No, said the maniac mechanic. That won’t do.
Because it’s a piece of shite, he said, looking at the second-hand turbocharger like Robert Ford might stare at a recently-murdered Jesse James.
It’s fine, I said.
It’s not, he insisted. Look at the free play on that shaft. It’ll explode like the old one.
Fuck, I muttered.
Indeed, he nodded.
And that was how I found myself sharing my misery with Parkenstein.
Not to worry. You have the Nut’s BMW.
No. I haven’t.
No. The fuckin alternator gave up on the BMW. And the power steering. We think it’s probably the belt tensioner.
Look, Parkenstein said. I have an idea.
Why don’t we go for a pint?
Now he was talking my language. To the little-frequented semi-rural pub where everybody turns around to look at you when you walk in and if you’re a stranger you feel completely naked?
Excellent, I assented. Let’s go. Now!!
It isn’t a long walk to the little-frequented semi-rural pub where everybody turns around to look at you when you walk in and if you’re a stranger you feel completely naked, so we set off with a light heart as one does when meandering out for a pint on a fine spring evening.
Look here, old man, said Parkenstein. If you’re stuck for transport, you can always have the ridiculous little Japanese import fake sports-car with the glass roof that I bought years ago and left lying around outside my house to upset the residents’ association.
The one that stinks of mould and lets in water when it rains?
And that’s why I’m now travelling around in a little thing with a glass roof and gull-wing doors that feels like you’re driving a fucking Go-Kart.
Jesus, I want my truck back.