Christmas Present
veed...@postoffice.pacbell.net
He came down the back drive just before midnight
on Christmas Eve. I was out in the shop, about to
call it a night when I heard the unmistakable
sound of a Volkswagen running on three cylinders.
Bad valve.
It was an early model high-roof delivery van.
Bright red with white trim. He pulled up behind
the shop. As he shut down the engine it made that
unmistakable tinny rattle of a dropped valve seat.
Good thing he shut it off when he did.
There was a barber pole logo painted on the door:
"NicEx" A young old-guy jumped out, came toward me
offering his hand. He was wearing a snowmobile
suit, red & white like the van. I could smell the
engine. It was running 'way too hot.
"Fred Dremmer," he said. We shook. He was about my
age, mebbe a little more, but young, if you know
what I mean – alive. Phony beard though. It was
his own but too shiny and perfectly white to be
natural. I eyed the get-up he was wearing, took
another gander at the door. "Nice ex?"
"NICK ex," he corrected me. "I've got the
franchise for this area." He looked around, noted
the tumbledown appearance of the shop, victim of
an earthquake that never happened, thanks to
politics. "Are you still building engines?" he
asked.
"Not so's you'd notice." It was pushing on toward
midnight and colder than a well- diggers knee. His
shoulders slumped down.
"But you used to build engines," he said
hopefully. I didn't deny it. "They said you
offered a lifetime warranty." Actually, I didn't
offer ANY warranty. Most of the engines I built
were high- output big- bore strokers. A
firecracker doesn't carry any warranty either. And
for the same reason. But if I built it, I promised
to fix it if they could get it back to the shop.
And if the problem was my fault, there was never
any charge. So I told him, "Something like that."
"My van has one of your engines," he said. "In
fact, I think all the franchisees use them."
"This I gotta see," I laughed. He ran around to
get the church-key but I'd popped the engine hatch
with my pocketknife by the time he got back. I
twisted on my mini-maglite and sure enough, there
was 'HVX' stamped right where I'd stamped it. It
was one of the lower numbers, a bone stock 1600
I'd built back in the seventies. Big sigh.
"Can't you fix it?" I gave him a look and he shut
up. It had just gone midnight, clear and cold and
silent. The on-shore flow had increased, bringing
with it the charred smell of disaster. About a
mile to the west of me a family's house had caught
fire and burned to the ground only hours before.
Merry Christmas indeed. I straightened up, knees
creaking, and went to fetch the floor jack. As I
moved away from the vehicle the guy got all
excited, plucked at my arm. "Really, it's very
important… " I snarled something appropriate and
he let me go, stood like a dejected lump in his
idiotic outfit. He brightened up when I came back
towing the floor jack, a pair of jackstands in my
other hand.
"You're going to fix it?" If he was a puppy he
would have been licking my face.
"Nope. You got a bad valve." I got the jack under
the tranny support and started pumping. "Which
ain't my fault, by the way. I built this engine
nearly thirty years ago. You've gotten your
money's worth and then some." I got the jackstands
under the torsion bar housing, went around and
chocked the front wheels.
"I wasn't complaining… " he began.
"Well I was," I shut him off. Veedub valves don't
last thirty years, especially when they're pushing
a van around.
"It always ran perfectly." His tone was placating.
And it was Christmas Eve. Or rather, 0015
Christmas Day. "And it never gets driven very
much, or so I was told." I gave a snort of
disgust. Thirty years is thirty years and every
salesman always sez the thing was only used to
take the family to church on Sundays. I got a tarp
and my small tool bag, rolled the tarp out under
the back of the high-roof, dug out my head lamp,
checked the batteries. Dead, of course. Began
taking the battery case apart.
"Need some batteries?" He was right there,
offering me a 4-pak of new Ray-O- Vac's. Right
size, too. I put the thing back together, tested
it. "What are you doing, exactly."
"Swapping engines," I grunted. I handed him a
ratchet with a 13mm socket and pointed at the rear
apron bolts. "Whip'em outta there. And don't lose
the washers."
I skivvied under and got the surprise of my life.
