a manual transmission, because I was able to get the engine started by being hauled across the parking lot behind my boss’s “Exploder.” I drove home at about 2000 after attending the school board meeting as the new KOZI news guy.

I parked my dirty rig under the carport, called my Pa for some tips, and squoze myself under the rig for what became an evening and morning of agony and mind-bending frustration. I did make a point of thanking God for good vision and whoever thought of LED headlamps. That’s where the blessings ended, as far as I was concerned. Well, and the fact that the auto parts store did have one last Isuzu starter in stock.

An Isuzu is a Japanese vehicle, for those of you who didn’t know. I mention this because I think a Japanese body would fit better under the Trooper than mine did. (I’m not Japanese, for those of you who didn’t know.) I guess I’m actually a pretty big guy, all long limbed and what not. To get in and out from under the rig I needed to exhale most of the air in my lungs and I’m not even barrel-chested. Once under the engine, on my back on the frozen mud and snow, my right elbow kept hitting the driver side tire. Every adjustment of position was a contortion, an act of supreme effort.

The starter came out easy enough, in comparison to later efforts, anyway. It probably took about an hour. Dirt and grease globs kept falling in my eyes, but I didn’t bust my knuckles too badly. The wind and frozen earth did unite to set me to shivering, however, and my hands were often on the verge of going numb. All that said, I was able to bolt the new starter to the motor so easily I was baffled.

It really slid right into place. The bolts found their holes, went home without a snag, and I began trying to connect the electrical connections. About an hour and half later, both wires were connected, but I needed to snug the second one a tad more. These are famous last words. The connector broke. I couldn’t loosen the nut I had just over tightened. I took the new starter back out again. It was 2230.

I replaced the electrical connector, connected both wires back to the starter and wiggled it back into place. This time, however, the mounting bolts refused to find their homes. (Picture Happy Gilmore yelling at his golf ball about wanting to go home.) I pushed and wiggled, jiggled and strained, prayed and screamed, but nothing helped.

Put your left hand directly in front of your face, palm facing away, and lying on your back with a thirty pound dumbbell in your hand, hold it there for thirty minutes. Bolt it in place in the dark to two holes you can’t see with only four square inches for your right hand to move the socket wrench. I wish I could make it sound as tough as it was, but words fail. The fact that I was having so much trouble after it went into place so easily the first time was the most frustrating aspect of the whole experience. At midnight, I gave up, absolutely defeated, as close as I’ve been to tears in some time.

All through the night, tossing from one side and turning to the other, the thought persisted – it’s still not done! I slept horribly and woke up stiff. I ate breakfast and sipped my coffee unenthusiastically, dreading the moment of return beneath my foe.

The daylight was a huge advantage, but the bolt holes still refused to line up. I tied a small line around the starter (handy-dandy bowline), passed the end up through the engine bay and over the fender to. . . my right foot. I suppose that knot was a barrel hitch. When I pressed down with my leg, the starter moved up. This allowed me two free hands to fiddle with bolts and jiggle the starter without fear of anything crashing down on my face.

I still could not make the second bolt go home, so I pulled it out for inspection. The bolt is about five inches long, and only the final inch is threaded. The threads at the tip of the bolt were all cross-threaded and deformed, as were the final threads near the unthreaded shaft of the bolt. The middle threads were intact. I found this discovery to be terribly disconcerting!

I squoze back out from under my confinement, and melancholy, moped over to the deck to sit in the chair I made and listen to the few birds who have been first to arrive on the spring scene. I thought about the many good memories I had on this deck, and about how awful this experience was in contrast. I declared, “God is against me,” and tipped my head back for a big swig of coffee. It shot right to the back of my throat. It felt full of grounds, and I gagged and coughed. The warm, sugary mix shot up into the air and fell back directly onto my face.

It took a while to react to this new, terrible surprise, but I finally started laughing. I wiped my face off with my watch cap, and gingerly sipped the remaining dregs of coffee in my mug. I headed back to the Isuzu, scanned the engine bay for loose tools, hopped inside and turned the key. It started right up! That it actually started was almost as surprising as coughing hot coffee onto my own face.

I crawled back under the beast, pushed the long bolt back into its hole, and started wrenching. I met some resistance, but kept cranking, and the bolt went all the way home. I tightened the second bolt down all the way also. Everything seemed to be in order, so I made another start attempt . . . it worked! I tried again . . . it still worked! And once more for good measure. . . it worked again!

Maybe I'll hang on to the tools a little longer. . .