Careful What You Wish For, Young Feller

There’s a well-known restaurant in our area, famous for their Oak Pit Barbecue, and for serving up so much food no one who enters thin will go home that way. Outside certain examples of the food service industry, getting too much for your money is a rarity. That is unless you show up asking for car parts on the day the owner of those parts has lost the lease on his storage—and lives where real estate is calculated in terms of dollars per square inch.

Suddenly, all those valuable parts take on the appearance of a 20-something child with a college degree, no job, and a phone used primarily for ordering dinner from mom. Sounds as if it’s time for somebody to move out. Staring, eyes glazed over, at many tons of dead cars and parts, all of which must be picked up and moved, anyone willing to take some away will be met with
open arms.

Enter Mr. Ebbinflow, at the manic end of his cycle. Mr. Ebbinflow spends his life buying, fixing and selling. Upon the completion of each “final project” he lapses into reality distortion mode, and buys something else. Mr. Ebbinflow is intimately familiar with the family sofa, where he is frequently told to sleep after dragging home whatever comes next.

We came together at low tide. The utility trailer was open for business—let’s load up. Throw a car on there (a TR4). It’ll need an engine, a couple extra cylinder heads, some sheet metal and lots of rusty grease-covered spares. Good thing he can’t tell a TR head from an MGB’s.

I was able to clear out both that way. I hope that Spridget axle will fit too, or at least that one of us has moved far away by the time he figures it out.

Now that he has a trusty TR, with plenty of extras, he should be good to go. I just hope he doesn’t ask why a Triumph needs three flywheels, and five worn pressure plates.

“Trust me, that car will have so much torque, you’ll need them… and the extra TR6 differential housing.”

Boy, how I hope he never buys a parts book and figures out what I did.
I consider my actions to have been a public service. Bringing home the TR means he will have to sell his Enfield motorcycle. Don’t worry, it’s not an original. Original Enfields run far better than this thing.

So who is our mystery victim? Once before I wrote about a friend, carefully disguising his name. Within seconds of the magazine being printed, my phone rang.

“Hello Robert. This is Captain Anal calling.” Oops.

Another buddy had spotted his race car in a grainy little photo, and read him the article over the phone. That’ll never happen here though. There’s nothing in this editorial pointing to Kevin Flint, our Director of Sales. Hey Kev, congrats on your latest project. I mean, thanks for taking all that junk off my hands, Mr. Ebbinflow.

By Robert Goldman