The thing was CLEAN. As in showroom new. No road
rash. No oily residue. Original factory axle boots
so clean and new they gave a tiny squeak when I
touched them. But no heater ducts. In fact, no
heat exchangers, which explained why the guy was
wearing a snowsuit.
"Does this mean I can finish my route?" He was
bent over, peering at me upside down.
"Not unless you get those damn bolts out, it
don't." I was running my hand over the paintwork.
It had been treated with some sort of surfactant.
It felt oily smooth but left no residue on my
fingers and didn't seem to attract dirt. There
were steel rails re-enforcing the frame on each
side. They ran as far aft as the bumper mount. I
couldn't tell how far forward they went. "You do
all this?" I shouted as I crimped-off the fuel
line. The breast tin had one of my early bulkhead
fittings, the ones I made out of brass before
discovering lamp parts worked just as well. I
popped off the hose. No dribble but I plugged it
anyway.
"I don't maintain the vehicle," the fellow shouted
back. "They do all that at headquarters. What
should I do with the bolts?"
"Put them in your pocket." I skivvied back out,
popped loose the battery ground strap, removed the
rear apron, disconnected the electrics and removed
the barrel nut holding the accelerator wire. I
gave it to him. "Keep this with them." I put the
little plywood pallet on the floor jack, got it
positioned under the engine, jacked it up and
pulled that puppy outta there.
Fred Dremmer was impressed. He even told me so.
"I'm impressed," he said. Then he said "Happy
Christmas." It was 0030 and I was tired. "Balance
that," I told him, tapping the top of the blower
housing. I grabbed the handle of the jack and used
it as a trolley to pull the engine into the shop.
He stood looking around while I dug the spare
engine out from under the bench. It was already on
a scooter. "What happened?" he asked softly.
"Look down," I snarled. "You'll figure it out."
He looked down, toed the gaping crack that ran
across the floor like a lightning bolt, saw the
way the shop was sloping. "Earthquake?"
"Northridge. Popped the foundation like a pane of
glass." I pulled the engine out into the open,
keeping it on the level part of the floor.
"Don't they offer special loans… "
"Only if you're in the 'official' earthquake
zone," I laughed. He started making apologetic
sounds. "Balance that," I told him. We scootered
the spare engine out of the shop.
I had to swap mufflers. His came away okay, thanks
to the lavish amounts of anti-seize someone had
swabbed on the fittings. It was one of those
lifetime stainless steel bus mufflers from Germany
or England or some damn place. Cost the earth. He
looked around, sat down on the workbench when I
nodded toward it. We were out back of the shop,
under the shed roof. Plenty of light.
"So what are you getting for Christmas," he asked,
smiling. I just looked at him, shook my head. I
work best without an audience. "You want some
coffee or something? This is going to take me a
few minutes."
He said No; he had a thermos of tea in the van.
"Seriously, what do you want for Christmas?" he
smiled.
"Not being pestered in the middle of the night
would be nice," I muttered.
He just laughed, as if I was joking. "Seriously,"
he said again.
"You want 'seriously'? Howabout a new house for
those folks down the hill?"
He gave me a blank look and I realized he didn't
know about the fire. So I told him. He ended up
looking as sad as I felt. "What do you think
they'd like for Christmas?" I goaded him. I shook
my head, "It's mostly bullshit anyway. A birthday
party that's gotten outta hand." And the best
evidence of that was right there in front of me,
some yuppie asshole Yuletide delivery service
running around on Christmas Eve in an antique bus.
He stood gazing off toward where the fire was. It
had been a huge blaze, you could see it good from
the house. Hopes and dreams and Christmas trees
are all highly combustible.
I finished transferring the J-tubes and muffler to
the spare engine and he helped me shift it on to
the jack. We pulled it out to his bus and I
started putting it in.
"It's unusual to find someone who doesn't want
anything for Christmas," he said. I'd given him a
pair of vise grips to hold. I didn't need them but
I figured it would make him feel useful, mebbe
shut him up. Wrong.
