Curt
had formulated a plan and it worked. There was another box holding the rebuild
kit and gasket material, another holding my traveling tool box so I could
dis-assemble and reassemble the transmission. That was my car buddy
“gifts”. My banker buddies also had presents. They had a box carefully wrapped
and it was the exact size of a cooler. When my nurse walked in, she said “Jim, isn't you birthday in March?, its July!” One of my banker buddies
said “It’s belated, we couldn't all get here and we just wanted to show our
support”. The cooler had a case and a half of Ice Cold Long neck Budweiser’s in
it and we had a brew or two. The second, and most important box held three
“Carnivore Specials”, pizza’s from DePalma’s Pizzeria, my favorite pizza
joint located in what I called “Buckwheat” the industrial area
between Bolton Road and Buckhead, the high brow area of Atlanta. DePalma’s
Pizza Joint was situated on the de-facto dividing line between my car buddies
and my bank buddies, at least in my mind. It was one place they all could agree
to meet. I just had to face in a different direction to wait for my buddies,
hi-brows from the North, and low-rent from the South. I liked them both with
equal enthusiasm.
The
Carnivore Specials had every kind of meat known to man on top of them, cooked to
perfection and topped with the best cheese I have ever tasted. The
super large could feed a small army, and we had three and a half small armies
in my room. I had Ice cold beer, Pizza, and my buddies from both sides of
the tracks all at once in my hospital room. I looked one more time for a box
with a stripper in it, but that box didn't make it through the door. It was a
night I’ll never forget. It made me feel good and I knew I wasn't forgotten by my
friends, regardless of where they lived and how much money they made. Right
then they all made considerably more than me, but none were richer.
Of
course, my nurse came in after the party ended, meaning visitation
was over. I gave her and the other nurses a pizza to keep them quiet so they
let us do our thing and nobody was any poorer for the celebration. She told me
I’d better keep it to myself and there’d be no trouble. I told her I was
in it for the long haul and the only person that might see any trouble was her.
I laid that groundwork to help aid in my transmission fix-it plans my
buddies had delivered as a true gift to fight off boredom. I made it clear to
her that I wanted the transmission left in my room and even told her why. I
needed something to do and that was it. She just shook her head and said she’d
“allow” it as long as there were no more parties involving car parts, beer, and
pizza in my private room again.
Curt
has taken the side inspection cover off the transmission and had run gas
through it to rid it of the smelly transmission “dope” that was used as
lubricant by the manufacturer. It was an awful smelling mess that would get in
your skin and stink like a dead ‘possum if you didn't scrub it off with soap or gasoline. All the old school car dudes I knew
called the lubricant “Whale Sperm Oil” it was so thick. I later learned it (the
Whale Sperm Oil) was what was used way back when to lubricate manual
transmissions. I figured it must have been based on the way it smelled. I
guessed it was why you didn’t see a lot of whale babies. If the spunk of a
whale smelled this bad, no wonder a female whale might turn tail and run. It
stunk like the south bound end of a north bound skunk.
I
carefully disassembled the “Muncie” 4 speed, named for the plant that manufactured the
transmission for General Motors, located in Muncie, Indiana. No fancy
nomenclature, mind you, just named for the city that thing was built-in, simple
and effective. When I disassembled the transmission, I put the parts in the
bath tub in my bathroom and filled it with “Dawn” dishwashing liquid, a
necessity when working on any greasy car item, casserole pan, and any oil
soaked bird (seriously) that might need the oil disbursed and dissolved from it
feathery clothing. This stuff worked like a champ and was as integral a part of
any car dudes grease relief repper-twa (fancy french word alert) this side
of WD-40. I’d sit on the porcelain facility, and with my hospital supplied
toothbrush scrub those tiny parts as good as I could. There were hundreds of
parts making up the inner workings of said transmissions, from hundreds of
small needle bearings to the large input shaft. They, all together, made
up the backbone of any good hot rod.
Here
is where it got interesting. Some of the bigger parts, like the case and the
front cover, the rear tail section, the large input shaft and the helical cut
gears needed the kind of cleaning my Dawn Liquid and elbow grease could not
provide. Steamy hot water and pressure was the ticket and I had a plan.
Well, I thought I'd get this wrapped up in two days, but hey, it's free. See you tomorrow!
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