I own a one man auto/truck repair shop in Oakland, CA.I write adventure fiction with a political slant, and unconventional poetry. Using my day-job to keep me going, I continue my assault on the publishing world with each action packed day. Any questions or comments you'd rather not make public, please use the address below. Sock Puppets welcome. :)
E-Mail: nilson_brothers@hotmail.com
Twelve year old Tommy Sand ran after two boys he knew were three years younger, growling and screaming threats, his Jason mask muffling the sound. Then Tommy saw it: a huge jack-o-lantern on the front steps of the old Hansen house. The jack-o-lantern’s carved face flickered with light, accenting the horrific carved features of agony. Tommy couldn’t pass up a chance like this. He had already robbed numerous kids of their candy, and the thrill had worn off significantly. The number of trick or treaters with parents increased dramatically, along with the number of larger predators: roving bands of teenagers older than Tommy. He walked across the street toward the enticing creature feature face, the jack-o-lantern left porch bound, with no other light on in the house behind it. From a distance, the brilliantly lit jack-o-lantern obscured the ill kept two story house it guarded. Tommy walked happily toward the oversized lot on the dead end street, already picturing the mess left behind when he finished stomping the jack-o-lantern.
As he drew closer to the jack-o-lantern porch, the street sounds behind him faded. Only the crunching, crackling symphony of dead leaves swirling around at his feet accompanied Tommy. He glanced up uneasily at the dark street lights above him; and then back the way he had come, where the lamps cast their dull glow on the street below. They seemed far off. Tommy shivered, and turned quickly to his task. Avoiding the telltale leaves, heralding each of his footsteps, Tommy slipped soundlessly up the old porch steps to where the jack-o-lantern stared back at him in ghoulish fascination, as if welcoming the boy. Setting down his pillowcase full of pilfered candy, Tommy smilingly moved behind the jack-o-lantern, setting up as if he were getting ready to kick a field goal. Without further fanfare, he ran toward the jack-o-lantern, and kicked at it soccer style with the side of his foot. A bright flash of blinding red-orange light flashed as he connected.
In the next instant, Tommy looked out from the porch at a boy about his age, dressed in a Freddy Kruger costume. The boy looked up at Tommy in horrified wonder, patting at himself as if he wanted to confirm his existence. Tommy tried to speak, but he couldn’t feel anything other than a hot burning sensation. The boy shook his head sadly at the new jack-o-lantern with bright flame highlighting its horrific features, and walked away unsteadily, without another glance.
I’ve been working both my day-job as a mechanic, and my passion as a writer wannabe, to the exclusion of all else this past week. People fix vehicles during economic downturns, so my shop has been busy. I’ve also found real interest in my erotic paranormal novel, LANCELOT, which may actually pan out into a real publishing credit. I don’t plan on writing anymore about it until the deal is something more than fiction. I did sign and send in a contract; but for some reason, even that reality seems elusive. If LANCELOT actually makes the transition from wish to reality, I will post the news.
On to Day-job news. A funny thing happened at the shop regarding an ancient car I neither worked on, nor actually saw. Normally, I hate talking about ancient cars, especially when they’re still nine years younger than I am. A gentleman smilingly told me in a very English accent he hoped I could help him when I offered my usual greeting of ‘May I help you’. I had my doubts the moment he said:
“I own a 1959 Morris Minor, and…”
“I can’t help you, Sir,” I interrupted, because I don’t work on European cars, and I hadn’t even seen a Morris Minor car since I worked at a K-Mart Garage nights while going to college, back in 1973. K-Mart Garage stayed open until 10PM, and nobody cared what got dumped on the night guy. :)
“This is strictly a mechanical question,” the man quickly assured me, holding his hands up in a placating manner.
“Oh good, because the Internet is about the only source I can recommend to you for information or parts on a Morris Minor.”
“Quite,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I have many resources bookmarked. This particular problem has to do with my rear leaf springs buckling from age.”
He explained how after finding a source for new leaf springs, he had attempted to take off the old ones, which utilize a bolt needing a spanner type wrench. A spanner wrench utilizes two case hardened prongs which insert into a bolt head with two holes drilled in its surface. I gave him advice on a few techniques for removal, including drilling the bolt head off with progressively larger drills, or what I’d do: use a cutting torch to slice it off carefully.