"I've got everything I want." I'd checked the
splines. Things were lining up good. His seals
looked new. I gave them a spray of glycerin so
they wouldn't grab the engine.
"That's even more unusual," he said. He was
smiling, acting a little antsy but working hard to
keep me happy so he could get the hell out of
there. About the worst thing that could happen to
him would be for me to slow down. So I did.
"People spend too much time wishing for things
they don't need." I patted the red high- roof.
"I'll bet this thing is chock full of yuppie junk,
eh?" He looked uncomfortable, passed the pair of
vise grips from hand to hand. "And what about you?
I'll bet you're some sort of retired executive,
working a little Christmas-time tax dodge to
supplement your retirement, eh? Bleached beard
with a platinum rinse, funny suit and this
oh-so-cute Santa's Helper delivery van, popping up
in the middle of the night to trade on an implied
warranty almost thirty years old?"
"What are you saying?" He looked kinda angry. The
sight was as silly as his costume.
"You wouldn't understand," I sighed. I fished the
throttle wire thru the blower housing, plugged the
engine back in, started the upper nuts and
shanghaied him into holding the wrench while I
skivvied back under. Did the nuts, torqued to
spec, did the fuel line, checked things over,
skivvied back out. With everything installed
underneath, I began putting the engine compartment
to rights.
"You mean the religious aspect," he said.
"You heard about that, eh?" I kept working.
"Are you a religious man?" he asked softly. I was
connecting the generator leads. I wanted to ignore
him but couldn't. I stopped, rocked back so I
could see his face. "Yeah," I told him. "I'm
religious as hell. And so are you. But the
difference is you worship money and I don't."
"And you can tell all that just by working on my
van?" He was smiling. He was no longer angry but
really cheerful.
"Yeah, I can. You've had some sort of anti-stick
powder-coating process applied to the whole
undercarriage. That must of set you back some
major bucks. But it's not a car- show kinda van
otherwise it would be all original underneath.
That tells me you did it so you could impress your
customers with your shiny, never dirty ride and
THAT tells me you probably charge some big bucks
for your Christmas Eve delivery service gig."
That wiped the grin off his face. "Very astute,"
he muttered. Then frowned. "But if you knew it was
all just another Christmas-biz scheme, why are we
standing out here in the middle of the night while
you repair the engine?"
I laughed at him. "See? I said you wouldn't
understand."
I finished the hook-ups, connected the battery,
replaced the rear apron, connected the throttle
wire, wiped everything down. "Go run the starter
for a minute. We gotta prime the carb." He clumped
around to the front and got in. I hadn't noticed
the boots until then. Or the buckles. Ridiculous.
I held the throttle open while he ran the starter.
He held it down for about thirty seconds then came
clumping back. "Won't it start?"
"It'll start."
"Shall I do it some more?"
"Not right now." I sat there, loaded a pipe, got
it going. He turned out to be a pipe man too. Some
foreign smelling crap. I've got Prince Albert in
the can. I mentioned that fact but he didn't get
the joke. Or mebbe he did. It was about a quarter
after one.
"What are we waiting for?"
"For the starter to cool. It'll start now." And it
did. Nice steady idle.
I took his credit card and driver's license, did
the paper work. He balanced the clipboard on the
steering wheel, signed both slips without
question. "This is just a deposit," I explained.
"Bring back my engine, you can tear it up." But
right then I had a premonition I wouldn't see him
or my engine again.
"What was it I didn't understand?" he asked
softly. It sounded like he really wanted to know.
"Christmas presents?" I motioned toward the back
of the van. There was a partition behind the
driver's seat that blocked my view. He nodded.
"That's what you don't understand." He looked
blank. "I get mine all year 'round," I laughed.
"Like what?"
"Like my family." He gave me that frown again and
I laughed. "See? You haven't got a clue. A smile
from my wife is a better thing to have than any of
the crap you've got back there."
The dawn of understanding began to break across
his brows. "That's… that's pretty old fashioned."
"Old as the hills," I agreed. "Older than
Christmas, too."
