Vehicle maintenance and bawdy juggling

Preparing the Crimson Haybaler for front-line duty was simple; part of the reason we chose the Ranger was its simplicity.  It was inexpensive because TLC was needed, however.  I installed a new starter and fuel pump and the little truck runs just fine now, albeit a bit loudly and not quite so prettily, thanks to a missing exhaust and the guerilla modifications we had to make in order to tow it (see below).  We’ll set about turning it into the Ultimate Toad in the coming months.

Yeah, I know. It's horrible. Don't worry, the bumper's in back.

So, with the Haybaler running reliably, it needs front tires before our Los Angeles adventure, if possible. I tootled to a shop in Las Vegas to see what a pair of used tires would cost.

If you’ve never bought used tires, it goes kind of like this: you pull up and ask for the size, they bring a tire out to see if it’s in good enough shape for you, and then when you agree on a price they put it on. Real simple. Done it dozens of times.

So, you can imagine my surprise when, after waiting for a couple of minutes and chatting with a guy trying to upsell me a windshield (the Haybaler’s ’shield is cracked), I realize that they’ve got the truck jacked up with both front tires off and in fact, there’s a little fireplug-shaped guy putting the right wheel back on with a new tire.

This seems a bit forward–I mean, bugger, I don’t even know what they’re going to charge me. It’s kind of like inviting someone over for coffee and having them rush right past you into the bedroom and get naked before you can pour both cups. So I drift over there, and notice that on top of this forward behavior, the tire is the wrong size. It fits, but it’s not the same size as the tires in the back, and since the Haybaler is not a drag racer, I’d like all four tires to be the same size, thanks.

I tap Fireplug Guy on the shoulder and point this out. He says they don’t have a tire in the size I was looking for.  Rather than asking why they stuck the wrong-size tire on anyway, I say “I’d rather not buy the wrong-size tire.”  Just in case he doesn’t speak a lot of English, I also make a specifically negatory no good hand motion while indicating the tire. Fireplug Guy nods, grabs his air gun, zips the lug nuts on, then goes away, presumably to start on the next tire.

This is not confidence-inspiring. I go and find the guy who was upselling me windshields, presuming he’s the equivalent of an assistant manager, and explain the issue to him. I don’t want tires that are not the same size as the rear tires. They don’t have the right size tires. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I don’t want them and he shouldn’t have put it on before asking me, or telling me the price. “He didn’t tell you the price?” Upsell Guy says. I shake my head. He goes off to have a conference with Fireplug guy, then returns to ask if I won’t consider buying the tires, because they’re no that different. I explain that I don’t have enough money to be buying tires I don’t want, which is true. No, not even at a discount. I apologize again for being a pain in the ass, but again: see the Usual Procedure. It’s done that way to avoid situations like this.

So Fireplug Guy comes back, looking slightly miffed, and starts to remove the tire he just put on. He takes of four lug nuts, fools with the fifth, then offers me an even bigger discount. I’m tempted, but these people have not earned our business today. So I say no. Fireplug Guy messes around with the last lug nut some more, then wanders off, leaving it there.

Do you see where this is going? Dude cross-threaded the lugnut with the air gun. This means that half of the threads inside the lug are destroyed, and it will spin, but it won’t come off. I also realize this means that Fireplug Guy clearly realized this and was trying to sell me the tire at the last minute so I’d drive off with it like that and probably not realize until the next time I tried to remove the wheel, at which point it would be No Longer Demonstrably His Fault. Bad form, tire-shop guy.  Very bad form.  I take a deep breath and wait to see what they’re going to do next.

What they do, is bring out a gigantic breaker bar and use it to twist the wheel against the studs in an effort to jam the lug nut into contact so it will come off. Eventually this involves almost the whole tire shop staff: Fireplug Guy, Skinny Kid, Fireplug Two, Upsell Guy, Super-Buff Dude and The Man in the Yellow Hat, who appears to be the manager, or possibly a king because he’s the only one who hasn’t got shit (okay, it’s really brakedust and tire grease) all over him. I am very uncertain that this twisting is a good thing for the aluminum wheel, but I keep my mouth shut for the moment. I know that a Volvo aluminum wheel would be deformed beyond usefulness by that kind of abuse, but then Volvo wheels are kind of weak. Ford wheels may be stronger.