“Oh… I say… could you…”
“No,” I cut him off politely again, adding a head shake for emphasis. “Take your time, and if you don’t have a cutting torch, soak the section in penetrating oil for a few days, repeating the oiling whenever possible before you make another attempt. It will dissolve the rust.”
“I will give it a try,” he sighed. “Thank you.”
“Good luck with your project,” I told him with heartfelt thanks it was his and not mine.
Wow, a 1959 Morris Minor question. I’m glad only verbal answers were all I had to offer. :)
I’m sitting on the living room couch this morning, editing… editing… editing on my notebook computer, and I catch a glimpse of something in my peripheral vision to the right. Figuring it’s one of our two old cats coming in from the backyard through the propped open screen door, I return to my fabulous writing task. Then, low and behold, here comes our fat cat, Taco Bell. You’ve heard the old commercial about make a run for the border for Taco Bell food, right? Well, I named this calico cat Taco Bell, because running after food is the only thing this cat has ever run for in the thirteen years she’s been around. Taco doesn’t run much anymore. Her speedy treks resemble a waddle more than a run, due to the many runs she’s made over the years for her food dish.
So, Taco ambles past the couch edge as if she’s hunting something, fat fury body low to the floor, and I start getting a bad feeling. We have the TV set up on a low corner glass stand with shelves. Fatso can’t get under the shelf, and as this event plays out, she wouldn’t want to anyway. She may be curious; but when you look up the term ‘Fraidy Cat anywhere, they have a picture of our Taco Bell illustrating it. I set aside the notebook computer, and walk over to the TV stand, where Taco has taken up a position at the stand’s left corner while peering underneath. I hear then what sounds like a combination hiss and hum, and Taco Bell nearly has a seizure. She smacks her head on the glass shelf, popping up from her peering position, and streaks out of the living room leaving a fat vapor trail.
I go get my gloves, flashlight and a broom, having deduced who my visitor is, but I want to make sure it’s not a skunk instead. I begin kneeling down, thinking maybe I should pop a couple Advil before getting started on this task. After spending last night out cleaning our rain gutters for a couple hours before the scheduled first rain of the season, some of my movable parts haven’t woke up all the way yet. Screw it… man up… I get down and take over Taco’s previous position. Yep, I turn on the flash light, and there’s the beady eyes, long snout, and mouth full of inadequate teeth: a very young possum. We have a lot of possums around our neighborhood, along with skunks. The smell of cats on the property keeps the skunks away, but doesn’t seem to bother the possums.
I use the broomstick with practiced ease to scoot Pauley Possum out from under my TV stand, with Pauley bravely showing me his fangs, and hissing threats. He immediately plays dead once I have him out in the open. It’s still not light outside. I get up at five, even on Saturdays, much to my wife’s constant ridicule. Since she has trouble staying up past nine most nights, and I stay up until around eleven, I even up the score by taunting her nocturnal habits. Scooping up Pauley, I consider taking him in to visit my wife; but my survival instinct kicks in, and I take Pauley out to the fence and shoo him into motion along the top.
Inside the house, our other cat, Bonnie, who has a couple years on Taco Bell has come in from the garage. Bonnie looks like the scraggly cat they tied dynamite to in ‘Sweet HomeAlabama’, that shows up alive and kickin’ at the end of the movie. She’s the huntress. Over the years, Bonnie has taken on every beast, flying, scooting, or crawling anywhere around our house. Catching a whiff of Pauley, Bonnie spends the next five minutes inside the house, humming a low pitched snarl of discontent while tracking Pauley’s scent. She then runs out to the back fence and stares longingly upwards as she paces back and forth. Luckily for Pauley, Bonnie’s days of hopping up on the back fence are over. She calls off the hunt and follows me back inside, vocalizing her annoyance with what I can only describe as ‘ka kowwwwww’ repeated over and over until I refill the food dishes. The sound of the food dish brings Taco out from cover, and all is right again with the world. Even better, I get to write something instead of editing. :)
I received an e-mail about a thousand word contest concerning a severed head. So, here's mine. :)
Connor Devlin gripped his five year old son’s hand a little tighter as the darkness at the end of their street made walking more hazardous on the uneven sidewalk. His wife Jenny flicked her coat collar up, the chilly late October breeze picking up speed, and making her shiver. She glanced around at the tree branches brushing against each other, most nearly naked of their multi-colored fall display. Jim pulled plaintively on his Dad’s hand. He wore a Darth Vader helmet, black clothing, black cape, and carried a red tipped laser sword in his free hand. Connor looked down at his son, meeting the Minnie-me Vader’s solemn visage with a smile.
