Toast for Brekkie

What would MacGyver do?

So I'm picking up some Chicago friends in Orlando tomorrow, which is about an hour away, and driving them back to my neighborhood for Feast and a movie. The ol' Camry has been idling pretty rough lately, so I called up the auto parts store this afternoon to see if they had me covered. Sure enough, the right parts were in stock, and they were open til nine. Sweet.

I skipped volleyball practice this afternoon to lift weights because I hadn't been to the gym in almost two weeks, and I could feel myself getting weak. After working out I headed straight to the store. I perused the aisles for some fuel injector cleaner, asked about brake pads and looked longingly at the hydraulic lift and jack stands I'll be purchasing for that future job, then moseyed over to the counter. The clock read 7:45pm.

"I'd like a set of spark plugs and plug wires for a '92 Camry LE 4-cylinder, please."

Tapping at the keyboard. "Four cylinder?"

"Yep. And by the way, do you guys have deep socket, extender and ratchet I could borrow?"

"Sure. You can even wheel that cart out there for a workspace."

Excellent. This was going to be a breeze.

I rolled out to the car, its hood already open to let the engine cool. This is the car I remember my Dad getting serviced in Nolensville, Tennessee several years ago. This is the car I drove my Mom and sister Liz from Las Vegas to Nashville in. She's seen better days, especially before I ran over a stack of wood in the road a few months back, but she still runs.

As I popped off the first plug wire my memory kicked in. I flashed back to that scene in Nolensville, the veteran mechanic swearing as he tried to finish what should be a simple job: changing the spark plugs. One thing you need to know about this Camry is that the plugs reside deep inside the engine, each down its own forbidding shaft through the crank case. The holes are just wide enough to accomodate a socket, and eight inches deep. Uh-oh.

If I remember correctly, that mechanic in Nolensville finally gave up trying to repair cylinder one and just jammed the plug wire back on. Perhaps that's why the engine has been missing all these years. It was only now that I began to understand why.

The plug wires run from the distributor to the crankcase, but terminate in long plastic sleeves that traverse the distance down the hole through the crankcase and end in rubber grommets that hold them onto the plugs. I pulled the first one out: no grommet on the end. Great.

My friend Maysoon calls. I hold the phone to my ear as I work on cylinder number two, and we chat about recent events and how Chicago could use a man who can fix cars and repair houses. After several minutes of trying to get the wire out, I yank with all my might and POP!

I swear into the phone.

"I'm gonna have to let you go Maysoon. This just went from bad to worse."

All that's left on the end of plug number two is a frayed wire. I peer down into the hole to see what remains of the plastic sleeve. Luckily, the store lent me their whole tool box, so I grab the needle-nose pliers and carefully slide them down into the hole. I grab the plastic and SNAP! It breaks off in the jaws of the tool. This is fabulous. But brittle is what you get when you subject plastic to hundreds of high-temperature heat cycles. On to cylinder three.

Praise Jesus, this one came out intact. Thank God for small favors. The plastic sleeve comes out of hole number four, but no rubber grommet. Well, one out of four ain't bad. I guess. I run back inside to ask if they have a coat hanger. No dice. I ask a girl at the apartment complex next door.

"We only have plastic hangers."

What, do you live with Magneto? Reluctantly (for his sake) I dial my friend Timmy. Voicemail. I break a few more pieces off the stuck sleeve until he calls me back.

"What's up?"

"Could you bring me a coat hanger and the longest, skinniest needle-nose pliers you have?"

"Huh?"

"I'm at the auto parts store. Stuck."

He says he'll swing by the house and see what he can find. Whew. I wipe the sweat off my brow. Literally.

Shortly Timmy arrives. I check the clock: it's 8:45. We have fifteen minutes. One of the clerks walks outside.

"Y'all done yet?"

I explain the situation to him, and he takes a look.

"Good luck with that."

Thanks, buddy.

Timmy has come prepared, and I go to work snipping off sections of the coat hanger wire and bending the tips into hooks. Tim holds the flashlight for me as I begin surgery on the first cylinder.

"I can't wait to read about this on Brekkie."

Yeah, I think. If I can get home tonight to write it.

After ten minutes of wrangling Tim asks, "Would gum help?"

