vituperation

I touched the leads from the voltmeter to the posts on the battery.

“Okay, try it now,” I said to Robyn, who sat in the truck’s cab.

Click!

The voltage dropped a little, from about 12V to 11 or so. Okay, the battery was good — no bad cells or anything. I left the voltmeter grounded and poked around on the starter relay until I found the side where there was no power.

“Okay, try it again,” I said.

Click!

The voltmeter jumped from zero to 12V, then back when Robyn eased up on the key.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I think it’s the starter.”

Jezebel had failed me Saturday morning, when I’d tried to start her to take her out to the shed. She’s been invaluable to me during the siding process, because I can lay the nine-foot sections of siding in the bed and leave just the part I want to cut hanging off and resting on a sawhorse.

The shed, incidentally, is mostly sided now, excepting the doors and the area right around them. I’d share a picture, but I haven’t taken any and I’m too lazy to walk out there right now and snap one. It’s a mighty fine-looking shed, though, if I do say so.

Anyway, Jezebel wouldn’t start Saturday morning, and I ended up doing the last few pieces of siding using sawhorses, which wasn’t nearly as nice. This afternoon found me out trying to diagnose the problem, because if I knew what it was, I might be able to fix it. I’d figured it was the battery or the starter, but wanted to talk to the resident guru at work so he could give me pointers on what to try to figure out the problem.

You didn’t think I just knew all that stuff above about relays and voltmeters and whatnot, did you?

Originally, I’d planned to just have AAA tow the truck to the shop and let them fix it, but between vet bills, new shoes, and custom orthotics, it seems like we’re poor in spite of the burgeoning egg business that brings in as much as six dollars a week. So, I figured I’d at least try before letting myself get sodomized by a repair shop.

Robyn went inside to make dinner — eggplant lasagna, woot! — and I set about trying to find the starter. I knew that it was on the bottom of the engine and basically what it looked like (a small can on top of a big one), so all I needed to do was wriggle around on the ground under the truck until I spotted it.

This is where I learned one of life’s valuable lessons: trying to work on a vehicle that’s not on a lift is an ass pain of epic proportion. Sure, I found the starter alright (it even had a helpful 12V on the side to help clue me in), but trying to remove the bolts attaching it to the frame was another story. I just couldn’t get the leverage, and there wasn’t enough room for my handy iron pipe lever I use when I’m working on the lawnmower or the tractor.

It took fifteen or twenty minutes of trying, but I finally gave up. Being a manly man just wasn’t in my cards today. I put the tools away, reattached the battery cable, and went inside to wash the grease off my hands.

I made a few calls to shops in Otisburg, for prices. Two hundred bucks, give or take, from all of them.

Goddamn.

“I think I’m going to drive to the shop down the road and see what they’ll charge,” I said. “Wish me luck, so I don’t get traumatized again.”

There’s a shop about a half-mile away, just on the other side of Busy Highway. Close to the Smallville Grocery, home of sage advice on walkin’ dudes and electrical repair. I went down to the shop a couple of months ago to ask them if they carried a fan belt for my tractor, and still remember how the place fell silent when I climbed out of my foreign car in my yuppie work clothes. I remember how the guy smiled his who is THIS dumbass? smile as he told me no, they didn’t have fan belts like that.

So yeah, I was a little uptight about going back. This time, I had grease- and paint-stained clothes in my favor.

Just before I got to Busy Highway I had a flash of inspiration and pulled into the grocery store lot. Inside, I grabbed a Diet Pepsi and carried it to the counter.

“Whaddayou know, boy?” the owner asked in a sly voice, as he always does.

“I don’t know nothin’,” I said, my usual answer. I held out my dollar.

People may tell you a dollar’s not worth a thing, but I say different. In Smallville, every dollar I spend on Diet Pepsi seems to get me a lot more for my money.

“You know any mechanics around here who might be interested in makin’ a little extra money?” I asked.

“Mechanics?” he asked, for he is hard of hearing and I talk in a low voice.

“Yessir.”

“Our nephew’s a mechanic,” his wife chimed from over by the other register. “Right over there.”

She pointed across Busy Highway, toward the place that had been my original destination.

“What you got busted?” the owner asked.

“My truck just up and died on me. I think it’s the starter.”

“Yup, our nephew can fix that, I reckon.”

“His shop is right over there,” the wife said again. She pointed out the door.

“Who do I need to ask for?” I asked.

“Johnny.”

I thanked them and drove over to the shop. As soon as I walked in, I asked for Johnny.

“That’s me,” a guy said — not the same guy I’d seen the last time I was in there.

I introduced myself.

“Your aunt and uncle tell me you’re the man to see if I want the starter replaced on a ‘93 F-150,” I said.

“Yessir, I can do that.”

“What’s something like that cost?”

“I can do it for forty-five or fifty dollars, plus the cost of the starter. Were you wanting a new one or a re-man[ufactured]?”

“A re-man. It’s for a farm truck.”

“Shouldn’t be more than sixty or seventy dollars, plus the labor.”

I told him I’d have the truck towed down there tomorrow and went home to share the news with Robyn.

One of four from yesterday.

Foot news: I shitcanned the $29 Reeboks and replaced them with New Balance 1122s, which were designed for feet like mine. With some rest, some Aleve, and the new shoes, right now I’m virtually pain-free. I got my new orthotics today, and they should start helping once I get past the initial hurting.

Here’s hoping all the pain was just from the inordinate amount of time I spent on the ladder working on the shed.

Finally, reason #76 my parents thought I was gay: