Book2

AEROBUS

CHAPTER 2 - Can I Keep It Mom?

The next element I checked in the spark circuit was the plug wires. In many places they felt like cooked spaghetti that had been allowed to dehydrate. There was little flexibility left in them. I assumed they were the old type wires with copper cores and they would still function. I did not want to spend any more money than was necessary on this car until I was relatively certain that there were no major show stoppers. I wanted to make it run before paying for it. I didn't want to buy new spark plug wires, just as I had not bought new spark plugs.

I had a more modern and reliable High Energy Ignition distributor that I would install in this car if I bought it. The HEI system would require a different type of wire. So for now I just cleaned up the points and the contacts under the distributor cap, made sure the tip of the rotor was clean, fastened the cap back down on the distributor, and left the wires alone.

With the spark circuit as intact and ready to go as I was willing to commit to at the moment I directed my attention back to the fuel system. I pulled the top off of the carburetor, looked into the fuel bowl and saw a small pile of debris resembling sand. There was no point trying to start this car without first cleaning out the carburetor and if I was going to do that I might as well spend the twenty dollars or so on a rebuild kit and do it right. So with the choke, throttle and a few vacuum lines disconnected all it took to remove the carburetor was removing the four retaining nuts.

It was unrealistic to have considered trying to start a car with a ten-year old carburetor that had been sitting dry all that time. Some of the gaskets were certain to have developed leaks and the accelerator pump, that supplies fuel when you step on the gas, would have been inoperative.

Rubber products loose their flexibility and deteriorate rather fast when left alone. With the carburetor out I noticed all the other rubber elements on the engine that would likely have to be replaced sooner than later. There were fan belts, radiator hoses, air-conditioning lines, and vacuum lines. All except the air conditioning lines could cause a failure that would prevent the vehicle from running very far and they were items that would need replacing early. More mental calculations of what I was getting into.

With the removal of the carburetor today's efforts were halted. I stood there for a long while looking over the engine, not sure what I expected to see. I had to wipe sheets of spider webs away with my screwdriver to see parts of the engine. I knocked lumps of grease from some areas and scraped a little of the rust away from the battery box. Ah, the battery. There was another fifty to one hundred dollar expense depending on what size I ended up requiring.

The longer I looked at the engine the better it looked. It was dirty and webby but I could see beyond that and appreciated that this engine reflected the reasonably low miles indicated on the odometer. I didn't notice anything that wasn't original except for an after-market option that was labeled as a Carter Emission Reduction Kit. It looked like it was rigged up by a true back yard mechanic with two sheet metal screws attaching the component box to the inner fender wall. It was connected to a flaky looking solenoid installed in one of the vacuum lines, and electrician's tape holding some of the wring to the upper radiator hose. It bugged me that someone drilled holes in what was otherwise a perfectly original inner fender.

I removed the whole mess and rerouted the vacuum lines in their proper order. It only took a few minutes to complete and the engine looked much less cluttered despite still being caked with grease and cobwebs. I almost tossed the kit in Jaime's trash but decided instead to keep it for now. That was a fortunate decision.

Jaime came back outside and reported that he could not find the keys. He had seen them recently but now he couldn't remember where he saw them.

"That's okay," I offered, "I'm not going to need them today. I have to go rebuild this carburetor before I can do anything else. I don't suppose you still have the battery anymore?"

"No, I gave that to my son several years ago. He was supposed to bring it back but he never did."

"It probably wouldn't have been any good after all these years anyway." I said. "I'll try to return next weekend if I can get this rebuilt. Will you be able to find the keys before then?"

"Sure, probably. I'll see you then" Jaime vaguely assured me as he hobbled off.

I closed the hood, stood back and looked at the car. Aside from numerous blemishes all over the exterior it seemed in real good shape. Only a car enthusiast would have thought so. The one smashed piece of door glass was an ugly blemish. All the scratches on the body had been oozing their oxide blood for years.

Where the rain gutter was at its lowest point, ten years worth of winter rains had washed their effluent down across both of the rear wrap-around windows leaving a calcified streak down the window and further down the rear fender. All fourteen windows were so caked with atmospheric gunk that I didn't think that I could make out the sex of an individual standing on the other side if I had to look through both sides of the vehicle. Inside was an accumulation of old newspapers; plastic bags and other unrelated items scattered about.

The car had four light fixtures on the roof and four above the fenders at each corner. Both lenses were missing from one of the front fender fixtures and the other had been replaced by an incorrect one that had rusted badly and created a dog-eye stain down the cheek of the fender. The two on the back were designed with only one rear-facing red lens each and they were intact. The four roof lights were original but their lenses were badly faded by so much exposure to the sun.

It occurred to me then that I had seen a Checker Aerobus before. I recalled seeing them used as airport limousines in the early 1970s. I didn't know what they were called then but I now realized the origin of the name Aerobus. Airport bus.

The car had a cage inside the station wagon rear section. On the two side windows it followed the contour of the windows. The tailgate window had a series of flat, chrome plated bars on the inside of it. They were fairly thin, designed to remain with the window when it was raised and lowered inside the tailgate. It was evidently all to protect the glass from the luggage that would have been piled into the cargo area

Curious exactly how long this car was, I took my foot tape measure and laid it off on the ground, trying to approximate the point on the ground that corresponded with the leading and trailing edges of the bumpers. I managed to lay my eight-foot tape out almost three times. Twenty-four feet! Round it up to twenty-five for the sake of conversation. That was a lot of car. Vilma was not going to like this.

I was really getting the feeling that I was on to something. Something positive and good. I couldn't decide if it was just the unrealistic optimism of a new project or if my gut was telling me something. I chose the latter and drove off, stopping only at the parts store for a carburetor kit before going home to clean up for Vilma's arrival.

"Come on hon, you've got to see this" I said to Vilma after she had kicked off her shoes and settled down on the couch with her after-work snack.

"Yeah mom, you'll really like it," offered Charlie with subtle sarcasm that she did not pick up on.

"What is it?" Vilma replied "I've been on my feet all day, I'm tired."

Uh-oh, I thought. She needs to be in a good mood before she gets a look at what her husband got himself into this time. She seemed to have settled into the peace of not having a project car in the driveway for the last five years. I needed the most positive spin I could get for her introduction to this one. This was going to be like showing up with a Great Dane and asking mom if I could keep it.

"Come rest your feet in the van. I want to show you something" I gently insisted.

"Will you take me to the store first?"

She had me there. She was too tired to go anywhere unless it involved shopping. Then she had unlimited energy. She could tell that I really wanted to score a victory on this one so she offered me a deal. I was trapped. I had to agree.

"I'll take you afterwards." I responded, figuring that my expenses at the store could be tailored to her reaction to the car. Without saying anything else she began to get ready. I could read her body language and knew that she was happy about shopping so I was one step ahead.

I took the long route to Harlequin Street so that we would be coming down the street toward the car and not turning the corner right onto it. I thought this might allow her to start liking it from a distance before all the blemishes came into sharp focus. I drove slowly towards it.

"Well what is it?" Vilma asked when she noticed my unusually slow speed on the street.

"There" said Charlie, "straight ahead, on the right."

"Whe... oh... oh no." we drew ever closer and she began to hoot and laugh "What is that?!" she shouted while she lurched up and down from laughter.

"What do you think?" I asked, as her laughter continued. By this time we were abreast of it. I stopped near the back at an angle that gave her a three-quarter view so she could not see the smashed window.

"It's so long!" she shouted with an undertone of mirth still in her voice.

"Do you like it?" the words came out of me reluctantly for fear of the answer.

"Well maybe, if you fix it up."

Whoo whee, yes!! I wanted to shout. It took a fair amount of self-control to calmly ask, "Do you really think so?"

"It's awful long"

"But it's cool, huh?"

"Are you sure you can fix it?" she asked in an accusing tone, paying slight attention to my last question.

"Oh yeah, it's got a Chevy engine" I replied with conviction. She knew of my success repairing Chevies.

"You're not going to keep it at the house are you?"

"Oh no," I lied, realizing that I could overcome that restriction in time, particularly if it was running. "Not until it's painted and looking good."

I was in! Mom reluctantly agreed to let me keep the dog. All I had to do now was to make good on my promise to feed it and clean up its mess. Feeding it would be easy enough but cleaning up this mess was going to take some work.