“Quit squeezin’ so hard, Dad,” Jim admonished. “If you’re scared, hold on to Mom’s hand.”
Connor and Jenny laughed appreciatively.
“I’m trying to keep you from taking a header into the sidewalk, Darth, you ungrateful little fidget.”
“I think we hit about a thousand houses tonight,” Jenny sighed, pointing at Jim’s Halloween sack, Connor carried in his left hand.
“I think we may have done ten or twenty houses. We could’ve hit a hundred if you hadn’t punk’d out, Mom,” Darth/Jim directed the Vader stare at his Mom with a giggle, when Jenny smacked the back of his helmet.
“It’s your fault he’s like this, Con,” Jenny accused, pointing her finger at the laughing Connor.
“Mmm…me?!” Connor pretended outrage.
“He’s your son.”
“How come he’s mine when his mouth starts annoying you; but he belongs to you whenever he does anything right?”
“I think aliens dropped me off at the house,” Jim inserted, looking from one parent to the other, hoping for a reaction.
“Don’t look at me, Darth,” Connor replied, pausing before they reached their driveway. “I’ve thought that for a long time. I think you’re only half right though. Nine months before you were born I went on a business trip. We took in a boarder named Freddy Kruger to keep your Mom company while…”
“Oh… this beat down is so on…” Jenny yelled as Connor had already bolted for their front porch, much to Jim’s amusement.
Connor turned at the steps, making defiant gestures at his wife.
“Dad!!” Jim cried out, pointing above Connor’s head.
Connor twisted around. A man’s severed head hung by a looped chain, its ends fastened by large nails driven into the detached skull’s ears. Jenny gasped, grabbing Jim up, and backed away to the street. Connor pulled, and flicked open the ten inch knife he always carried in one fluid motion. He grew up on the streets of East Oakland, California, and spent four years in the Marines to escape from the gangs. Connor felt civilization slipping from him once again. He’d seen severed heads before. Even in the dark, Connor knew the one hanging from his porch beam was a fake. He couldn’t figure who would pull a prank like this.
“Calm down, you two, it’s a fake,” Connor said, not taking his eyes off the front porch, and the area around it.
“Who…who would do this?” Jenny whispered, still clutching Jim to her.
“Don’t know, but I don’t much like it. Did anyone…”
A dog’s plaintive bark from inside their front door brought a smile to Connor’s face.
“Apparently, there aren’t any visitors inside the house.”
“Let Wolfy out, Dad!” Darth Jim ordered.
“By your command!” Connor retorted. “Stay here, Master, and I shall free our four legged security system.”
Connor moved carefully, his knife still in hand. He opened the screen, hearing their dog’s eager whine from inside. Connor unlocked and opened the front door, only to have their eighty pound shepherd/collie mix breed shoot out around the door. Instead of rushing to Jim and Jenny, Wolfy whipped around Connor’s legs, and launched over the porch rail. Growls mixed with startled screams at the side of the Devlin house. Connor vaulted the porch rail after Wolfy, landing in a crouch near the dog. He straightened, folding and pocketing his knife smoothly.
“Hey Jen, c’mon and see who Wolfy cornered,” Connor called out, shaking his head at the two figures dressed in ‘Scream’ masks and cloaks. Wolfy had dislodged one of the masks, uncovering a young woman’s face. The other figure’s costume was in tact, but lying beneath eighty pounds of dog. Connor whistled and Wolfy streaked to his side.
“Yep, it’s your bubblehead little sister,” Connor confirmed, as he reached down, grabbing the entire front of Debbie’s companion’s costume, and ripping the groaning figure up on tiptoes against the house. He pulled the figure’s mask off. “And… let’s see… yea, her sidekick boyfriend, Bill.”
“You need to put that damn dog to sleep!!” Debbie shouted angrily. “We…we were just having some fun.”
“I’d put you to sleep first, bubblehead,” Connor muttered, slapping Bill’s frightened face lightly. “Ha, ha, Bill, don’t ever let this ditz talk you into anything like this again. Are we clear?”
“Yes…yes, sir,” Bill mumbled, as Connor released the teenager.
“Boy, Aunt Deb, you could’ve gotten hurt,” Jim said, taking off his helmet.
“I’m still thinking about hurting her even now,” Jenny said through clenched teeth.
