Chapter 2. I Went to Sun City
Chapter 2. I Went to Sun City
“I haven’t even spent it on anything in particular...”
After checking the balance in my savings account, I clicked my tongue lightly.
I did not have much money. The only property I owned was a beat-up 1999 Chevrolet C1500 truck. Since I had been drifting from place to place the whole time, of course I did not have a house.
I really had lived as if I had never taken a single day off.
America’s brutal cost of living truly showed no mercy.
In my head, I calculated the remaining balance after setting aside six months’ worth of living expenses.
Always keep six months of emergency funds untouched.
That was the minimum survival rule for someone who had lived alone with no one to rely on.
Still, one way or another, it should fit within budget.
I immediately started calling several used rebuilt-engine shops I found online.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the engine you’re looking for, sir.”
“Ah, we had one last month, but it’s gone now. Would you like us to contact you if we get another one in stock?”
For now, it looked hopeless within Arizona.
Left with no choice, I widened my search toward Texas. That was definitely the holy land for old-car parts like these.
Ring ring—
“Hello! Sun City Engine Works. How can I help you?”
“Yes, hello. I was wondering if you might have a Ford Windsor-series engine available.”
(Translator’s Note: Ford Windsor family is one of Ford’s best-known small-block V8 lines. small-block V8 is not literally tiny; it means a more compact V8 engine family compared with a physically larger “big-block”)
“Hmm, if it’s Windsor-series, then you mean a small block. If you don’t mind me asking, what vehicle are you planning to use it for?”
“A ’67 Mustang GT. I’ll be using a C4 transmission.”
(Translator’s Note: C4 transmission - a Ford automatic transmission introduced in the 1960s. In practical terms, it is the gearbox that works with the engine and sends power to the wheels.)
“Oh! Sounds like you’ve got a fine car in the works. A C4, huh... We happen to have both a 289 and a 302. Both are in excellent condition.”
(Translator’s Note: 289 Windsor / 302 Windsor - The 289 and 302 are Ford V8 engines closely associated with classic Mustangs. For non-car readers, the simplest way to understand the difference is this: the 289 is more “original” for a mid-1960s Mustang, while the 302 is a later, very common Ford V8 that is easier and cheaper to source, making it a practical swap.)
The man on the other end replied immediately, like someone thoroughly used to calls like this.
“Hmm, a 289 and a 302...”
I closed my eyes for a moment before deciding.
Thanks to the mysterious ability I had just acquired, the basic information necessary to restore this car now existed perfectly within my head.
With just a glance, I could instantly tell that the transmission mounted in this car was a C4 Cruise-O-Matic, commonly called a C4—a three-speed automatic transmission.
On top of that, a full list of engines compatible with that transmission unfurled in my mind.
Among them, the 289 Windsor was a 4.7-liter engine.
It was the original engine for this car, and naturally it paired extremely well with the transmission. In a word, it was the choice that best preserved the car’s originality.
The downside was that the number of surviving units was steadily shrinking, so prices were gradually creeping upward.
The 302, on the other hand, was an engine that came after the 289. Its outward appearance was nearly identical, making installation easy. Its displacement had grown slightly to 5.0 liters, and its usable power in practical driving ranges had also been modestly improved.
And above all, it’s cheaper.
The 302 was one of the most common old-school V8 engines in America.
(Translator’s Note: V8 / “Eight-cylinder sound” - has eight cylinders arranged in a V shape. In American car culture, V8 engines are strongly associated with power, rumbling exhaust sound, and a more visceral, mechanical driving feel.)
In any case, as far as my personal taste was concerned, there were only two conditions the engine in a Mustang had to satisfy.
First, it had to be a Ford-family engine.
The body was a Ford Mustang, so I wanted to preserve at least a minimum sense of consistency.
Second, no questions asked—it had to be a V8.
No matter how much people talked about weight balance, putting a six-cylinder into a body this gorgeous was a crime.
“Then I’ll take the 302.”
“Excellent choice. A fully crated engine—complete and ready to install—is $5,500.”
“What if I pay cash and come pick it up myself? I’ll handle the loading too.”
Time was the one thing I had plenty of. If I went in person, I could save at least three hundred dollars in shipping.
“Hmm, under those conditions, I can do $5,100. And even that discount is only because I like ’67 Mustangs, haha.”
“$5,100... All right. I’ll buy it.”
“Oh! Okay! Then the address is—”
After ending the call, I rubbed my face with both hands.
“Whew... I really went and did it. I actually bought an engine.”
As a man raised in America, of course I had always been interested in cars, but I had never once dreamed that I would end up restoring one myself.
