TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics
*Written By: Emmitt Owens*
*As narrated by: Waylon*

   Waylon: “Well now, settle in folks, ’cause I got me a story that’ll curl your toes and make you question everything you know about fixin’ automobiles. This here tale’s about four of the most peculiar mechanics you ever did see, workin’ out of a garage that looked like a tornado hit a junkyard.”
  
The sun was beatin’ down harder than a hammer on a bent nail when Chester rolled out from underneath that busted-up Chevy pickup, his coveralls soaked in more fluids than a hurricane victim’s basement. His wild eyes darted around the cluttered garage like a Rat-coon smellin’ garbage, grease-stained fingers clutching a wrench that’d seen more action than a honky-tonk on Saturday night.
   From the old early 80’s model clock radio perched on a stack of tire rims, Hank Williams Jr.’s gravelly voice crooned out “A Country Boy Can Survive,” the static-filled melody mixin’ with the sounds of wrenches clinkin’ and engines puttin’ like it was the soundtrack to their lives.
       “Well, I’ll be hog-swaddled,” Chester muttered, spittin’ a stream of tobacco juice that landed with a satisfying *ping* in an old coffee can. “This here alternator’s deader than roadkill on Highway 13.”
   From the other side of the garage came the sound of something heavy crashin’ to the ground, followed by a string of cussin’ that would make a sailor blush redder than a tomato patch. Gary emerged from behind a mountain of rusted car parts, his whole body covered in what looked like swamp water mixed with motor oil. Green slime dripped from his hair as he held up a corroded CO2 sensor like it was a prize catfish.
       “Chester, you mangy varmint!” Gary hollered, his voice echoing off the tin roof. “This dad-gum sensor’s so fouled up, it couldn’t detect carbon dioxide if it was stuck in a cow’s ass!”
   The two men had been runnin’ Mad Mechanics Auto Repair for nigh on fifteen years, ever since they got kicked out of every respectable garage in Colbert County for their, shall we say, unconventional moonshining methods. Their shop sat on the outskirts of Buzzard Roost Alabama, like a monument to mechanical mayhem, surrounded by more broken-down vehicles than a demolition derby graveyard.
   Just then, the rusty screen door creaked open and in walked Reedus and Gutglor, the dynamic duo of destruction who made Chester and Gary look like refined gentlemen. Reedus, a scrawny fella with hair that looked like he’d been struck by lightning twice, was grinnin’ wider than a barn door, while Gutglor, a bear of a man with arms like tree trunks, carried a chainsaw that was still smokin’.
       “Boys, boys, boys!” Reedus cackled, his voice higher than a cat with its tail caught in a screen door. “Y’all ain’t gonna believe what we just done to Widow Henderson’s radiator!”
   Gutglor just grunted and took a swig from a bottle labeled “Rat Red Ribbon,” which everyone knew was his special blend of muscadine juice and moonshine. It was a miracle the man was still breathin’, let alone walkin’ upright.
       “Don’t tell me y’all used that chainsaw for actual repair work,” Chester said, eyein’ the smokin’ saw with suspicion.
     “Well,” Reedus drawled, scratchin’ his head, “she said her radiator was clogged up tighter than a tick on a hound dog, so we figured we’d just cut out the bad parts and weld in some new ones.”
   Gary’s jaw dropped so far it nearly hit the concrete floor. “You mean to tell me you chainsawed a radiator?”
      “Shore did!” Gutglor finally spoke, his deep voice rumblin’ like distant thunder. “Cut clean through them old rusty fins, we did. Then we welded in some beer cans and chicken wire. Works like a charm, cools better than a mountain stream!”
  Chester and Gary exchanged looks that could’ve communicated entire novels about the insanity they dealt with daily. But before they could respond, the phone started ringin’ louder than a dinner bell at suppertime.
      “Mad Mechanics, Chester speakin’, we fix what others can’t and break what others won’t,” Chester answered in his practiced greeting.
   The voice on the other end was Mrs. Patterson, the local school teacher, and she was madder than a wet hen. Her Ford Explorer had been actin’ up somethin’ fierce, stallin’ out every time she tried to accelerate, and the check engine light was blinkin’ like a Christmas tree.
       “We’ll be right over, ma’am,” Chester said, hangin’ up the phone. “Gary, grab your tools. Sounds like we got ourselves a busted alter-nayter situation. And swing by the Chill n’ Fill on the way – we’re gonna need us some more penetratin’ oil and maybe a cold RC Cola.”
     “How you know it’s the alternator?” Gary asked, wipin’ his hands on a rag that looked like it hadn’t been washed since they stopped new programmin’ of Hee-Haw.
       “Simple,” Chester replied, tappin’ his temple. “When the alternator starts goin’ bad, it can’t keep the battery charged proper-like. The voltage drops, and the engine computer starts actin’ all wonky. Plus, that blinkin’ check engine light is yellin’ at us louder than my ex-wife on alimony day.”
