TumbleDweeeb

Gremlins in the ECU
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*

   Waylon: “Well now, gather ’round folks, ’cause I got another tale from the boys down at Mad Mechanics that’ll make you question everything you know about electrical repair. This particular adventure happened on one of them dog days when the humidity was thicker than Gutglor’s moonshine and twice as dangerous.”

   Chester was elbow-deep in the engine bay of a 2007 Dodge Ram that belonged to Cooter Williams, the local feed store owner. That truck had been actin’ up somethin’ fierce – startin’ sometimes, not startin’ other times, and when it did run, it bucked like a mechanical bull with a bad attitude.
        “Gary!” Chester hollered from under the hood, his voice echoin’ off the tin roof. “This dadgum truck’s got more crossed wires than Southern Bell”.
   From the old alarm clock radio cracklin’ on the tire stack, Merle Haggard was singin’ ‘Mama Tried,’ which seemed mighty appropriate since even if Mama tried, Daddy clearly didn’t give a damn. Gary shuffled over, carryin’ a multimeter that looked like it had been run over by the very truck they were fixin’.
       “What you reckon’s wrong with her, Chester?” Gary asked, peerin’ into the engine bay like he was lookin’ at a copperhead convention.
     “Well, this fuse box looks like somebody used it for target practice,” Chester explained, lightin’ up a Buzzard Dust cigarette – the local brand that was rougher than sandpaper and twice as likely to put hair on your chest. He blew a cloud of smoke that could’ve knocked a buzzard off a telephone pole. “And this ECU’s throwin’ more error codes than a typing class full of chickens.”
   Now, while Chester was dealin’ with that electrical nightmare, a commotion erupted from the back of the shop that sounded like somebody was tryin’ to start a chainsaw underwater. Reedus came runnin’ around the corner, his hair standin’ up like he’d been licked by a cow, carryin’ what appeared to be a car battery with jumper cables attached to a coat hanger.
       “Boys, boys, boys!” Reedus cackled, his voice higher than a soprano in a bee swarm. “We done figured out how to test ignition coils without one of them fancy multimeters!”
   Gutglor came lumberin’ behind him, Grinnin’ like a preacher countin’ the collection plate and carryin’ a Chevy Silverado ignition coil that was smokin’ like a barbecue pit. “Tell ’em how we done it, Reedus!”
       “Well,” Reedus drawled, scratchin’ his head and leavin’ a grease mark, “Gutglor here had the brilliant idea to use his truck battery as a tester. We just hooked up these jumper cables to the coil and—”
     “BOOM!” Gutglor interrupted, throwin’ his hands up in the air. “Coil went off like a Fourth of July firework! Scared the daylights out of Axl, he ran out th’shop howlin’, like ol’Hank Williams howlin’ at the moon”
   Chester and Gary exchanged looks that could’ve communicated entire encyclopedia sets about the lunacy they witnessed daily.
      “You mean to tell me,” Chester said slowly, “that y’all used a 12-volt car battery to test an ignition coil that’s designed to step up voltage to 30,000 volts?”
    “Shore did!” Reedus beamed proudly. “And let me tell you, when that coil was bad, nothin’ happened. But when it was good—” He made an explosion gesture with his hands. “Lit up the whole shop like Tunica!”

Waylon: “Now y’all… let me pause here to tell you that testin’ ignition coils with jumper cables and a car battery is about as safe as wrestlin’ alligators in your flip-flops. But somehow, these boys managed to discover which coils were bad without blowin’ themselves to kingdom come. Don’t try this at home, or anywhere else for that matter.”