And to start right away with an engine install, of all things...
Surprisingly, though, I did not feel especially worried.
Part of it was the Korean mindset engraved into my DNA—If it doesn’t work, keep at it until it does, and When the time comes, you’ll somehow manage.
And there was also this unidentified ability.
The moment I so much as thought about how to install the engine in the Mustang, a full manual streamed through my mind from pre-installation preparations to the actual work.
The shop was in El Paso, Texas, right?
After checking the slip of paper where I had written down the address once more, I sat in the truck parked outside and reclined the seat as far back as it would go.
El Paso was about 320 miles, or 515 kilometers, from here.
If I took Interstate 10 early in the morning, I could get there in five or six hours.
(Translator’s Note: Interstate 10 (I-10) — A major east–west interstate highway extending across the southern United States from Santa Monica, California, to Jacksonville, Florida.)
Funny how excited I am over something like this.
Warm Arizona night air drifted in through the slightly cracked window.
For the first time in a long while, I felt the kind of excitement a child feels the night before a picnic, and I forced myself to get some sleep.
The next day.
I woke up even earlier than expected.
My body felt fine, so I started the engine without delay.
Vroom, rattle rattle rattle—
The engine of the more-than-twenty-year-old Chevrolet pickup rattled like it had a persistent cough.
Hang in there just a little longer. I’ll work on you soon too.
Gently pressing the accelerator as if soothing a tired mule, I pulled out onto the road.
Interstate 10 heading toward Texas was straight and rarely clogged, making it one of the easiest roads to drive on in the West. The only problem was how maddeningly monotonous the repeating desert scenery was.
A famous country singer’s song played on the radio.
“Desert paths, carry me home,
To the wild canyons I used to roam.”
As I mindlessly sang along and kept driving, the sun rose above the horizon before I knew it.
Something about seeing the morning sun climbing into the sky made me feel strangely energized.
Grrr—
“Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
A sudden wave of hunger churned in my stomach, but I had no intention of stopping.
I’ll eat when I get there.
Since El Paso was a border city adjoining Mexico, cheap and delicious tacos were everywhere.
(Translator’s Note: Tacos - Tacos are a core Mexican food form, and the taco as a dish is commonly traced at least to the 18th century in Mexico.)
Trying food from a new place whenever you reached a new town was part of the fun of a road trip.
After several more hours of driving, I finally arrived at a small engine shop on the outskirts of El Paso.
[Sun City Engine Works]
[Sun City Engine Works]
-Complete Engine Rebuilds – Classic & Modern.-
-Complete engine rebuilds, from classics to moderns.-
True to El Paso’s nickname, the Sun City, the sign featured a rising sun.
“Huh? You must be Mr. Kwon? Oh, you got here pretty early! Nice to meet you, I’m Miguel—the one you spoke to on the phone.”
A Hispanic man in his forties came out after seeing my truck pull in and held out a rough hand.
“Yes, I woke up earlier than expected. And you can just call me Jason.”
“Hahaha, Jason. I know the feeling. A ’67 Mustang Fastback, huh? That’s one fine machine.”
With an easygoing smile, Miguel led me inside.
The 302 long block was already sitting there in a wooden crate. The freshly machined heads gleamed in the light.
(Translator’s Note: A long block is a major engine assembly that includes the engine block and cylinder heads but still may need supporting parts before it can run in a car.)
“It’s been rebuilt properly, so all you have to do is drop it in.”
Miguel spoke with confidence.
The shop was smaller than I had expected, but it was extremely clean, and I liked how well organized everything was.
See one thing, know ten, right?
Thinking of the Korean proverb, I pushed the pallet jack.
There was even a basic warranty, so there did not seem to be much to worry about.
Originally, I was supposed to load it myself, but Miguel came out without a word and helped me load the engine into the back of the truck.
Thanks to that, all I had to do was secure it with ratchet straps so it would not shift.
“Then drive safely. I hope to see you again.”
“Thank you. Oh, right! Is there a taco place around here you’d recommend?”
At my question, Miguel froze mid-wave.
Then he actually pulled off his gloves and strode toward me.
“Jason! You really picked the right man to ask. The only thing I know better than engines is tacos!”
With veins standing out in his neck, Miguel recommended a taco place that the “real” locals went to, not tourists.
“Tacos Chinampa?”
“We just call it Chinampa among ourselves.”
Local pride was written all over Miguel’s face.
His enthusiasm was so intense that I almost suspected it might secretly be his family’s place.
“If you go there, don’t even look at the menu. Just say, ‘Tres tacos al pastor, con todo.’ It means three al pastor tacos with all the toppings. If you don’t eat them like that, you might as well be eating a half-finished taco, so you have to try it. Trust me!”
