If car mechanics were like Elite engineers
03 Sep 2021Marchogion
I pull up to the workshop at the head of my small convoy and hop out of my car. Inside the junk-filled space ahead of me two men, one young and disturbingly skeletal, the other middle-aged with the kind of oaken solidity that working men acquire as they age, are regarding me with barely concealed contempt.“What you want here?” the younger one asks with an aggressive tone. His sparse flesh is stretched over angular bones, his complexion worryingly pale. “We don’t work for just anyone.”
“Bob Jones sent me,” I say. “He installed my alloy wheels. Said you’d help me.”
The older man sniffs and puts down the cartoonishly large spanner he’s holding. “Bob Jones, you say,” he murmurs. He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair and fixes me with a hard glare. “So he’ll have told you what I want, then?”
I nod and point to the two articulated lorries that followed me into the yard.
“Twenty five tons of robot dog toys. Fresh off the container ship from Taiwan this morning.”
He nods approvingly and waves a hand at the younger man, sending him scurrying off to check the cargo. “Good, good,” he says. “But that’s not all, is it?”
“Here,” I say, pulling a sheaf of paper from my pocket and handing it over. “Logbooks showing I’ve owned this car from new and have driven over five thousand miles in it.”
He grunts as he takes the documents and flips through the pages.
“I guess that’ll do,” he says, nodding. He hands the papers back. “What can I do for you, then?”
“I’d like to get a turbocharger fitted,” I say.
“Turbocharger, you say?” He sucks his gums and shakes his head. “No simple matter, that.”
“I thought...I thought you’d just buy one and fit it?”
He guffaws wheezily, bending over and actually slapping one hand to his thigh.
“Just buy one,” he gasps. “Oh, lad, I needed that laugh today.” He shakes his head and repeats, “Just buy one,” like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in a long time.
“Isn’t…” I begin but he cuts me off.
“Let me tell you how it works, son. Turbochargers, well, that’s no ordinary technology right there. That’s engineering. You can’t just go buy a turbocharger. They’re made from exotic materials like iron and aluminium.”
Perhaps my puzzlement shows on my face since he composes himself as if expecting familiar questions.
“Aren’t they common materials?” I ask and he nods as if I just confirmed every contemptuous thought he was thinking about me.
I pull out my phone and flick my fingers over it. “Look!” I say, holding it out to him to show its screen. “I can just buy lumps of iron and aluminium on the internet.”
The engineer just shakes his head in resignation.
“I need proper aluminium and iron to build you a turbocharger, the kind you can only get from shooting a rock with a rifle until metal falls out. Also, twelve wheel-nuts from a 1977 Toyota Corolla, the front seats from a 2009 Ford Focus, and the ashtray from a mark one Land Rover.”
I stare at him as if he’s gone mad.
“Then,” he says, “I’ll need the version 1.8 firmware update from a Tesla Model S and the MOT exhaust emissions profile from three or four motorbikes.”
I scratch my head. “Well...I guess I could download the firmware from somewhere on the internet,” I say and then shy back as he bursts into another bout of strangled laughter.
“Hear what he says,” he calls to his assistant who just came back in. “Download it, he says!”
The younger man breaks out into a harsh, braying laugh, his deep-sunken eyes glaring at me.
“No, no, son,” the engineer says, laying a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “What you need to do is drive around until you find a wrecked or burned-out Tesla on the side of the road then get in there, rip the computer out and scavenge the software from it. Maybe check abandoned dealerships as well - who knows what they’ve left lying around?”
We lock eyes for a moment and I see that he’s entirely serious.
“And all that will get me a turbocharger?”
“Well,” the engineer says thoughtfully. “That’ll be enough for me to have a first go at it. To be honest, son, I hardly know you so I’m just not going to try all that hard. Maybe get two or three more turbochargers fitted, let us develop some rapport, start courting my daughter, and I’ll put a bit more effort into it.”
I nod in resignation. If this is what it takes then I am up to the task.
“One last thing,” I say. “Just what do you do with all of those robot dogs?”
His amused expression crumples into a frown and he steps aggressively into my personal space. I stumble away until my back is against the stained wall of the workshop.
“That,” he growls, his face so close to mine that our noses almost touch, “is strictly between me and my wife!”