It doesn’t matter anyway. After about an hour (in the hot Las Vegas sun) they give up, and the Man in the Yellow Hat explains the issue to me, that the lug is jammed, and that I need to drive around to the back to their muffler shop, where they’ll use the welding torch to heat it up so they can get it off. “It’s no problem,” he says. “We’ll take care of it.” Skinny Kid comes over and puts the other lug nuts back on.

Apart from eating up a large chunk of my Saturday, it’s okay, I suppose. I shrug and go along with it.  I wander around a bit to look at the other cars behind the shop (‘57 Chevy Two Ten, ‘63 Thunderbird, ‘71 Blazer, that sort of thing–you’ll see them later, promise), while a guy who looks just like Al Molina as Satipo in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” works on the truck a little. Then he stops, having removed only one lug nut, and has the female back-of-the-shop manager tell me that I need a new brake disc, because all of the lug nuts but one are now jammed.

I’m surprised by my ability to remain calm.  I explain that all of the lug nuts were fine before I pulled into this lot, and that The Man in The Yellow Hat sent us back here to have the one that Fireplug Guy damaged heated so it can be removed. She says she doesn’t know anything about that, we just need a new brake disc and they can’t do anything. Up front is a separate shop, she tries to explain.

So I go and get The Man in The Yellow Hat, who very patiently comes to the back and confers with the folks there. While he is there, Satipo and a Hispanic Jack Black go to work on the Haybaler yet again, this time breaking off two of the studs, one after the other. This leaves one jammed lug nut and the original damaged one still in place. My little truck is not having a good day. The Man in The Yellow Hat watches this calmly, then tells me not to worry, they’ll take care of it. The BackShop Manager gets some information from me about the truck, then goes and gets on the phone. Satipo explains to me that they’re going to use the welding torch to cut the lug nuts off, and that it will scorch the aluminum wheel, but that the blackening should scrub off with soap and water; he wants me to know before they start, so I don’t wig out. I tell him that’s cool, I understand.

It has now been two and a half hours. I wander over next door to the party store to get something to drink and a Hostess pie, so I don’t swoon at an inopportune moment. When I return, the wheel has been removed. Two of the Haybaler’s wheel studs are gone completely; the ones that broke off. Two are melted into interesting shapes that will never again take a lug nut, and there are gobbets of metal all over the floor. Satipo and Jack Black are having lunch. I notice that they have about thirty license plates tacked to the wall all around the manager’s booth, mostly Nevada plates, with a couple of Californias, an Oregon, a Wyoming and an Alaska as well. I remember that there’s an old Michigan plate in the back of the truck that I was scrapping, and I take it out and give it to the BackShop Manager, who’s happy to have it though she doesn’t seem to be certain where exactly “Michigan” might be.

After a few more minutes, an auto parts store delivery truck arrives with a new brake rotor, which is quickly installed, the bearing repacked (I’m watching them carefully at this point, even though it’s rude) and the wheel reassembled. And that’s that, they say, I’m all set. There is no mention of paying for the brake rotor (which I had no intention of paying for anyway) or the new lug nuts (ditto), or even the tire (which, arguably, I would have paid for at that point because the alternative would’ve been letting Fireplug Guy try to put the original tire back on and starting the whole mess over again).

So! That was three hours of Saturday that we won’t be getting back, and are hoping like hell that the other front wheel isn’t similarly screwed up.

After all of that hilarity, I was almost too tired to enjoy the Las Vegas Ren Fair, which we wandered around in for a while. Vegas has more performers, so the performances we saw in the sprawling festival were super-professional and enjoyable. Adam the Bawdy Juggler alone was worth the ticket price. (“Behave, or I’ll tell Uncle Dad on you,” he said to a heckler. “I think your mother should’ve swallowed you.”) We also saw the Magnificent (I think?) Mary, an adorable little 67-year old lady who balanced on a beam held five feet above the stage on the shoulders of two burly audience volunteers–and then worked her way contortionist-style through a hoop while she was up there. If I can be that cool when I’m 67, then I will feel that I have won.