As Debbie rolled her eyes, and crossed her arms, Jenny shot forward and caught Debbie up by the ear, twisting it slightly. Debbie squealed, her hands waving as she danced around with her head tilting to ease the pain.
“Uh oh,” Jim muttered, dashing around his Dad, having been in the same unfavorable position a time or two.
“Trick or Treat?!” Jenny barked into Debbie’s ear. “Run along, Sis.”
Jenny released Debbie, and the girl sullenly rubbed her ear.
“That hurt!”
“Most hard learned lessons do. Call ahead next time.”
“Fine!” Debbie let Bill take her arm, and propel them both toward his car, Connor could see parked a few houses down the street.
“Wow… that was scary,” Jim announced happily.
“Yea… it was,” Connor agreed less happily, putting his arm around Jenny.
This is from an erotic novel I completed, and have been working on edits with, using December Quinn’s insights into writing erotica from her blog site. The novel brings forth the Arthurian legend into the present with a very quirky, funny group. In this scene, Lancelot, Viviane (the Lady of the Lake), Merlin, and the young Arthur are brought together after a thousand years. Lancelot has been the only member of the group to have endured the entire millennia on earth. It's supposed to be a funny scene with Lancelot and Viviane meeting up with Arthur for the first time, after picking him up at school. :)
“Arthur is highly intelligent, and has handled the onslaught of his first visions with courage,” Merlin explained. “He doesn’t make friends easily, and he’s rather hard to get along with. They advanced him three grades, which didn’t help the situation with his making friends. Arthur seems to have a photographic memory, and an uncanny ability to grasp adult concepts. He can read and speak as well as many adults. You will find Arthur’s language a bit abusive. It’s a defense mechanism he uses far too often. What worked the first time around for encouragement, makes little impact on the boy this time. Arthur didn’t have the stunning impact of all this outside stimuli a thousand years ago. Where once I could move him to greatness with simple guidance, this modern environment leads him astray.”
“How much have you told him?” Lancelot asked.
“So much he thinks I’ve gone around the bend. I’ve shown him some of what I can do; because frankly, the little turd told me one day to fuck off.”
“I merely showed him I could and would make him follow my rules,” Merlin replied. “He will test us. That’s why I’m so happy we are all together. I need help.”
“An eight year old beards the powerful Merlin in his own den,” Viviane clasped her hands in front of her in prayer like fashion, and looked up with eyes closed. “Oh, thank you, Lord. I love this kid already.”
“I hope you enjoy young Arthur as much after you meet him,” Merlin stated with a knowing look, Lancelot saw in the rear view mirror, as he looked for the old man to take offense.
***
“Hey, who ordered the hooker,” the boy asked, peering into the Pontiac as Merlin guided him over from the entrance to the school.
“Why you…” Viviane reached for the door handle, only to be stopped by Lancelot’s hand. “Watch your mouth, Doogie, or growing up will be the least of your worries.”
Arthur laughed, as Merlin went around and entered the Pontiac from the other side, leaving the boy to enter from the curb side. Lancelot looked the boy over with excitement. He had been waiting a thousand years to be reunited with the man who had died at Camlann in his arms. Arthur wore his hair long, straight, and ruffled, the light brown strands hanging over his forehead. His face, grinning in the peevish way of pre-adolescent boys, used to getting their own way, stared in at Lancelot and Vivian with glee. Arthur was thinly built, almost gangly, in Lancelot’s thinking as he watched the boy slide into the rear seat next to Merlin. Arthur smiled hugely at Vivian, reaching forward to touch her hair after closing the Pontiac door.
“Do your tricks pay more for red hair?” Arthur asked innocently.
Again, Lancelot grabbed Viviane, who had launched toward the boy with hands in claw-like fashion, while Arthur simply leaned away, laughing in delight. Merlin shook his head, wondering if this was the torment allowed for past wrongs done to Camelot and its King.
“Let me go, Monte!” Viviane hissed out the order through clenched teeth as she strained against Lancelot’s easily maintained hold on her.
“Calm down, Viviane,” Lancelot urged, seeing their initial meeting was drawing the interest of the kids and parents passing by. “We don’t need a scene right now.”
“Monte… Monte?” Arthur leaned forward again as Vivian collapsed back into her seat angrily. “Whose the mook with the sissy English name, Merlin?”
