The V-8
By Ernest Winchester
Copyright: 2010 By Ernest Winchester
Billy Joe pulled against the strain of the chain, slowing lowering the engine into the area within the inside well of the old Mustang’s engine compartment. For what must have been the twentieth time that morning he cussed out his younger brother, Pete. This was supposed to be a joint effort, but the little shit had gone out drinking the previous night and was too hung-over to get out of bed. Sunday was the only day Billy Joe had off and the engine had to be dropped in that day. He would have to take the engine hoist back to the shop where he worked six days a week the next day so there was no leeway. Pete, at eighteen, was too young to drink at bars but he and a couple of friends had gotten a case of beer somehow and when he staggered home at midnight, his only deceleration had been, “I love beer.” before careening off to bed.
At twenty-two, some of the elicit pleasure of drinking beer had worn off Billy Joe. He would relish a cold one or two once the job was done, the engine resting on its motor mounts and the transmission reconnected. He had braced a pair of two-by-fours inside the engine well to guide the six-cylinder engine into place as he again let out some of the chain slack, lowering the engine another couple of inches before locking the chain in place. This was really a two-man job and without Pete’s help, it was going to take at least the rest of the day to get even that much done. Once the engine was seated, the hoist would no longer be needed.
The replacement engine, purchased at a junkyard, was far from the only thing the sixty-five Mustang would need before it would be road worthy. The brothers had found it out in the country where it had sat in a farmer’s barn, collecting dust for who knows how long, when Pete had expressed an interest in restoring a vintage ‘Stang for his first car. Borrowing their mother’s old station wagon for his dates was getting horribly un-cool.
Three hours later, Billy Joe wiped the sweat from his brow as he gave the engine another shake to assure himself that it was solidly resting in place. He backed a step away from the car, eyeing the engine carefully, then looked harder at the room on either side of the engine. He walked over to his toolbox and withdrew his measuring tape. Leaning over the radiator, he measured the distance from either fender-well to the sides of the engine before straightening up and smacking himself in the forehead blurting out, “Damn, I could have had a V-8.”