Now he got it. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I
assumed you were a Christian… "
"I am," I laughed. "Of a sort. And a Muslim, if it
comes right down to it. And a Buddhist and a Jew
and Inuit too." And maybe a touch of White
Buffalo.
Now he was laughing and nodding. "Okay, I get it.
I think." But I didn't think he did. He cocked his
head, gave me a thoughtful look. "Yours must be an
interesting wish-list."
I smiled back at him. Maybe he really did get it.
"Sunsets are nice. A good sunset is a thing to be
thankful for."
"Good health…" he offered. I nodded. He was
clearly getting it. "Good friends…"
"That's the idea. All that…" I gestured toward the
back of the van, "…is just… stuff."
"It's the thought that counts…"
"Yeah, but only if the thought is there all year
'round. Christmas dinner for the homeless followed
by 364 hungry days? Gimme a break."
He nodded again, slower this time. "What about the
engine?"
"Because I said I would."
That one took him a minute. Then he got it.
"Trust…"
"And honor… yeah, stuff like that. Telling someone
you'll do something then actually doing it… That's
a present of sorts in today's world."
"But… thirty years later…"
"Doesn't matter. What got me pissed was you
showing up in the middle of the night. And that
silly suit! Do you know you look like Santa
Claus?" This time we both laughed.
"But haven't you ever wished for something at
Christmas?" he asked softly.
"You mean, like world peace or wishing no one's
house would ever burn down on Christmas Eve…"
He interrupted me with a gesture. "No, I meant
something personal. A tool, perhaps?"
"I've got all the tools I need."
He kept looking at me. "Never wished for anything?
Not even once?"
"Sure," I laughed. "When I was a kid."
"What was it?"
Time sucked me back more than half a century. "A
wagon," I admitted. "A 'Radio Flyer' wagon. It was
about the same color as your van. Roller bearing
wheels. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever
seen."
I was five years old. I can still smell the oiled
wooden floor of the Montgomery Ward store in the
little California town as I knelt to worship the
marvelous machine. They had it propped up so you
could spin the wheels, listen to the oily purr of
the roller bearings. I was sure it could go at
least a hundred miles an hour and carry me any
place I wanted to go, a magic carpet disguised in
steel.
"Did you get it?" The soft question drew me back.
Overhead the stars snapped back into focus on the
velvet cape of night.
"Take care of my engine," I ordered as I shut his
door, stepped away from the vehicle.
He slid back the glass. "Did you?"
"You're going to be late. Wouldn't want to upset
all those yuppies." He considered that, conceded
the point with a nod. He fired it up and backed
cautiously up the drive then went rolling down the
hill toward the road.
I slept late. When I stepped out of the shower
there was a steaming cup of coffee in my favorite
mug. Someone had laid out my shaving tackle. The
kitchen was full of smiles and good smells of
things to eat as the women prepared our Christmas
dinner. My wife gave me a big kiss and a bigger
smile. "I almost tripped over it when the kids
arrived," she laughed. I had no idea what she
meant, gave her a blank stare. She gave me a
playful punch. "Fool. It's perfect. I can use it
for moving flower pots and carrying potting
mix…" Something exploded in the microwave and
she joined the fire brigade. I took my coffee out
to the patio.
It was parked on the walk under the hibiscus, just
inside the redwood gate. A coaster wagon agleam in
red. It looked brand new. It even smelled new.
'Radio Flyer' in white script along the side of
the bed. The handle was black. The wheels white
with thick black rubber tires.
My wife came out, slipped her arm around my waist,
leaned her head on my shoulder. "It's beautiful.
Where did you ever find it?"
In the kitchen, my daughter overhead her. "He
probably MADE it!" Everyone laughed. Even me.
"Is this what you've been working on? You came to
bed awfully late."
I shook my head, sipped my coffee. My
great-grandmother was Kiowa. Coffee was
'burnt-bean-soup'. And still is, to me. "No. I
think it's a gift."
My wife gave me an odd look. "Who would give us
something like that?"
"I don't know. Maybe a white buffalo."
She laughed, hugged me a little harder. "You're
crazy."