“I will warn you only once, Arthur,” Merlin stated, staring down the boy, who calmed immediately at Merlin’s tone. “Ride silently until we arrive at our place, where I will make introductions. Do you understand?”
Arthur nodded reluctantly. He gave Viviane a little wave when she looked back, complete with his hand formed as if gripping something, and making in and out movements with it to his open mouth. The ensuing scuffle between Lancelot and Viviane took five full minutes, as Viviane attempted a full out assault into the back seat. Lancelot retained a solemn look on his face as he handled Viviane; but the nasty edge to the boy gave him hope, rather than disappointment. If trained properly, this boy would be a man to be reckoned with. After convincing Viviane her rage would have to be harnessed for another time, Lancelot exchanged a look of understanding with Merlin. He drove them to Merlin’s building, where the mage maintained a group of suites for him and the boy.
Merlin guided Lancelot into his own private parking lot, and next to an already parked limousine. The group exited the Pontiac, Lancelot gripping Viviane’s arm in a final silent warning. She gritted her teeth and nodded in compliance. Arthur, dressed in a school uniform of navy blue pants, white shirt, and blue windbreaker, skipped around Merlin as if unable to keep still. Lancelot’s size stopped the boy in his tracks, as he gazed up at his former First Knight.
“Holy crap, Merlin, you got me my own private troll? Wow… Shrek, say something… how’d Merlin coax you out from under your bridge?”
Lancelot laughed, evoking a look of confusion from the boy, who was unaccustomed to adults taking anything but offense at his verbal barbs. Viviane looked at Lancelot with annoyance, having assumed he would kick the crap out of the boy. Merlin observed the sparring with interest, assuming rightly Lancelot took the banter as easy penance for sins committed centuries ago.
“Hello… Shrek…” Arthur waved at Lancelot, “You don’t have a little talking donkey do you?”
“Not until now,” Lancelot quipped, prompting laughter from both Viviane and Merlin.
Arthur’s face reddened, and his mouth tightened in a childlike rage. Lancelot stuck his hand out toward Arthur.
“I’m James Lancelot Benwick, Arthur. You knew me simply as Lancelot when you once were my King and friend centuries ago.”
Arthur stared at the huge hand outstretched toward him. The bitterness and angst built up within him melted away. He gripped the man’s hand in his own small one. The two shook solemnly.
“I… I’m sorry about razzing you, Lancelot,” Arthur said finally, releasing Lancelot’s hand, and then gesturing at Viviane with outstretched thumb. “So, who’s the hooker?”
Arthur was in full flight toward the elevator by the time Viviane gasped and started in pursuit. Lancelot caught her up before she could take a step.
“Oh my, for a moment there I thought perhaps we could have peace,” Merlin opined while Lancelot gripped the growling, squirming Viviane.
“We’ll have peace, old man,” Viviane blurted out in a frenzy of movement as she tried to detach herself from Lancelot. “I’m going to bitch slap Doogie Howser till his eyeballs pop out.”
“Will you calm down?” Lancelot ordered, shaking Viviane finally with enough ardor to get her undivided attention. “You’re being baited by an eight year old, Viv. Young Arthur’s reeling you in every time he throws a line out. Get a grip.”
Lancelot saw his words were having an effect. Viviane broke into a smile, as Lancelot released her, nodding in agreement.
“The little dweeb is making a fool out of me.”
“He nailed me pretty good too, Vivian,” Merlin added, “and I had much the same reaction. I kept expecting instant respect. I found out quickly, his respect will have to be earned.”
“We can beat him, right?” Viviane asked hopefully. “I beat Lancelot, and it didn’t do him any harm.”
“I was irrevocably damaged,” Lancelot hung his head, pretending deep pain.
“Yea, right,” Viviane remarked, looking toward where Arthur was dancing around by the elevator. Arthur waved at her.
“No, we aren’t going to beat him, Viviane,” Merlin said, as the three walked together toward the elevators. “I like his spirit. It will serve him well. I believe it has already helped him deal with the night terrors his visions have begun to cause.”
“Hey, Shrek, did you rearrange the bimbo’s face,” Arthur called out as they approached, disregarding any bonding he might have felt in shaking Lancelot’s hand. “She tried to stiff you on her last trick, didn’t she?”
“Is he like this all the time?” Lancelot asked, gripping Vivian’s arm, as her whole body tensed involuntarily.