Despite having cleared the hurdle of spouse acceptance, or perhaps because of it, I felt a twinge of apprehension that I might be getting in over my head. I really didn't have the time in my life to devote to such a project. I had to dismiss those thoughts and remind myself that this vehicle was too good to pass up. I told myself I could sell it for twice the asking price without doing anything to it. The twinge left quickly and I was mentally committed.

As we drove off I tried to keep the positive mood going. We talked about all the things we could do with the car. Colors we could paint it and ways we could customize it. The project was growing roots.

The rest of the day was a blur as I aimlessly followed Vilma through the mall thinking only of what I was going to tackle next on the car. I had to rebuild the carburetor; change the oil and filter; install a temporary fuel tank, and connect a battery. I performed a mental inventory of the contents of my portable tool box to see if I had everything in there that I would need on my next visit to the Checker.

Evidently Vilma thought more of the car than I suspected, or was just letting me have a little fun with my new project, because she supported me going back the next day to work on it. I had dismantled the carburetor and soaked it all night in solvent. Rebuilding a two-barrel Rochester carburetor is a fairly simple task involving only a few adjustments. It would be many months before the result of my rebuild would rear its ugly head and darn near ruin the whole project.

By ten the next morning I was ready with my rebuilt carburetor and all the other stuff required for the day's work. I removed the battery from my Pontiac Fiero, that was still begging for some engine work, and took it with me. No point buying a new battery for the Checker until I knew it was going to run. I grabbed my lawnmower gas can with its two gallons of gas optimistic that I would need it.

Time flew by on Harlequin Street that day. The carburetor bolted right in. I drained the oil from the engine. The old oil didn't look too bad for all the years sitting. At least there was no water coming out of the oil pan from collected condensation. I put five quarts of fresh oil in and changed the filter.

I needed to ascertain that the engine had not rusted internally and fused itself. I knew I should turn the engine over by hand to break everything free gradually. I didn't want to subject the engine to the sudden shock of trying to start it with the fast-spinning starter. Anything stuck, even a little, under those conditions was at risk of cracking.

I crawled under the car, keeping one eye out for black widow spiders, and found that there was an inspection plate on the transmission that allowed me to gain access to the flywheel. I got a large flat blade screwdriver and wedged it between two teeth on the flywheel and the edge of the transmission housing. I levered the screwdriver on the flywheel and the engine turned easily. Almost too easily. I continued to turn the engine over a few degrees at a time until I had turned it 360 degrees. Then I gradually turned it all the way back in the other direction. I heard no strange noises at all. In fact, all I heard was the occasional chuff and hiss of a piston compressing air in the cylinders. Could it really be this easy I wondered to myself? Either the solvent that I had sprayed in all the cylinders two weeks before had worked extremely well or this engine had survived years of neglect remarkably well.

The spark system was checked out and the car had a rebuilt carburetor. Gas was the only element to add so I hooked up the two gallon gas can near the rear of the car with a length of rubber hose connected to the end of the steel fuel line. I installed the battery and everything was ready to go.

I knocked on Jaime's door and got no answer. I knelt on the ground in front of his garage door and peered through the gap at the bottom to see if his car was inside. I saw nothing but darkness in there. Here I was ready to go and all I needed was a key. The first of many frustrations.

Since I had time to kill waiting for Jaime to come home I decided to remove the car's gas tank in order to clean the sludge out of it. Getting everything unbolted was a fairly easy matter until I got down to the last two bolts holding the retaining straps on. There was still quite a bit of heavy fuel in the tank so I had to lay under the car and press my chest up to the tank and support its weight while I loosened the two nuts. That done all I had to do was slide it off my chest onto the ground.

Suddenly there was that awful smell of rotten fuel again. Stronger this time. I realized then that fuel was pouring out of the side of the tank and all over the ground! I quickly pushed it off my chest and it slammed to the ground ejecting the putrid fluid out of half a dozen places on the tank. That was discouraging. The unforgettable smell was as bad as the first time. Fuel odors tend to linger and this stench seemed to permeate everything.

The neighbor across the street appeared at that point and commented, "Whoo whee!, that's quite a stink you've got there."

I could only see him from the knees down since I was still under the car. I rolled over and grunted my way out. There stood a man with a lopping belly, old blue jeans and wearing most of a T-shirt. He walked around to the side of the gas tank and as he went I noticed a huge butt-crack in the gap between the top of the jeans and the bottom of the shirt; and he hadn't even bent over yet. His pants rode so low, because of his belly, that I wondered how they stayed up, mounted as they were below his hips. If he ever introduced himself I didn't remember but he proceeded to tell me about his involvement with Jaime and how he had tried to buy the car some five years prior.