I explain that, unfortunately, the rubber grommet at the bottom seals into a chamber that's actually a bit larger than the plug hole itself. So it won't simply slide out. It has to be pried past a lip with a considerable amount of force. From eight inches away. With a wire.

Suddenly the mechanical fairies smile on us and I get a hook under the grommet. I can only see down the cylinder when the balky flashlight (that Tim is so graciously holding) chooses to shine, and even then only with one eye. But I manage to get it halfway turned, stick another hook through the other side with my left hand, and voila. Out pops the grommet. We both extricate ourselves from underneath the hood, rest our backs and heave a sigh of relief. One down, two to go.

I look at the clock. 9pm. Closing time. The clerk comes back out.

"I got one out!" I exclaim before he can speak.

"Great," he says with feigned enthusiasm, "We're closing. A few more minutes, we're cleaning up."

I get back to work.

Cylinder two turns out to be a nightmare. Tim's pliers do a credible job of breaking off most of the remaining sleeve piece by piece. Then it's only a matter getting past the hard plastic bottom, then the grommet. Easy, right?

After ten minutes I give up and move on to cylinder four. Three's already done, remember? Less than a minute later I have the grommet out. Awesome! I must be getting good at this. Maybe I'll try my hand at the stuffed animal crane game at Wal-Mart after this. Maybe not.

"I swear," Tim says, "If this thing starts after all this, I'll be amazed. I don't care if it stops two blocks down the road. All I want is for it to start."

I'm visualizing that frayed wire in my hand and thinking the same thing. Back to cylinder two. By now the clerk has come back out twice to say his manager is getting pissed. There are plastic bits filling the hole, keeping me from getting to the rubber. Apparently there are no shop vacs within a five-mile radius. I step back and look at the hole, its gaping ring shaped like a mouth, laughing at me. Alright, that's it.

I grab the pliers, thread them inside, squeeze tight and pull. Out comes the metal lead with frayed wire attached. Woo hoo! A bit more wiggle room to get after that plastic.

The manager comes outside. It's 9:30.

"I hate to do this to you, but we're closed, and we have to go."

We stand there for a few minutes, going back and forth. Somehow Tim convinces him to let us keep the socket wrench, just in case we can get to the plug, and promises to return it himself in the morning. Score two for Timmy.

After this minor victory, we take a break. I look over at Tim.

"Maybe we should try that gum."

He runs to the closest gas station while I stand and wait, suddenly noticing the cramps in my legs. What the? Oh yeah, I just came from the gym and haven't had any water or food for three hours. As if he had read my mind, Timmy returns with gatorade and watermelon Bubblicious.

"I figured the more sugar the better."

You figured right. We each take a piece and chew.

"If this works, I'm retiring," Tim says. "This is straight up MacGyver. He's all bent over the engine, and the girl is watching from the other side, all 80's big hair, chewing away and blowing bubbles. Then the camera zooms in on MacGyver's face, and in slow motion, you see the idea hit him. Silently, he holds out his hand. She spits in it. No no no! The gum! Now her face lights up as she realizes what he wants. She expectorates the one thing that's going to get them away from the burst dam/killer bees/bad men with uzis and seconds later we cut scene to them driving off into the sunset."

After sharing a good laugh, Tim and I duck back under the hood and act out the scene. I'm laughing so hard I can barely catch the gum. I stretch it out a few times and wrap it around the end of the hanger-wire hook. Feed it carefully down into cylinder two, fish it around, and slowly pull it back up to reveal...

...large chunks of broken plastic. Timmy, you are a genius.

Long story short, by 10pm I have all the plastic out, replace all the plugs (not without protestations from number two), insert and snap in the plug wires on both ends, and wipe my greasy hands on a paper towel. We clean up, I open the door, and insert the key into the ignition.

"Moment of truth."

I turn the key.

The engine roars to life, then settles into a nice soft purr like a happy kitten.

"Thank God."

I thank Tim profusely and give him a big hug.

"Catch ya later, buddy."

He gets into his car, and I follow in mine out onto the highway. My engine is happy. I'm happy. She purrs.

"Kitty!" I exclaim. This car always needed a name.

I look down at the odometer on the way home, just in time to see it pass 301,000 miles.

Tim, I owe ya, buddy. Maysoon, I'll call you back.

Posted by George at November 2, 2006 11:56 PM