“You two are the first adults other than his instructors he’s actually interacted with,” Merlin replied. “He doesn’t do these verbal eviscerations with them because I made it plain to him it would be very bad.”
“You zapped him,” Viviane accused Merlin, pointing her finger at him disparagingly.
“Not exactly,” Merlin disagreed. “I took all his privileges away for two weeks: TV, video games, computer, everything. He barely survived.”
“Yea, but that was when he told you off and you zapped him, right?” Viviane pressed Merlin without hesitation.
“Yes,” Merlin admitted, as they neared Arthur. Merlin activated the elevator from the keypad, and the doors opened.
“He really did a number on you, Vicky,” Arthur commented with false concern, peering up into Viviane’s face. “Don’t mess with Shrek, baby. Do your business and pay up.”
Lancelot snatched Arthur up in one fist, the boy’s shirt and windbreaker ripping slightly on Arthur’s quick ascent into the air. In a split second, the boy was staring into Lancelot’s grim face, his mouth working without words. Lancelot shook him gently.
“We must show respect for each other, young Arthur. I know not where you learned to be so abusive, but we will not abide your continued insults. We have a long way to go together. The four of us have an important destiny to fulfill. Will you give us a chance to earn your respect, or will you force us to earn your fear?”
Arthur looked around to Merlin and even Vivian. Merlin had turned away the moment Lancelot intervened. Viviane met his appealing look with one of smiling appraisal. Arthur quickly returned his attention to Lancelot.
“I…I’m afraid already,” Arthur conceded haltingly.
Lancelot grinned. “That’s good. It shows intelligence. Our story, I’m sure, is a little farfetched for you to accept. Hear us out, boy, we have only your wellbeing in our hearts.”
“Can I talk… from the ground?”
Lancelot lowered Arthur to the elevator floor.
“After Merlin explained who he was, and… and who I’m supposed to be, I studied Camelot and the Round Table legend,” Arthur said, glancing around at the adults encircling him. “As I understand it… I got hosed.”
In seconds, all three adults were laughing so hard tears were streaming down their faces, as Arthur watched what his comment provoked with satisfaction. Lancelot gripped the boy’s shoulder affectionately after a few moments.
“Just tone down the verbal attacks, okay?”
“Sure, Shrek, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Arthur grinned up at Lancelot, and winked at Viviane. “Think you could give me a freebie, Vicky?”
Viviane grabbed the boy by the ear, and then turned him on his tiptoes, searching for something with her free hand. “Where’s the on/off switch, Merlin? I know there has to be one.”
“Sor…sorry,” Arthur gasped, his hands out, trying to keep his balance. “Don’t pull my ear off, Vicky!”
Vivian released the boy reluctantly, as Merlin pushed the elevator button for their floor.
Arthur rubbed his ear, looking at Viviane accusingly. “Holy crap… Vicky… I didn’t think you…”
“Careful boy,” Lancelot broke in with a warning finger. “I’m not intervening anymore on your behalf. I’ll let Vic… Viviane, give you an attitude adjustment I doubt you’ll forget.”
“You three need to lighten up,” Arthur complained. “I have a genius IQ, and now I’m teamed up with an Alzheimer patient, a troll, and a beat-up hooker: all of whom screwed me a thousand years ago. Cut me some slack.”
I started thinking about query letters, because so much has been written about them lately in very instructive fashion. Ever since I read the guideline is don’t go beyond 250 words, I began wondering what happens if I do? It takes a Lotus 123 database sheet to keep all the rejections straight for me now, so I don’t do any repeaters on the six manuscripts I have out there. Maybe adding another hundred words couldn’t hurt. I know what you’re thinking. If he can’t hook someone with 250 words, it’s not the letter, it’s the material, or his incompetent 250 words. :) I’m not so sure. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Do any of you think an agent or publisher notices instantly if an extra fifty to a hundred words were added to the stone tablet law of 250 words? Have any of you strayed from the Query Commandment? Just curious. :)
Not every story with a harsh beginning ends badly here. I thought it would be nice to conclude Ms. Hoppingmad’s story from a few days ago with the unusual happy ending. She brought in the 1998 Cad for me to replace the blower motor pictured above. The rascal costs more than $400 by itself. The good news for she and I was after the new blower motor was in place, I found nothing wrong with the cold air blowing out from the vents. Her AC system thankfully worked fine. Ms. Hoppingmad endured the process of dropping the Cad off and picking it up later stoically; but also politely. Patience and anger management really does work, for me as well as Ms. Hoppingmad. There, the auto repair shop version of a HEA. :)
I answered the phone again with one of those customers I like to call browbeaters on the other end. If they insult you enough, they figure you’ll take on the job you’ve already declined. This technique must work occasionally for someone, because it’s sure been tried out on me enough. The one this afternoon was really laughable. The phone rang, and it was Browbeater.