   Meanwhile, Chester had connected his Oh-Bee-Dee scanner to Cooter’s truck and was starin’ at a screen full of error codes that looked like alphabet soup gone wrong.
       “Gary, we got P0301 through P0304 – that’s misfires on every cylinder. Plus P0606 – that means the ECU’s havin’ a complete mental breakdown,” Chester explained.
    “So what’s that mean in English?” Gary asked.
       “Means this truck’s computer is more confused than Gutglor at a spelling bee,” Chester replied.
   About that time, Reedus had moved on to his next electrical adventure. He’d discovered that the Silverado’s mass airflow sensor was dirtier than a sin on a Saturday night, and he had his own special cleaning method.
       “Gutglor, hand me that bottle of Rat Red Ribbon,” Reedus instructed. “This sensor’s so gunked up, regular cleaner ain’t gonna touch it.”
    “You sure that’s gonna work?” Gutglor asked, unscrewing the cap on his moonshine bottle.
       “Trust me,” Reedus grinned. “This here ‘shine can clean engine parts, remove rust, and if you drink enough of it, it’ll make you forget you ever had car troubles in the first place.”
   Reedus proceeded to douse the mass airflow sensor in moonshine, scrubbin’ it with an old toothbrush he’d found behind the shop. The sensor started smokin’ like it was on fire, but when the smoke cleared, it was cleaner than a whistle.
       “Well, I’ll be a buzzard’s breakfast,” Gary muttered. “That actually worked.”
    “Course it worked,” Reedus replied, then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Speaking of smokin’, I’m plumb out of cigarettes. Gutglor, hold down the fort – I’m gonna run across the street to the Chill n’ Fill and grab me a pack of them non-filters.”
   Reedus took off runnin’ across the street like his coveralls were on fire, dodgin’ traffic and wavin’ at Old Pete who was sittin’ on the bench watchin’ a woman pump gas. He came back five minutes later with a fresh pack of smokes and a grin wider than the Tennessee River.
       “Got the last pack,” he announced proudly. “Karlee, said they’re so strong, they use ’em to smoke out hornets’ nests.”
   Chester, meanwhile, had discovered that Cooter’s truck had a wiring harness that looked like it had been attacked by angry possums. Half the wires were chewed through, and the other half were held together with what appeared to be duct tape and twine.
       “Gary, look at this electrical nightmare,” Chester said, holdin’ up a bundle of wires that resembled a plate of multicolored spaghetti. “How in the name of a cross-eyed mule are we gonna fix this mess?”
   That’s when Reedus appeared at Chester’s elbow, grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ dog treats. “Chester, my friend, you’re lookin’ at this all wrong. What you need is the Reedus Special Wiring Repair System.”
       “I’m afraid to ask,” Chester replied.
   Reedus disappeared into the shop and returned with a roll of duct tape, a spool of Christmas lights, and a ball of aluminum foil. “See, the way I figure it, electricity is electricity. Don’t matter if it’s goin’ through fancy copper wire or through Christmas light wire. And if we wrap it all in aluminum foil, it’ll conduct even better!”
       “Reedus,” Chester said carefully, “that’s about the dumbest idea I ever heard in my entire life.”
     “Hold on now,” Gutglor chimed in, takin’ a swig from his bottle. “Remember when we fixed Widow Whites radio with coat hangers and tinfoil? That thing still picks up stations from West Mississippi.”

Waylon: “Now folks, I gotta interrupt here to tell you that what these boys were considerin’ would likely result in either electrocution, a fire, or both. But in the world of Mad Mechanics, somehow the most ridiculous ideas sometimes work out better than they have any right to.”

