(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)
After loading all the trash in the back, Brooks started Old Betsy, drove about thirty feet and then she quit; blocking the driveway. Brooks and Karen and I have been friends for a long time. We go to the dump together. This is always a much anticipated occasion, not only in terms of getting rid of our crap, but also to go out for a spin in the old truck and catch up on what’s been happening. It’s a highlight of my month.
Brooks called to let me know the bad news. She was turning over fine, but otherwise, nope, nada, for get it. We discussed the possibilities and I decided to walk over. To make an engine run you need air, fuel and spark coming together in there at the same time. When it won’t run, it has to be one of those three. Simple, right? Old Betsy used to be my truck. I bought her new in 1989 and had all sorts of adventures with her in ten years of ownership. She’s a basic half ton two wheel drive Chevy, with a V6 and five speed manual transmission. Crank windows, no A/C, no cruise control, but she has a radio… with factory cassette player, uh-huh! Having done the service and repairs on her myself all those years ago, I’m familiar with her inner workings, and maybe I could help get her going.
First we took apart the air cleaner. While doubtful this was the cause of our trouble, removing it would give us a view of the fuel injectors. It was full of pack rat midden. OK, for all of you with endless compassion for all sentient beings reading this: I’m warning you what I’m about to say may cause you distress, but here it comes. I hate, yes, I hate rodents! OK? There it is. Hate is a big powerful and negative word, but it’s the plain truth of how I feel about rodents and pack rats in particular. The damage they’ve done under the hoods of my and other’s cars is awful! So I said a few terrible words and we cleared the mess out the air cleaner.
And then I asked, “Um Brooks, does Old Betsy have gas in her?”
“Well… the gauge says she does but half of them don’t work so…” he shrugged his shoulders. “I have a siphon in the Trooper.”
So we put the siphon together but couldn’t get the hose pushed far enough down the filler pipe of the Trooper and were getting nowhere. “There’s gas in my motorbike,” I suggested. “And you open the tank and it’s right there.” But Betsy was blocking the driveway. So we got a chain and towed her out of the way with the Trooper and proceeded to my place.
The Trooper, by the way is a totally cool 4WD geary jouncey rugged little goat of a vehicle. Pretty much every time I ride in it with Brooks I offer to buy it from him. But he’s not selling. Ever hopeful, maybe some day he’ll just want me to stop haranguing him and it will be mine. But on this occasion giving it a rest was the thing to do. We managed to get a gallon of gas out of the motorcycle and mostly into the gas can without poisoning ourselves or blowing anything up.
We put the gas in Old Betsy and turned the key. She cranked but didn’t start, didn’t even sputter. We let her crank over a little extra. Nothing. The fuel injectors in her throttle body were spraying fuel. So we turned our attention to ignition. The more we looked, the more pack rat damage we found. There were chewed wires all over the place, some only slightly damaged, some chewed clear through. Of these, most had nothing to do with ignition, but a few might and without a wiring diagram… We did some head scratching and poking around and got nowhere.
“Brooks, we got two problems.”
“What would those be?” Ever a scientist, Brooks rarely makes assumptions.
“Old Betsy has quit. That’s one. And she’s filled with trash. That’s two. How about we take the Trooper to the dump?”
“Oh you don’t know… it has it’s own pile of junk in it.” But as they say in the airplane business, we were running out of altitude, airspeed and ideas, all at once. We started unloading the Trooper.
I know people who have made fortunes in reverse logistics. Literally. The movement of things has a flow and a direction and we like to keep this all happening the way we want. To stop this flow is bad enough, but to then put it in reverse? Oh… we do not like reverse. Which may have to do with our eyes being on the front of our heads. Grumbling, we dragged all the crap out of Old Betsy and jammed it into the Trooper and then we went back to my place and got my trash and squeezed it in. Off we went to the dump, actually a transfer station, which is about three miles down the road.
As we neared the gate I said, “you know Brooks, I’ve completely lost track of time… I hope the dump isn’t closed.” The dump closes at noon for an hour.
“Oh… that wouldn’t be good.” Brooks drooped. The thought of going back? No. The thought of hanging out at the gate for an hour? Oh please, no.
The gate was open. “Yes!”
We dumped our dump. Bags and boxes and bottles and cans went flying in all directions.
“Well Señor,” I said, “it’s been a hell of a way to spend the day. But things are lookin’ up,”
There’s a certain lightness of being after going to the dump, not unlike the extra little spring a dog has in it’s step after doing #2. Thus satisfied we geared and jounced our way home.
Gordon Bunker
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