   They loaded up their beat-up service truck, which looked like it had been assembled from parts of three different vehicles and held together with duct tape and prayer. Chester cranked up the radio as George Jones’s voice drifted through the speakers singin’ “White Lightning,” which seemed mighty appropriate considerin’ their destination. The engine coughed and wheezed like an old bloodhound, but she started up eventually.
   When they arrived at Mrs. Patterson’s house, her Explorer was sittin’ in the driveway lookin’ about as sick as a dog that ate too much grass. Chester popped the hood and immediately spotted the problem.
       “Yep, just as I suspected,” he announced. “This alternator’s got more wear on it than a Sunday suit at a funeral parlor. See here, Gary, the brushes are worn down to nothin’, and the slip rings look like they been attacked by angry beavers.”
   Gary nodded sagely, pretendin’ he understood half of what Chester was sayin’. “So how we gonna fix this contraption?”
       “First thing, we gotta disconnect the battery – safety first, as my granddaddy used to say before he got electro-cuted fixin’ his porch light,” Chester explained. “Then we’ll remove the serpentine belt by releasin’ the tensioner. After that, we disconnect the electrical connections and unbolt this old alternator from its bracket.”
   They worked like a well-oiled machine, if that machine had been put together by someone who’d never seen an instruction manual and was operatin’ on pure instinct and stubbornness. Chester handled the technical work while Gary mostly stood around handin’ him the wrong tools and offerin’ unsolicited advice.
       “The trick to installin’ a new alternator,” Chester explained as he worked, “is makin’ sure all the connections are snug as a bug on a rug. Loose connections will cause all sorts of electrical gremlins, and nobody wants them little varmints messin’ with their vehicle.”
   Meanwhile, back at the shop, Reedus and Gutglor were celebratin’ their radiator repair success by attemptin’ to fix an old Buick’s CO2 sensor with methods that would make a NASA engineer weep openly.
       “See, the CO2 sensor measures the carbon dioxide levels in the exhaust,” Reedus explained to Gutglor, who was listenin’ with the intensity of a student crammin’ for finals. “When it gets all gunked up with carbon buildup and oil residue, it can’t do its job proper-like.”
    “So, we just clean it real good?” Gutglor asked, holdin’ up a wire brush that looked like it had been brushin’ a bears tooth.
       “Well, you *can* try cleanin’ it with some sensor-safe cleaner and a soft brush,” Reedus said, “but this one’s fouled up worse than a chicken coop in a windstorm. Sometimes you just gotta replace the whole dad-gummed thing.”
   They set about removin’ the old sensor, which involved crawlin’ under the car and dealin’ with rusted bolts that hadn’t been turned since the day it was installed. After considerable cussin’ and creative use of penetratin’ oil, they finally got the old sensor out.
       “Now, when you install the new one,” Reedus continued his impromptu lesson, “you gotta be careful not to over-tighten it. These sensors are more delicate than a butterfly’s wing, and if you crank down too hard, you’ll crack the ceramic element faster than you can say hawg shit.”
   By the time Chester and Gary returned from their alternator adventure, the sun was settin’ like a red-hot coal behind the pine trees. The radio had switched to Waylon Jennings crooning “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way,” which had Gary tappin’ his boot against the truck’s floorboard in time with the beat. Mrs. Patterson’s Explorer was purrin’ like a contented cat, and she’d paid them with a sweet tea so good it could’ve been bottled and sold as medicine.
       “Boys,” Chester announced as they pulled into the shop, “I do believe we might actually be gettin’ the hang of this automotive repair business.”
   Gary just laughed and shook his head. “Chester, we been sayin’ that for fifteen years, and we still ain’t figured out why Gutglor’s moonshine makes such good radiator coolant.”
   From somewhere in the darkness of the shop came Gutglor’s voice: “Secret’s in the corn mash, boys. Secrets in the corn mash.”
   And with that bit of wisdom hangin’ in the humid evening air, another day at Mad Mechanics came to a close, leavin’ behind nothing but satisfied customers, questionable repair methods, and the lingering smell of duct tape and determination. The old radio crackled one last time as Conway Twitty’s voice drifted through the shop singing “Hello Darlin’,” a perfect end to another day of mechanical mayhem in Buzzard Roost.
  
   Waylon: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a true story of Southern ingenuity and pure, unadulterated madness. And if you don’t believe old Waylon here, well, just drive on in to Buzzard Roost and see for yourself. But I’d recommend keepin’ your own mechanic on speed dial, just in case.”