   While Reedus was explainin’ his Christmas light wiring theory, Gutglor had wandered over to examine the truck’s ECU. This little black box was supposed to be the brain of the vehicle, but it looked like it had suffered a stroke.
       “Reedus,” Gutglor called out, “what you reckon’s inside this here computer box?”
   Reedus ambled over and stared at the ECU like he was contemplatin’ the mysteries of the universe. “Well, I figure it’s probably just a bunch of little switches and maybe some of them tiny light bulbs. Can’t be too complicated.”
   Before Chester could stop him, Gutglor had grabbed a screwdriver and started pryin’ open the ECU case. “Let’s just take a look-see at what we’re dealin’ with.”
       “Gutglor, NO!” Chester yelled, but it was too late.
   The ECU case popped open like a can of biscuits, revealin’ a circuit board covered in more tiny components than a Swiss watch factory. Gutglor peered at it with the intensity of a scholar studyin’ ancient hieroglyphics.
       “Well, would you look at that,” Gutglor mused. “Looks like somebody built a tiny city in here with all these little buildings and roads.”
     “Them ain’t buildings,” Reedus corrected, lookin’ over Gutglor’s shoulder. “Them’s resistors and capacitors and such. I seen these before when I took apart that old CB radio.”
       “You think we could fix it with some of them spare parts from the radio?” Gutglor asked hopefully.
   Chester felt his eye startin’ to twitch. “Boys, that’s a $800 computer module you’re lookin’ at. You can’t fix it with CB radio parts.”
       “Hold on now,” Reedus said, holdin’ up a finger. “Don’t be so hasty. Remember when we fixed Mrs. Patterson’s washing machine timer with parts from an old alarm clock? Worked like a charm.”
   Gutglor was already diggin’ around in a box of electronic junk, pullin’ out components that had no business being anywhere near a modern automobile. “Look here, I got some vacuum tubes from an old radio. These oughta work better than them tiny little things.”
       “Vacuum tubes?” Chester’s voice went up about three octaves. “Gutglor, them vacuum tubes are bigger than the whole dadgum ECU!”
     “So we’ll make a bigger box,” Reedus suggested helpfully. “I got some plywood out back, and Gutglor’s got plenty of his Rat Red moonshine to use as insulation.”
   Gary had been watchin’ this whole exchange like a spectator at a tennis game, his head goin’ back and forth between Chester’s horror and Reedus and Gutglor’s enthusiasm.
       “Maybe,” Gary suggested carefully, “we could try fixin’ the wiring first and see if that solves the problem before we start rebuildin’ the computer with Philco radio parts from 1939.”
   Chester grabbed onto Gary’s suggestion like a drowning man grabbin’ a life preserver. “Gary’s right. Let’s start with the basics.”
   But Reedus was already halfway through his wiring repair project, and it was a sight to behold. He’d spliced in sections of Christmas light wire, wrapped everything in aluminum foil, and secured it all with enough duct tape to fix a screen door.
       “See, the trick,” Reedus explained as he worked, “is to make sure all the connections are tight. That’s why I’m usin’ these little wire nuts I borrowed from my cousin’s house wiring project.”
     “Reedus,” Chester said weakly, “them’s 110-volt wire nuts. This is a 12-volt system.”
    “Voltage is voltage,” Reedus replied confidently. “Plus, these are bigger, so they’ll make better connections.”
   About that time, Gutglor had rigged up his own testing system for the oxygen sensors. He’d taken a garden hose, attached it to the truck’s exhaust pipe, and was blowin’ air through the system while Reedus checked the sensor readings.
       “The way I figure it,” Gutglor explained, breathin’ hard from blowin’ into the hose, “if I blow air through the exhaust backwards, it’ll tell us if them sensors are workin’.”
    “That’s… actually not the worst idea you’ve had,” Chester admitted reluctantly. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s not how oxygen sensors work.”
   After about two hours of the most unconventional electrical repair methods known to mankind, Reedus and Gutglor stepped back to admire their handiwork. The truck’s engine bay looked like a Christmas tree had exploded in a foil factory, but somehow, all the electrical connections were secure.
       “Alright, Chester,” Reedus announced proudly, “fire her up and let’s see what happens.”
   Chester looked at the truck like it might explode, but he turned the key anyway. The engine turned over once, then twice, and then roared to life with the smoothest idle.
      “Well, I’ll be dipped in molasses and rolled in cornflakes,” Gary muttered, starin’ at the engine in amazement.
   Chester connected his scanner again, and the screen showed nothing but green lights. No error codes, no misfires, no gremlins. The truck was purring like a heated barn cat.
       “How in the Tyrus Raymond … Cobb did that work?” Chester asked, his voice full of wonder and disbelief.
     “Simple,” Reedus explained, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “Sometimes you gotta fight crazy with crazy. Them gremlins weren’t expectin’ Christmas lights and moonshine. Caught ’em completely off guard.”
   Gutglor took a celebratory swig from his bottle. “Plus, that aluminum foil makes everything more conductive. Learned that from watching them robot war shows.”
   When Cooter Williams pulled up to fetch his truck, that old girl was humming sweeter than a Sunday morning church choir. The engine idled smooth as glass, and all the electrical systems were workin’ perfectly.
       “Boys, I don’t know what kind of voodoo you worked on this old truck, but she’s runnin’ like a dream,” Cooter said, countin’ out bills from his wallet.
     “Weren’t no voodoo,” Reedus replied. “Just good old-fashioned ingenuity and a healthy dose of barley, oats and oak barrel moonshine.”
   As the sun started settin’ behind the pine trees, casting long shadows across the shop, the radio switched to Hank Williams Sr. singin’ “Hey Good Lookin’.” Another successful day at Mad Mechanics was comin’ to a close, marked by the sweet sound of a properly runnin’ V8 and the lingering smell of moonshine and aluminum foil.
       “You know,” Gary said, lockin’ up the shop, “I’m startin’ to think maybe there’s more than one way to fix a car.”
   Chester just shook his head and laughed. “Gary, if these boys can fix an ECU with Christmas lights and moonshine, I reckon anything’s possible.”
   And with that bit of wisdom echoin’ through the humid Alabama evening, another chapter in the Mad Mechanics saga came to an end, leavin’ behind one very satisfied customer and the kind of repair story that folks would be tellin’ for generations.

   Waylon: “Now that there, folks, is what I call true Southern engineering at its finest. Sometimes the most complicated problems require the most simple solutions – even if them solutions involve Christmas decorations and corn liquor. And if you ever find yourself with gremlins, well, maybe conventional wisdom ain’t always the answer.”