(Translator’s Note: Al pastor is a style of seasoned pork associated with Lebanese influence in Mexico, especially through vertical spit-roasting traditions adapted into Mexican cooking.)
(Con todo - Con todo literally means “with everything,” meaning the standard full set of toppings.)
Miguel grabbed my hand with both of his as he emphatically repeated the instruction.
“Tres tacos al pastor, con todo.”
“That’s right! Perfect!”
“Haha, all right. Thanks. I’ll send you a review later after I try it.”
He looked ready to trap me in a full lecture on taco history if I stayed any longer, so I quickly shut the truck’s tailgate and stepped on the accelerator.
Vroooom—
I could feel the pleasant heft of the engine loaded in the back.
My stomach was still protesting with hunger, but an unusually broad smile was on my face.
It was an expression I had not worn in a very long time.
The taco place Miguel had recommended, called Chinampa, was a much smaller restaurant than I had expected.
As soon as I opened the warped aluminum door and stepped inside, the rich smell of grilling meat washed over me.
Uh, what was it again?
“Tre... pasta, toto...?”
I had been sure I had it memorized perfectly just moments earlier, but when it came time to order, my tongue stiffened and refused to cooperate.
The woman behind the counter arched one eyebrow.
At the same time, the men at the table in the back burst out laughing.
Then one of them got up and walked over.
He looked to be in his late fifties, a fairly typical Hispanic man for El Paso.
“Hey there, buddy. Not pasta—pastor. Tres tacos al pastor, con todo. That’s what you were trying to say, right?”
“That’s right. Tres tacos al pastor, con todo.”
“Yeah, that’ll do just fine. Your Spanish may be rough, but you picked one hell of a menu item.”
The man slapped my shoulder and went back to his seat.
A little later, I found myself staring down at the plate placed in front of me.
Slices of pork lay piled onto double tortillas, coated in dripping seasoning and salsa.
On top were finely chopped onions, cilantro, and chunks of pineapple.
“This is incredible.”
So this was what “all the toppings” meant. The density truly was something else.
As I stared down at the plate in admiration, that same man shouted again.
“Eat it before it gets cold!”
At his words, everyone else also looked at me, telling me to hurry up and try it. There was a strange, blazing anticipation in their eyes.
I squeezed the lime beside the plate over the tacos, then took a huge bite.
Huh...?
In that instant, the savory taste of hot meat filled my mouth, while the aroma of juices and spices flooded my nose.
“Whoa... my God.”
I opened my mouth and exhaled to cool the heat. Spicy, sweet, and tangy flavors bloomed all at once.
At the sight, the people around me burst out laughing again.
“That’s it! That’s exactly why everyone comes here.”
I had not said a single word about it tasting good, but perhaps they had read it off my face, because everyone around me nodded with immense satisfaction.
“Traveling alone? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
The man who had helped me with my order asked the question.
At first glance, it could have sounded racist, but what he meant was simply that I was not from El Paso.
I had gone through elementary, middle, and high school in a rural town where the white population exceeded eighty-five percent, so I could tell the difference in nuance with my eyes closed.
“Yeah. I’m restoring a car right now, and I had to come all the way here to find the right engine for it.”
“Hmm, restoring a car? What kind? What model? What year?”
At my answer, the man narrowed his eyes, then actually dragged his chair closer.
“It’s a ’67 Mustang GT.”
“...!”
His eyes widened for an instant, and he gave a low whistle.
“You’ve got excellent taste for a young man. If you ever think about selling it—ah, no, never mind. If it’s still being restored, there’s no need to rush.”
He muttered something to himself, then pulled out a business card and placed it on the table.
It was a clearly high-quality card, black with gold lettering.
“If you ever decide to sell, give me a call. If it’s a car you restored yourself, I have a feeling it’ll be something pretty special.”
He rose slowly from his seat as he spoke.
“Oh, and take your time with the tacos. Slow and easy. But enjoy them all the way to the end. This is that kind of place.”
After the man left, I picked up the business card he had left behind and read it slowly.
{Cárdenas Classic Motors}
{Cárdenas Classic Motors}
—Rafael Cárdenas—
—Rafael Cárdenas—
Rafael, huh.
It was a stylish name, fitting for someone with such a laid-back manner.
[1999 Chevrolet Silverado]
CC0
(Translator’s Note: CC0 — Creative Commons Zero, a legal tool through which a creator waives copyright and related rights to the fullest extent permitted by law, effectively placing the work in the public domain.)
[The tacos Jason ate]
CC-BY-4.0 by Sarah_Stierch