The TIbetan Book of TIming Belts

 

Once again, I experienced nocturnal audio seepage from my sleep soundtrack, narrated by Patrick Horgan. I also experienced night sweats for the second night in a row. Ughh.

I was working at YC Honda again, wearing the uniform I thought I'd never don again. It was my first day back, so I was naturally given the job no one wanted. Diagnosis of a no start that had died while driving. 

The car was in a partially disassembled state, making access to the timing belt relatively simple. My job was to forensically determine what had happened, independent of the condition it had come to be in through the disassembly process. 

I had several helpers, among them was Pao Lor and Corey Allred, both ex-employees, now back at their previous jobs as if nothing had happened. The fact that Corey had spent the past 14 years in prison for an armed hostage taking event while on meth somehow didn't prevent his rehire, just as the fact that I've been an incompetent couch potato for the past three years never seems to prevent me from winding up in a work situation with this company in my dreams. 

As I examined the condition of the timing belt and its related components, the tensioner, idler pulleys, cam and crankshaft gears, etc, I became aware of Corey's presence. He was reciting the Tibetan Book of the Dead flawlessly. It seemed to correspond to the components that I was examining. 

"In the center of the mandela is Samathabadra, with his consort Samnthabadri...." the description aligned perfectly with the layout of the engine parts, as if it were written as an instruction manual for engine repair. I was impressed by how well Corey had memorized the ancient text.

Next Pao Lor chimed in and kept the narrative going without skipping a beat. "Next is the mandela of the wrathful dieties. In the center of the mandela is the great heruka, with his consort..." on and on he droned, naming off the deities in order, painting a map of the engine with the names of the Tibetan gods. 

"What a good little Tibetan you are, Pao," I said condescendingly.

I looked over the engine and knew that it wouldn't be an easy job. If it were, Chunky would have already taken the job, instead of sitting over on the sidelines hiding from the dispatcher. Neither Sal nor Manny Salazar had snatched it up either, not that they'd have been incapable of handling it. They just liked to watch me squirm.

So, I kept walking around the vehicle, examining it from this angle and that, hoping for an easy visual clue as to the cause of the breakdown. I knew that at some point I'd have to break out my diagnostic equipment and perform some tests. 

I thought about the vehicle's age and maintenance history. It occurred to me to check the valve clearances. I don't know why this seemed appropriate, but I got out my feeler gauges and was planning on giving this a go. I never got the car figured out, though, as the morning had arrived, and I was cold from leaving the window open all night. 

Guineas are cackling and it's Saturday. I have a date with Martin at Sutter Buttes Brewery at one o'clock. He's driving up from Sac, where he's visiting with his in-laws. I am scheming to get in my morning coffee and cannabis before I have an afternoon beer and burger. Or maybe pizza. Mmm. I dunno. It's a birthday lunch, so he's treating.