[T2] [VB] Bob Hoover's Xmas Gift - Midnight Repairs

[Chris Dreike]

Jim,
Thanks for posting. Always gets me.

Chris
64DD Kamper Kit
71 Sunroof

On Thu, Dec 24, 2020 at 3:22 PM Jim Arnott <jrasite at eoni.com> wrote:

> Reposting because I can.
>
> I had Bob’s permission to share this with WetWesties annually.  I don’t
> think he’d mind it being reposted here.
>
> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Solstice
>
> Jim
>
> “All journeys end when we reach our destination but the journeying remains
> a thing apart, unique unto itself.
> Most of us make life’s journeys without understanding that the journeying
> is a separate thing.”
> Bob Hoover - The Grendel Saga
>
> ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
>
> Subject: Xmas gift Date: Sat, 26 Dec 1998 08:18:01 -0700 From:
> Veeduber at aol.com To: VintageBus at type2.com
>
> Midnight Repairs
>
> 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.
>
> -Bob Hoover -Christmas, 1998
>
>
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