“How much for a fuel pump job on a 1968 Porsche?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t work on any European vehicles, Sir.” Thank God! For all those who don’t know, the holy European car Gods don’t share well with others when it comes to proprietary information. Also, they ask me to fix the odd Volvo, BMW, etc. only after they’ve been quoted thousands at the dealer, but they want me to just patch it up. Add the fact I only get asked about once every other Full Moon, and no thanks, I’ll pass.
“What!?” Browbeater exclaims with incredulity.
He probably believes I wait breathlessly each day of my life to catch a glimpse of what I’m sure is his classic. To turn down the opportunity of actually touching the blessed chariot of the Gods makes Browbeater apoplectic.
“Is this actually a repair shop for cars?”
I’m smiling; because it’s a familiar song, and I’ve got rhythm. “It has been for the thirty-two years I’ve been here; and I have it on good authority the Nilson Brothers fixed cars and trucks here from 1949 to 1976 when I was hired.”
“Then you don’t work on cars anymore?”
“Not European ones,” I’m not in a rush, so I’ll play.
“I have the fuel pump.” Oh Goody! “I want you to just slap it on for me.”
“No.” A minute ago I was incompetent. Now… I’m so good, with a quick slap, his Porsche will be wearing a new fuel pump.
“I’ll drive over. When you get a look at it, you’ll…”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?!”
“It’s a European car, and I don’t…”
“Damn it… it’s a classic,” Browbeater persists.
“Look, I’m sure there are European repair shops around here. Why not go through the yellow pages? You can…”
“They want over a hundred dollars just to check it! I don’t want it checked! I want the fuel pump put on!”
“It is the policy of most professional places to only quote a job on a vehicle like yours after checking it out, and they can’t do it for free,” I explain.
I won’t bother typing out symbols for two sentences to relay how happy Browbeater was with me, so let’s just say BB bid me adieu, and hung up.
My friends, it has been my experience, if you are not a vehicle repair shop owner, buying a ‘Classic’ without the intent of doing all repairs needed yourself, is a very bad idea. It may seem like a dream come true; but it’s really a heartbreaker. :)
Honda recalled their 1994-1997 Honda Accords for the balance shaft seal popping out, and flooding oil into the front timing case area. I realized for years after installing the balance shaft seal retainer on Honda Accords even up to 2002, Honda still hadn’t incorporated their own fix from the factory: a small retainer plate costing between two and three dollars. Each time I’ve done one of these timing belt and balance shaft belt jobs, I install all Honda parts, including the add-on retainer plate. If Honda already acknowledges a problem with this, I can’t understand why the retainer plate was not installed from the factory.
A new customer came in last week with oil pouring out of the front case. It was a 2001 Honda Accord with 2.3 Liter V-Tech engine. It had nearly 180,000 miles on it, but had been well cared for at another shop. The customer showed me the invoice for changing the timing belt and balance shaft belt at 90,000 miles, asking me of course if this were related. In a way it was. I believe Honda continues sending these out without a retaining plate over the balance shaft seal; because they know it will last for at least 90,000 miles, and then they’ll install the retainer when servicing the timing and balance shaft belts. If an unsuspecting independent shop services the customer’s car, unaware Honda still has the balance shaft seal pop out problem, it could end tragically for the customer. I know people are still picking up this very nice Accord used from the years 1994 – 2002 with either the 2.2 or 2.3 liter engines. The balance shaft seal problem should be investigated when buying one of these, or getting your timing and balance shaft belts replaced. The balance shaft retainer plate should be in place or if missing, it should be installed. Also change the water pump whenever doing the timing belt no matter what. Use Honda parts only in this vital area.
