I was driving past the library on Saturday when I screeched to a halt beside a battered old Chevy pickup parked next to the curb. I knew this truck, and it was obviously in the wrong part of town. Something had to be broken.
Jumping out, I looked underneath for any telltale puddles of oil or anti-freeze. Seeing none, I opened the hood to check for damage.
“Slim! What in blue blazes are you doin’ to my truck?”
I swung around. “There you are!” I gestured towards the pickup. “I figured you must be having engine trouble, so I …” I stopped and stared. “Uh, Tooner, what are those things in your arms?”
“What’s it look like? They’re books.” He pointed behind him. “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s the library.” Tooner’s eyes narrowed. “Do I detect a hint of surprise?”
Surprise wasn’t the word; I was shocked to discover a side of Tooner I’d never seen before. “Er, not at all. So tell me; who’s your favorite author? Tolstoy, Dickens, John Grisham…?”
“If you must know, it’s Theodor S. Geisel, a prolific writer and illustrator with over 60 books to his credit.” Tooner stuck his nose in the air as he opened the truck door. “His political views happen to coincide with my own.”
And with that he drove away, leaving me speechless on the sidewalk to ponder Tooner’s literary pursuits.
On Monday morning I told the crew what I’d seen. “Who’s Theodor S. Geisel?” asked Beanie.
Basil chuckled. “Better known to you as Dr. Seuss.”
Just then our senior technician arrived for work. It was time to give him the gears. “Hey Toon!” I chortled. “Got any Oobleck remover? I’ve got a throttle body to clean!”
“Yeah,” howled Beanie. “I need to borrow your stethoscope; I think I heard a Who!”
Basil came to Tooner’s defense. “In case you didn’t know, gentlemen, Geisel was a bit of a genius in his day. Not only was his amazing vocabulary helpful to young children learning to read, but he wrote most of his books in anapestic tetrameter, a poetic meter also employed by many poets of the English literary canon. Few modern writers can imitate his consistency and clarity.”
Tooner sniffed defensively. “Yeah, like whatever he said.”
I shrugged. “Well, whatever. All I know is ‘The Cat in the Hat’ was my kids’ favorite bedtime story.”
Tooner ignored me and stomped out into the shop. Beanie shrugged on his coveralls and joined him. “What are you working on, Toon?”
Tooner pointed at the ancient Ford Escort sitting in his bay. “This thing won’t quite pass the emissions test. It’s got me puzzled.”
Beanie noticed the printout that Tooner was holding. “Are those the readings from the gas analyzer?”
“Yup. At 15 mph, the HC readings are 63, just a tad over the limit of 61. And at 25 mph, they’re 50, just over the limit of 45.” The printout also showed the NOX, CO2 and other readings in a similar light; close to passing but not quite there yet.
Beanie scratched his head. “I dunno, Toon. With almost 250,000 miles, maybe this little engine is just smoking a bit of oil.”
“I ain’t buyin’ it,” grumbled Tooner. “In all the years we’ve maintained it, I’ve never seen any fouled spark plugs, except for that time last spring when she was running too rich from a bad ignition wire.”
Beanie snapped his fingers. “I remember that! It ruined the catalytic converter, so we had TwistyBend Mufflers put a universal one on.” He thought that over. “Maybe that new cat is no good.”
Tooner’s eyebrows went up. “Might be on to somethin’, Bean. I’ll send it back to Jerry to see what they think.”
Later that afternoon, Jerry called back. “Don’t know why you think there’s a problem, Slim. We tested this cat and it’s working great!”
For some reason I had my doubts. “What testing method do you guys use?”
Jerry sighed. “Simple. I get Beefus to put his left hand on the inlet and his right hand on the outlet; if he gets second degree burns on one hand but third degree on the other, then we know it’s working fine.”
I gasped. “You’re joking, right?”
“Of course!” he laughed. “Not even Beefus is that dumb. No, we used a heat gun to check the inlet and outlet temps. Everything looks great.”
I relayed the information to the crew. “Did he have anything else to add?” asked Tooner.
I coughed. “Uh, yeah. He’s gonna send over his spare elephant. He hears we’ve got an egg that needs babysitting.”
“Sheesh! Can’t I enjoy a couple of books in peace?”
“Awe, cut us some slack, Toon. For years none of us thought you could even read. We’re actually happy for you!”
Tooner rolled his eyes. “Look, Jerry’s quick check with the temp gun is okay, but it’s not real accurate. What he should be doing is drillin’ a hole before and after the converter and using the gas probe to check things out.”
Basil shrugged. “Or putting raw propane through a hot engine without it running and measuring the results. But I doubt that TwistyBend Mufflers has that kind of equipment on hand. If I were you, I’d just tell him to replace the cat and see what happens.”
After much arm-twisting, Jerry installed another converter. This time the little Escort passed the emissions test with flying colors.
I went into the lunchroom to announce the good news, but all the guys had their noses buried into books – books like “Yertle the Turtle,” and “Green Eggs and Ham.”
Beanie looked up. “Hey, if only we’d read Tooner’s books sooner. Look at this one – ‘The Cat in the Hat Comes Back’. Get it? ‘The Cat is a comeback!’ – it’s like prophetic or somethin’!”
I was tempted to make a caustic reply, but I figured that being the boss, I should model some patience. To do that successfully, I find it helpful to count to 10 in my head before speaking. So I did.
“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…”
Rick Cogbill, a freelance writer and former shop owner in Summerland, B.C., has written The Car Side for a variety of trade magazines for the past 14 years. “A Fine Day for a Drive,” his first book based on the characters from this column, is now available for order at thecarside.com.
