Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Muffler Mending’

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

For this writer, inspiration has always seemed to come unpredictably. I might sit at the keyboard for hours, searching and scrolling without a useful yield of ideas. But then in the most random moment, find what I was seeking by surprise.

 

A recent example of this phenomenon came as I was listening to the morning show on Cleveland’s FM sports station, ’92.3 The Fan.’ Host Ken Carman offered a personal memory about his father repairing a mid-80’s Chevrolet Caprice, to save money ahead of holiday spending. The crude fix involved coat hanger wire, and help from his obedient son holding the flashlight. With some effort, he managed to rig up the muffler system in a blue-collar triumph of imagination over necessity. The tale entertained members of his on-air crew, and listeners as well. But it also sparked my own reflection. A throwback to days in the early 1990’s.

 

In that distant era, I was living with my first wife and son in Painesville. After driving a 1972 Econoline with over 200,000 miles, and then a 1979 F-150 that had been a plow truck, I scored a newer vehicle through the family. My nephew by marriage offered a clean, 1985 Ranger 4x4 at a price I could not decline. The little mule was not so spacious as my previous haulers, but stood tall on its snow tires. I often hit my head on the roof, or on the sliding rear window. Even with the seat slid completely back, legroom was cramped. Yet the vehicle had no rust. A 2.8-liter V-6 motor motivated it sufficiently for getting back and forth to my workplace in Chardon, despite winter storms.

 

In those days, I still regretted returning to my native Ohio from New York State. So, trips back to see old friends, and jam with guitars were frequent. Driving the downsized hoss meant burning less fuel than with my full-sized carriages. While room inside and out was at a premium, my wallet appreciated the change. I never had much to take along, anyway.

 

I made several trips between our home base, and my destination in the Finger Lakes Region. Ithaca, the home of Cornell University, was where I had studied television broadcasting. And, begun writing in a newspaper context. But most often, I aimed toward the notable city of Corning, where my mentor Paul Race lived. He had been a local musician for many years, and had an insane collection of records, books, plectrum instruments, and all sorts of interesting relics. I missed him terribly. My wife thought that he was uncultured and boorish, despite having earned higher degrees in biology, chemistry, and computer science. When one of my road adventures had been planned, we would normally squabble over details. She thought that I should have been more appreciative of a loving family, and less interested in pursuing half-baked Rock & Roll aspirations.

 

Her opinions were completely correct, of course. But I chafed at admitting that she was more in tune with reality, and less likely to chase fugazi dreams on a fool’s errand.

 

Heading east, toward the Empire State, I would usually be at the wheel with a reddened face and a stomach full of woe. It normally took a hundred miles or more before this mood passed. But eventually, I always started to thirst for Utica Club beer and yearn for the punchy, staccato sound of my erstwhile cohort’s vintage Fender Telecaster. I could not let go of those yonder days. Though for all practical purposes, they had vanished forever.

 

I would stay in the area until my funds had been exhausted, or workplace scheduling dictated a speedy return. By the time my truck found itself pointed in the opposite direction, heading west, I would be well-lubricated. A stop at the neighborhood Sugarcreek convenience store, for coffee, was mandatory when leaving town. My clothes would be dirty and my face, unwashed. Yet my soul knew a kind of satisfaction not attainable by any other means.

 

The thrill of this cheap high eventually faded, however. In particular, when I was temporarily stranded on the Allegany Indigenous Reservation, governed by the Seneca Nation of New York. I had grown older and more responsible. The admonitions of my beloved spouse had finally taken hold. At least in principle.

 

On the way back to Lake County, piloting my silver-and-black pickup, I noticed that the muffler seemed to be a bit louder than before. Salamanca was a favored halfway point to stop for fuel, food, and bathroom facilities. Because I was so close, it seemed wise to putter along until I could pull off and have a look. So, I stopped at the local McDonald’s for bladder relief, and a burger. The meal came with a Buffalo Bills souvenir bandana. I threw it in the glovebox as a keepsake to show the family. 

 

In the parking lot of a Fisher’s Big Wheel department store, situated nearby, I crawled under my tiny rig for a mechanical inspection. What I saw wasn’t really surprising, but it made my belly ache. The entire exhaust system had broken free of its rubber-and-metal hangers. Somehow, the leading pipe was still attached, by a stout clamp. Everything was covered with highway muck, and rust. I crawled out from under the beast, to think for a moment. Then, remembered that owing to my father-in-law’s advice, I had loaded up a selection of tools and coat hangers before leaving Buckeye soil. Everything was jammed behind the bench seat.

 

I steered my way to a deserted corner of the property, while finishing a container of fries. There were enough garment wires on hand to re-hang the entire span, I reckoned. So, I took a fistful from the truck cab, and slid back underneath. Since I was alone, no one could help brace the tubular mess upward, into position. I decided that my body would work well enough as a jack stand, and managed to wriggle until the snaking system had been elevated sufficiently. Then, I twisted away with the repurposed coat hangers. What resulted was not cosmetically attractive, or in keeping with SAE standards. But it worked.

 

I arrived home in Painesville covered in grit and grime, and grease. Inside our condominium, I knew the family would be waiting. Yet there was one last can of brew left, from my Corning stash. Feeling selfish and unsociable, I sat in the darkness for moment. Still free of responsibility, I quenched my need for refreshment. Then, opened the driver’s door.

 

I would not visit New York again for several years. When I did, things were not the same. At long last, my extended childhood had ended.