Chapter 3. I Went Shopping for Car Parts
Chapter 3. I Went Shopping for Car Parts
“Not like I 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 spent my life drifting from place to place, of course I did not own a house.
I really had lived as though I had never taken a single day off.
America’s murderous cost of living truly showed no mercy.
In my head, I calculated the 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, sir, we don’t have the engine you’re looking for.”
“Ah, we had one last month, but it’s gone now. Would you like us to contact you if we get another one in?”
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.”
“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.”
“Oh! Sounds like you’ve got quite a fine car in the works. A C4, huh... We happen to have both a 289 and a 302. Both are in excellent condition.”
The man on the other end replied at once, like someone thoroughly used to calls like this.
“Hmm, a 289 and a 302...”
I closed my eyes for a moment before making my decision.
Thanks to the mysterious ability I had just acquired, the basic information needed 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.
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.”
(Translator’s Note: A crate engine is a complete engine sold ready to install, typically shipped in a crate.)
“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.
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.
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.
“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!”
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.
Maybe it was about time to head back.
I had been moving diligently since before dawn, but it was already past one in the afternoon.
Vroom—rattle rattle rattle—
My beloved Chevy truck made a phlegmy, congested sound.
But unlike the struggling truck, my body felt astonishingly light.
Was shopping always this fun?
I had already been driving for more than six hours, and I still had just as much driving left before I got back, yet it felt as though my energy was only continuing to surge.
As I drove along Interstate 10, stretching all the way from El Paso, Texas to southern Arizona, the light on the fuel gauge started blinking before I knew it.
Spotting the red sign of a Pilot Travel Center, I pulled in.
Naturally, truck stops like this were not just for truckers; ordinary people could use them too, and the gas was at least slightly cheaper.
Even so, $3.10 a gallon. Prices really never stop climbing.
First things first, I parked by the pump so I could feed the truck.
Clack—
For a truck, my beloved C1500 drank gasoline.
I inserted the nozzle into the fuel port and glanced over the simple menu board posted beside it.
“Hot Dogs – 2 for $4”
“Hot Dogs”
“Chicken Strips Combo $8.5”
“Chicken Strips Combo”
“Arizona Iced Tea $1.49”
“Arizona Iced Tea”
.
.
.
I ordered a chicken strips combo—with fries and a soda—and used the truck’s tailgate as a table while I ate enough to tide me over.
Then the road trip began again.
Before I knew it, the sun had sunk halfway into the western horizon.
Driving beneath the long red rays of the setting sun made it feel as though I were bathing in sunlight.
No, seriously, I need to get an actual shower today. I’ll dump the engine in the storage unit and head straight to a motel or something.
I had been crossing the dry South the whole time, so I had not sweated much, but after getting coated in sand-laden wind and dust, I felt thoroughly grimy.
Still, today was really a good day.
For the first time in my life, I had bought an engine, and at the taco place I had met a guy named Rafael, whose pronunciation even sounded stylish.
Thanks to him, I had managed to place my order without incident, and the tacos I ate there had honestly been some of the best I had ever had.
Of course, I had also blown through roughly five thousand dollars in an instant.
This isn’t spending. It’s an investment.
“Tres tacos al pastor, con todo—”
Muttering the taco order Miguel had taught me and Rafael had corrected, I kept heading toward the setting sun without pause.
By the time I reached the storage unit, the surroundings had already turned bluish with dusk.
I’d better hurry before it gets completely dark.
Inside the unit, there was a decent assortment of necessary tools.
Various wrenches, a jack, stands, and even an engine hoist...
Old and worn, but neatly organized, the tools looked as though they had been waiting all this time for the day they would be used again.
When Miguel and I had loaded the engine earlier that morning, it had been easy thanks to the lift that could pick it up together with the pallet. Things were a little different now.
First, I dragged out an old hoist from inside the unit, its red paint peeling off in places. The metal wheels squeaked faintly as they rolled over the small gravel.
This thing really works, right...?
Next, I used a well-worn spanner polished smooth from use to thread ring-shaped 3/8-inch bolts into the engine’s chain holes.
The smell rising from my hands was a mix of oil and metal.
The smell my father’s large hands had always carried.
...Focus.
If I banged the engine into something or dropped it, that would be five thousand dollars gone.
I gave my head a light shake and hooked the chain onto the rings. Then I slowly pressed down on the hoist lever, again and again, like pumping a hand jack.
Creak, creak, creak, creak—
The old hoist groaned as if begging to be spared.
Or maybe, on the contrary, it was begging to be put out of its misery.
Even so, it worked.
