Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I braced myself for action. “I think I’ve got it now. I grip the body with my right hand while grabbing the neck with my left.”
Padre O’Brien gasped in surprise as I wrestled my quarry into submission, a clear sign that my unique methodology had impressed him. Freshly motivated, I threw in some wrist action to enhance the subtleness of my approach. O’Brien shrieked and leapt backwards. Okay, maybe that wasn’t so subtle.
My music instructor shook his head. “Slim, I said I’d teach you how to slap bass, not mangle it. Playing an instrument like this is an art, not an act of war. Let’s take it from the beginning…”
But I was past beginning; it was show time. “Hey guys,” I hollered. “C’mon in here!”
Like errant school children ordered into the principal’s office, my motley crew shuffled into the lunchroom, trying their best to stay as far away from the massive bass amplifier as possible. With my audience assembled, I launched into a musical review of every rock and pop tune I knew.
The concert lasted 23 seconds, a new record even for me.
Tooner rearranged some wax in his left ear. “So…what was that exactly?”
“What! Don’t you recognize those famous bass lines? Smoke on the Water, Billy Jean, Another One Rides the Bus…?” Where had these guys been for the past 30 years?
Beanie rolled his ball cap into a nervous knot. “Uh, I was distracted by the vibrating light fixtures. Maybe you should play them again…”
“NO!” chorused the others.
“Why don’t you work on your basic fingering patterns first,” suggested O’Brien quickly. “And let’s unplug the guitar, just to be safe.”
“Okay, I get the hint.” My dreams of stardom sputtered like a faulty smoke machine. I looked at Tooner. “So how’s it coming with the Padre’s Ford?”
Tooner frowned. “Well, I can tell ya one thing, there’s trouble there. Just like the Padre said: Hit the brakes and the transmission tries to jam into a different gear. Practically throws the engine through the hood!”
“Any codes?”
“Yep…P0751…mechanical or hydraulic failure of one of the shift solenoids.”
Our local minister sighed. “That’s what I’ve been telling you guys. The vehicle is practically undrivable. Oh, and did the ‘Door Ajar’ light come on, as well?” Tooner nodded. Indeed it had, but nobody could explain why.
Padre O’Brien’s 2008 Ford Focus wagon had been to multiple shops, searching for an answer to his perplexing problem. Now it was our kick at the can. Being a preacher to the local congregation on Sunday mornings and a bass player at the Veteran’s Hall on Saturday nights, O’Brien’s wagon was both his home and his office. The back hatch was loaded to the rafters with musical gear, and the back seat housed a travelling library of study books, which he scanned for sermon material between gigs. Without his car, our preacher would be lost.
I looked at the crew. “Anybody spot any other issues?”
Beanie raised a timid hand. “I did notice that the left brake light was dim when Tooner drove into the shop.”
Our grizzled technician snorted. “Now, wouldn’t that be somethin’…blamin’ all the Padre’s vehicular problems on a bad brake light ground!”
The lunchroom became deathly quiet as the identical entirely weird thought rattled through each of our brains.
Basil coughed politely. “One would hardly think that…” Then he paused.
“There’s no way…” began Tooner boldly, but then he stopped, too.
“Look, even if…” I ventured.
Quigley waved a hand dismissively.
“Surely there’d be…”
Padre O’Brien looked around the circle in confusion. “What? What are you guys thinking?”
Ridiculous as it was, none of us could write off Tooner’s off-hand comment. “Gimme a minute,” mumbled Tooner, heading for the service bays. We followed along silently. Taking apart the left taillight assembly, Tooner rigged up a temporary ground wire from the offending light bulb socket to the frame. “Try the brakes, Bean.”
Beanie obliged, and now that it was properly grounded, the left brake lamp beamed brighter than a stage pot light. “I’m goin’ for a test drive,” muttered Tooner. He was back in five minutes, and the results were like sweet, sweet music. There was no more banging from the transmission when he stepped on the brake, and the ‘Door Ajar’ light remained unlit.
Tooner got out and slammed the door. “Okay, that’s weird.” With that, he and Basil dove into the wiring diagrams to find out what was going on.
On the Focus wagon, the brake light circuit grounds inside the rear door hatch. Due to the Padre’s constant loading and unloading of gear, the wiring harness had flexed one too many times in the hinge area, causing the ground wires to break. As a result, the brake light circuit was back-feeding power through the PCM and body computer in search of an alternate ground. This turned on transmission shift solenoids when they weren’t needed, and also illuminated the ‘Door Ajar’ light circuit.
“It’s just like you were saying, Padre,” I said as I helped him load up his gear. “Whether it’s playing guitar or fixing cars, you have to pay attention to the basics.”
He nodded. “Sure glad you guys found it, Slim.” He slid his guitar case into the front passenger seat. “Y’know, I’ve got this other problem. When I preach on Sundays, people start going to sleep after 45 minutes. But when I play bass on Saturday nights, they rock on until 3 a.m. D’ya think it’s the EQ settings on my bass amp that makes all the difference?”
I scratched my head. “Not sure I’m qualified to comment on that, Padre. But maybe it’s like a guitar solo – if you go on too long, the crowd loses interest.” I brightened up. “Say, if you’d like me to research it further, I’d be happy to come and play bass on your Sunday morning music team!”
The Padre left in such a hurry that I didn’t quite catch all he said, but it sounded like he was going to do his own research. Oh well, at least he has his mobile office back to do it in.
