By the fifth day of repair, they had collectively figured the only thing left was the distributor. For half a day, they moaned and groaned and put their hands and arms into places that hands and arms usually don't go. Then, they got smart, found a 9/16-inch wrench with a 90-degree bent, and lifted the distributor out. No question about it. A new distributor cap and coil, rotor, and something I thought they said was an electrical pick up would do it.
"What do you mean you don't know how to put it back together again," I asked Collins incredulously. "You work on high-voltage telephone transform -ers."
"I only tear them down," he said. Nevertheless, with schematics and "how-to" books, they had managed to put most of the distributor back together, and proclaimed the job done. Whirrrr, grind proclaimed the car.
On the sixth day, they retraced their steps, took everything out that could come out, looked everything over, and put it all back in.
On the seventh day, it rained and thundered; sheet lightning filled the skies. I interpreted it to be a sign that the Auto God was angry.
The next day, we took the car to the garage where a mechanic looked at it, proclaimed the motor dead, but said if we'd leave the car and our bank account with him, he was sure he'd be able to fix it, if given enough time.
[Dr. Brasch claims a mutation in his gene pool has prevented him from having a desire to fix cars. He is a former newspaper and magazine reporter and editor, and author of 17 books. You may contact him through www.walterbrasch.com or at firstname.lastname@example.org)
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