"Yep," I agreed.
-Bob Hoover
-Christmas, 1998
Chris
it brought a little cheer to an old grinch.
Chris
60 ragtop
<veed...@postoffice.pacbell.net> wrote in message
news:3A46CF23...@postoffice.pacbell.net...
> Midnight Repairs
>
>
> He came down the back drive just before midnight
> on Christmas Eve. I was out in the shop, about to
> call it a night when I heard the unmistakable
> sound of a Volkswagen running on three cylinders.
> Bad valve.
>
> It was an early model high-roof delivery van.
> Bright red with white trim. He pulled up behind
> the shop. As he shut down the engine it made that
> unmistakable tinny rattle of a dropped valve seat.
> Good thing he shut it off when he did.
>
> There was a barber pole logo painted on the door:
> "NicEx" A young old-guy jumped out, came toward me
> offering his hand. He was wearing a snowmobile
> suit, red & white like the van. I could smell the
> engine. It was running 'way too hot.
>
> "Fred Dremmer," he said. We shook. He was about my
> age, mebbe a little more, but young, if you know
> he let me go, stood like a dejected lump in his
> idiotic outfit. He brightened up when I came back
> towing the floor jack, a pair of jackstands in my
> other hand.
>
> "You're going to fix it?" If he was a puppy he
> would have been licking my face.
>
> "Nope. You got a bad valve." I got the jack under
> the tranny support and started pumping. "Which
> ain't my fault, by the way. I built this engine
> nearly thirty years ago. You've gotten your
> money's worth and then some." I got the jackstands
> under the torsion bar housing, went around and
> chocked the front wheels.
>
>
> "Old as the hills," I agreed. "Older than
> Christmas, too."
>
> Now he got it. "I'm sorry," he stammered. "I
>
> "I am," I laughed. "Of a sort. And a Muslim, if it
> comes right down to it. And a Buddhist and a Jew
> and Inuit too." And maybe a touch of White
> Buffalo.
>
> Now he was laughing and nodding. "Okay, I get it.
> I think." But I didn't think he did. He cocked his
> head, gave me a thoughtful look. "Yours must be an
> interesting wish-list."
>
> I smiled back at him. Maybe he really did get it.
> "Sunsets are nice. A good sunset is a thing to be
> thankful for."
>
> clearly getting it. "Good friends."
>
> "That's the idea. All that." I gestured toward the
> back of the van, ".is just. stuff."
>
> "It's the thought that counts."
>
> "Yeah, but only if the thought is there all year
> 'round. Christmas dinner for the homeless followed
> by 364 hungry days? Gimme a break."
>
> He nodded again, slower this time. "What about the
> engine?"
>
> "Because I said I would."
>
> That one took him a minute. Then he got it.
>
> "And honor. yeah, stuff like that. Telling someone
> you'll do something then actually doing it. That's
> a present of sorts in today's world."
>
>
> "Doesn't matter. What got me pissed was you
> showing up in the middle of the night. And that
> silly suit! Do you know you look like Santa
> Claus?" This time we both laughed.
>
> "But haven't you ever wished for something at
> Christmas?" he asked softly.
>
> "You mean, like world peace or wishing no one's
Daniel G. Miller
RAMVA was tonight and came across your post. I usually read them as your
advice always seems right on to me. Anyway, That's quite a story. Merry
Christmas to you!
Dan Miller
Seattle WA
1959 bug
Tammy
> -Bob Hoover
> -Christmas, 1998
I was going to give the list a miss today. It being Christmas and all
that...I'm so glad I didn't. I loved the story - it would have been a
shame to have missed it. Thanks!
Tammy
>
skel...@my-deja.com
right, you can write as well. Bravo!
Sent via Deja.com
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In article <927vej$s53$1...@nnrp1.deja.com>,
Michelle
--
Michelle
'62 Beetle Vert
'76 Beetle Sedan
'00 1.8T Reflex Yellow New Beetle
www.n2video.com/home.html
Stephen
It's always a pleasure to hear from you.
Merry Christmas,
Stephen