That’s all for this update, but if you’re appreciative of the information, here is a link to my new novel COLD BLOODED for Nook and Kindle. If you’re kind enough to read it and like it, please review it on the site you purchase it from. Thank You! Every little bit helps my writing gig. :)
I happily caught up on my accounting and database chores in the backroom today, having purposely given the ancient mariner mechanic who works in the shop, and leers at me in the mirror every morning, a break. I can do this because I work alone, without any help from the ‘Sonny Crockett’ types like the guy who came in job hunting yesterday. As I printed out a new batch of business cards a 1998 Cadillac drove in. Those are nice looking cars, but they have a number of common breakdowns, which are very expensive to fix. A middle aged lady hopped out the driver’s side door, hopping mad. I could tell this because her face looked as if she had spent the last five minutes sucking on a very tart lemon. She glared at me, and then reached in to pop the hood. Hands on hips, Ms. Hoppingmad stalked around to meet my approach.
“Hi, can I…”
“I want youuuu… to tell me what the hell they did to my car!” Ms. Hoppingmad accented her demand with a slap to the innocent Cad’s fender.
Oh boy.
“What kind of prob…” I tried to start my investigation.
“I get an oil change done, and now my @#$&*^+ AC doesn’t work!” Ms. Hoppingmad slams my verbal investigation.
“Okay,” I say with a nod, carefully keeping my distance, as I don’t want to get an attitude adjustment like the Cad fender received. “Does the air feel warm inside or…”
“Of course it’s @#$&*^+ warm inside!”
At least she didn’t end this latest interruption with ‘you idiot’. :)
I give her the look I reserve for customers only a split second from being propelled out the door with or without car, and she visibly calms somewhat. She waves her hand.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
“Let me ask a few questions, Ma’am, so I can figure out what page we’re on, okay?”
“Sure… go ahead.”
“Does the blower blow any air at you inside?” I ask.
She thinks for a moment before answering, so I’m thinking no, and Ms. Hoppingmad confirms it.
“No… it doesn’t blow at all.”
Normally, this is where I write up an estimate for diagnosing the problem; but I have a good hunch what’s wrong already, and there are only a couple of steps to check. Since Hoppingmad is already upset, and the price of what I figure went bad will cost a bundle, I’m less than enthused to incur her wrath. I started the Cad and turned on the AC, which allows dialing in of exact temperature. I confirmed no air flow in either AC or heat selection. Next, I checked readings at the blower motor, mounted behind the engine under the hood. I straightened after getting the readings I expected.
“The blower motor has failed, Ma’am. It…”
“What!!??”
“Can I finish?” I ask patiently, knowing the figure I’m about to quote won’t be received well either, and I’d like to get it all out at once.
Instead, Hoppingmad launches her demands. “I want you to write up what those guys did, and…”
“I can’t do that,” I interrupt, holding up a hand, more in self defense than as a stopping gesture. “The people who did your oil change had nothing to do with the blower motor failing. It fails on these Cadillacs regularly, due to the extreme heat under the hood where they’re located.”
I give her the estimate for replacing the blower motor assembly. To clear the blower motor, the saddle holding the engine up has to be lowered, and a myriad of ignition parts have to be moved out of the way on the top. Ms. Hoppingmad meets my estimate with open mouthed silence. I take the opportunity to cover myself, by explaining the blower motor must work before I can check out AC cooling.
“You’re all in on this!!” Hoppingmad states.
“Since I don’t even know where you had your oil changed, it would be difficult for me to be in on anything with them,” I reason; because frankly, I’m already writing this up in my head for the blog. :)
“I’m going to the dealer! I should have known…” Hoppingmad hops in the Cad, and takes off.
I take a deep breath, finish a few tasks, and head for my notebook computer. Just as I’m readying my new blog post, the phone rings.
“Nilson Brothers Garage, Bernie speak…”
“They want $125 to check my car!” Ms. Hoppingmad screams into my ear. “I want you to tell him what’s wrong!”
Yea, they’ll happily take my word for it after the Service Manager has listened to you for a few minutes.
“No need to put him on, Ma’am,” I explain. “They won’t do anything there without a diagnostic estimate fee.” And rightfully so. The Service Manager’s probably already cursing me under his breath for doing a freebie. He knows the quickest way for him to get fired is quote prices on the diagnostic expertise of an independent garage. “If you wish for them to check out your Cad, you’ll have to pay the diagnostic fee.”
I hear Hoppingmad rattle off something to someone, and then a deeper voice answer her. Then I heard, ‘What!!??’ signaling the Service Manager had confirmed they don’t do diagnostic work for free like some idiot indy does. Hoppingmad hung up on me or her cell-phone went dead. It’s been an hour, so anything else in this case will have to wait for the next edition. :)