"I offered him eight hundred dollars but he said he would not take less than a thousand." said Buttcrack, "It looked a lot better than this five years ago. That window wasn't broken and I don't think it had all those scratches in the side. At least they weren't that rusty."

I wanted to brag about my bargain but thought better of it since it was not really mine until I finished paying for it, and fortunately he didn't ask. I wondered why Jaime was willing to give it to me for five hundred dollars now. I was feeling even better about my deal and all the more committed to concluding it regardless of the condition of the car.

The puddle on the ground from the ejected fuel was not quick to evaporate and I was getting concerned about disturbing the neighbors with the smell. California has strict environmental laws and a little gas spill can be cause for concern. This rotten puddle sure had me concerned.

The smell seemed to drive Buttcrack away as he commented, "Good luck with that thing. I'm kind of glad he didn't sell it to me now."

With Buttcrack gone I took a closer look at the tank. It seemed to be about one-quarter full. Near the top of the tank on one side I saw some rusty perforations where the gas had ejaculated when I dropped it off my chest. Poking at the areas I was able to make it worse. I rapped at the tank in several places around the same perimeter with my knuckle and was able to crumple the thinned steel in.

Oh boy, I thought to myself, here's a big expense. I knew that it would not be easy to replace a 1970 Checker Aerobus fuel tank. I could only hope that Checker had used an off-the-shelf tank from some other automaker when they assembled these cars. I was to learn that they had not.

Obviously I wasn't going to start this car with this fuel tank for a while so I began to look for something else needing attention when Jaime drove up.

"Did you find the key?" I asked him impatiently.

"No, and I looked all over the house" came his reply "I had them just a few years ago"

"Any chance you'll find them?"

"No, I don't think so."

Another frustrating delay. I couldn't think of anything else I could do on the car until I tried starting it. That would be the ultimate test on whether I would finish paying for this car. Now I had to go and get another ignition key made. I was a little more willing to spend money on new keys after my conversation with Buttcrack. I decided to pull the ignition switch out and take it with me.

I took a rag and wiped ten years worth of spider webs from around the steering wheel and under the dash running down to the pedals. Fortunately my toolbox had a steering wheel puller in it so it didn't take me long to get the wheel off and dig down to the switch. Without too much cursing I had the lock cylinder out and ready to go. I slid the rotten gas tank under the car hoping that its foul contents would evaporate before I had to do something with it. I buttoned everything else up, took my battery out and left.

I stopped by a locksmith kiosk near my house and asked the price of making new keys.

"I'd have to charge you more to make them than you could buy a whole new lock for." replied the locksmith.

"How much for a lock?"

"Twenty bucks plus tax"

"I'll take it"

By now the day was shot. Better to go home and clean up and relax, gather my thoughts for the next opportunity to get back to the car.

I received my first edition of the Checkerboard news in the mail that day. I found information on joining the Checker club from an Internet web site and sent in my ten dollar membership. The introductory package contained a list of all of the members and the states or countries they lived in. The newsletter contained classified ads for parts, literature, and whole cars for sale and wanted.

There were guest articles from members at large. One caught my eye that was written by a man named Paul Ryan. His article was about proper care and maintenance of an old car. He talked about restarting one of his Checkers that sat for an extended period of time. I wrote to him and asked his advice on getting mine going again.

I called the DMV that week to find out how much of an expense I could expect in bringing the registration current. I gave the lady the vehicle identification number and she entered it into her computer.

"I don't show a record of that vehicle," she said in a nasally, self satisfied tone.

I knew that meant bad news.

"What does that mean? It was registered in California before."

"Well perhaps, but it's not in the computer now."

Growing impatient I asked, "So what are you saying?"

"All you have to do is pay the current year registration and you're done."

It took a while for her words to sink in. "That's it?"

"Yes sir."

"Oh, thank you!" I wanted to hug her. I felt bad for my impatient thoughts and hoped that she didn't notice the edge in my voice. I imagined she encounters a lot of morons during a typical day.

This was a good day.

The next opportunity to work on the Checker didn't come for a week. It was a difficult wait.