“I’m trying! I’m trying!” George exclaimed, scraping away with a paint edge.
After one more trip to the auto parts store for a fuel filter and a PCV filter and valve, I installed the carburetor – hooking up the accelerator and fuel lines. I put the air cleaner back on and screwed it down.
“Give it a crank,” I told George who was sitting in the car with a big cigar hanging out of his mouth.
The car cranked and cranked, and then the engine roared to life belching rich black smoke out the exhaust pipe for a short moment. I sighed with relief as the Caprice settled into a smooth idle. It had been years and years since I had rebuilt a carburetor and I was afraid I had forgotten something or didn’t follow the directions correctly.
“Thanks, man,” George said, our grimy and greasy hands clasping.
“You know?” I told him. “Me and you both would be pissed drunk by now if we still drank. Beer and working on cars seemed to go together.”
“Don’t think I didn’t think about having a few beers,” George said with a grin on the day of his seventh week of sobriety.
“What a good hobby!” I thought on the drive home up the street. I hadn’t felt such a sense of satisfaction like that in years.