Carburetor Tales

 

Carburetor Tales

 

Most of this story is true, or at least as true as my close friend, Bryan Pace, could make it, which leaves room for disturbing doubt. 

 

There are some things you need to know about Bryan, besides his often subtle prevarication. He was retired and short of statue, but was the kind of guy you noticed immediately, for his thick crop of silver hair, friendly, expressive eyes, a ready smile and a slight pouch around the waist. Despite age doing its damnest to creep into his life, he still exuded intensity and the boiling energy of a man with things to do. 

 

Part of his defiance in the face of sullenly creeping age, was attention to detail, allied with a magnetic memory, and a low tolerance for folks wasting his time.  He also often slashed with a wit as keen as the tip of a polished rapier.

 

After his retirement, he worked in a small carburetor shop in an old, garage that used to be a store, whose original purpose was well past memory, and bore the jagged scars of severe neglect, with gaps of peeling paint on the once white cinderblocks, and a collection of grayish, dust decorated windows. A broad, stained and cracked concrete apron, as wide as the shop, completed the look.  The only thing new was an oval, white sign advertising Jimmy’s Carb Shop, in blocked black lettering.

 

The shop faced a potholed, neighborhood street whose houses had already seen better days, many of the yards littered with rusted bikes, cars on blocks, and backyards that served as graveyards for rusted barbeque grills.

 

Bryan was the shop’s lone worker.  Didn’t bother him a bit. Precision required patience and stony silence. 

 

The absentee owner was called Melvin, so no telling where the name of the shop came from.  But, I had to ask and Bryan had to tell me, beginning with Sherman’s march through Atlanta.

 

The only reason Bryan worked in the out of the way shop was his fascination with the mechanical and as an encouragement to get up each morning and continue the task of living. Visions of floats and gears, gaskets and springs, differences in each model of carburetor, danced in his head, and held his attention more than a large busted stripper shaking her assets at a frat party.  Both were definitely more entertaining than his ex wife, Dracula’s ruthless stepdaughter. Fortunately, she was out of his life, having run away with a man named Wooster, whom Bryan called Pimpster.

 

Visitors to the shop were few, but even the few sometimes presented challenges.  There was a rebuild for the carb off a 1958 Desoto, and a 1952 Chevy carb more grease than carb.  He also had his favorites. And one carb Bryan still remembered reverently was the four barreled beauty from a powerful Plymouth.  He’d searched the broad horizons to find the parts, but one thing led to another, and he finally got a phone call from a Plymouth fanatic in southern California. 

 

Bryan worked from a broad desk, so high he had to sit atop a brown, wooden kitchen stool, with a footrest bar a foot off the oil-stained concrete floor.  Meticulous was not too strong a description of the man or the array on the desk.  Small plastic boxes, only an arm’s length away, held parts for rather routine carburetor fixes.  Three rust streaked gray cabinets against the back wall held hundreds more parts and screws.  One glance at a carb and he’d know what he was looking for and seconds later he’d find it, except for the very occasional rarity which maybe took two seconds, and except for the Plymouth. 

 

A mountain of dog-eared parts catalogues, with dark soiled covers, dating back decades, sat in a stack on the floor by the desk.

 

Oh occasion, other necessities drew his attention, such as the day a friend of his, J.D. Collins, appeared with six large, over-stuffed garbage bags in the back of his scruffy, lime green pickup.

 

“Need some carb work?”

 

Collins shook his head and pointed to black bags.

 

“What’s in ‘em?”

 

“Shoes.”

 

 “Your wife cleaned out her closet?”

 

Collins ignored the jibe. “I bought a former shoe store and these are the refugees.”

 

“New shoes?”

 

“Yep, but cheap and uglier than my wife’s dog. Know where I can dump ‘em?”

 

“Tried the kennel?”

 

Collins gave him a look.

 

“I’ll get rid of them for you.”

 

They toted the bags into the shop and Collins drove away happy.

 

The next morning, Bryan put labels on the black bags.  FRED I HAVE TO LEAVE EARLY.   THESE ARE THE NEW SHOES YOU ASKED FOR.  He took the bags to the curb, went back in the shop, and waited and watched out of a smudged window.  He didn’t wait long.

 

A man Bryan didn’t recognize slowly approached, a skinny guy wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The guy stopped and looked both ways, his knees slightly bent like a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.  A moment later another man showed up, then a third. All three looked around suspiciously, then grabbed the bags and ran off down the street.  Problem solved.

 

Another day, a businessman in suit and tie, drove up, and stayed in his car talking on his cell phone.  Bryan walked over.  “Can I help you?” The fellow rolled down the driver’s window, but continued an animated conversation, holding up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan waited, but the man didn’t stop.  Bryan walked back in the shop.

 

A few minutes later, Bryan walked back out to the car.  The man was still on the phone and once again held up a wait-a-minute finger.

 

Bryan went back in the shop, sat at his desk and opened a newspaper.

 

In about ten minutes, the man came in and started to speak.  Bryan held up a wait-a-minute finger and kept reading.  Eventually, the man left, never to return.

 

Weeks later, a Muslim guy pulled up in the driveway.  Bryan met him at his car and noticed the Koran on the dash.

 

“I need some help with this goddamned carburetor!  Jesus Christ!  This thing is awful!”

 

Bryan looked under the hood.  “Holy Allah!  If Mohammed saw this he’d eat a pig!”

 

“HEY!  YOU INSULTED MY RELIGION!”

 

“Well, you insulted mine!”

 

The Muslim guy took a deep breath.  “…..I guess you’re right, I did.”

 

They ended up shaking hands and becoming friends.

 

On another day, the owner of the shop came in on Bryan’s day off and rearranged things, including Bryan’s desk.  Bryan was livid!

 

“Do you know where the float valves are for Ford carburetors?”

 

“Uhhh….no.”

 

“How about the gaskets for a four barreled Chrysler?”

 

No answer.

 

“Well now, neither do I!  Don’t ever touch ANYTHING in this shop again!”  The owner never did.

 

But, the days of carburetors were becoming more and more rare.  Soon, Bryan only rebuilt one a month and then it dwindled to one every two months.  The owner sold the shop.

 

Even then, Bryan couldn’t stop.  For a while, word spread that there was a guy who still rebuilt carbs from a workshop at his house.

 

When I helped his widow clean out his home workshop, all of Bryan’s carburetor catalogues and mounds of plastic boxes of parts were all there, reminders of a man dedicated to perfection and friendship, and who until the last awaited one more car to pull up in his driveway, and offer him a carb to rebuild.