With each pump, the engine rose another half-handspan into the air.
Before long, the nearly 420-pound, or roughly 200-kilogram, engine hung suspended in midair.
I braced one hand calmly against its side to keep it from swinging, then carefully pushed the hoist backward.
Now the difficult part was over.
All that remained was to place a wooden pallet beneath the hoist once it was inside the unit again and lower the engine back onto it.
Sweat finally started beading on my forehead, even though I had not sweated in the middle of the day.
Actually, this works out well.
Clack—
After locking the storage unit door securely, I got into the truck and headed for the nearest motel chain around here, a Quality Inn.
Ah, before that...
Since I had forgotten to buy it earlier, I stopped by a Circle K to pick up a six-pack of Bud Light.
It just wouldn’t feel right not having this after a shower.
The chill from the beer resting on the passenger seat only heightened my anticipation.
For now, I was planning to stay about a week, generously speaking. If I ended up staying longer than that, I would think about it when the time came.
“Seven nights, non-smoking. Room 214.”
“Thanks.”
It was a little past eight in the evening. The motel lobby was so brightly lit by bluish-white fluorescent lights that it was almost dazzling.
It took less than ten minutes for the expressionless woman behind the counter to check my license and hand over the room key.
When I passed through the hallway lined with dusty-smelling carpet and stepped into the room, I was greeted by the unfamiliar stillness peculiar to temporary lodgings.
It was a moment I had experienced countless times, yet it was still a kind of darkness I could never get used to.
I slipped off my shoes—something utterly natural to someone raised Korean—sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, then got up and headed for the bathroom.
Rattle rattle—
Along with the noise of the old ventilation fan, hot water poured over my body.
It was not as though I had rolled around on the ground, but grains of sand still washed away in the stream and gathered at the drain.
Whew... This feels good.
I had often felt something similar during my military days. It was only after training or an operation was over and I stepped into the shower that the faint weariness finally made itself known.
After finishing a quick shower and drying myself off, the first place I went was the mini fridge.
Oh? It’s actually pretty cold.
A motel refrigerator running this well was an uncommon surprise.
Pssht—
First things first, with only a towel loosely wrapped around my naked body, I cracked open a beer right away.
“Damn... this is insane. Absolutely insane.”
The coldness sliding roughly down my throat blew away all the heat that had built up over the course of the day in a single stroke.
Gulp, gulp...
A 12-ounce, or 355-milliliter, can of beer disappeared in an instant.
Crunch—
For reasons I could not explain, I crushed the empty can out of habit, then—pssht!—immediately opened a second one.
For some reason, the beer was going down especially well today.
At this rate, maybe I should’ve bought tall boys instead—sixteen ounces.
...No.
I had only just bought an engine, and I still had a mountain of things to do tomorrow.
The real celebration could wait until the day the Mustang actually roared to life.
Whew. So what’s the next step?
I leaned back against the headboard and slowly closed my eyes.
Then, without any real effort on my part, a message popped into my mind.
[Loading additional parts required for Ford 302 Windsor engine installation.]
Fuel hose, clamps
Vacuum hose
Carburetor
Distributor, ignition coil, cables
Flexplate
Radiator & hoses
Exhaust manifold/header
Water pump, pulley set
.
.
.
.
Wow... I still need a lot more stuff.
Honestly, I had taken engine installation a bit too lightly.
America was full of people who swapped engines and transmissions in and out of cars in their own garages.
And if you watched YouTube videos, it even looked absurdly simple.
But actually trying to do it yourself was a different matter entirely. There were countless things to consider and just as many things required.
Still, I had this special ability.
It not only provided manuals for maintenance and restoration as a baseline, but also recommended the necessary parts according to my current situation—the types, sizes, quantities, and even brands.
Looking at it this way, this really is an incredible ability.
If I had tried to find all of this on my own and compare compatibility without the help of the ability? Honestly, I could not have guaranteed that I would manage it properly even in a month.
For the time being, I decided to buy the universally used consumables and supplies online—things like oil and filters.
“‘AutoMall’? This place looks decent.”
A long list of car parts appeared on my phone screen.
“Since it’s a stock 302 engine, I’ll go with Valvoline 10W-40 for the oil, and make it seven quarts to be safe. The filter should be a Ford OEM Motorcraft. Permatex RTV silicone should do for sealant...”
Tap—tap—
With just a few movements of my fingers, the shopping cart began filling up in no time.
After about thirty minutes of back and forth, I finally finished placing the order.
All I had done was sit on the bed and click a few buttons, but somehow I still felt drained.
The smaller expenses are adding up more than I expected.
Just stocking up on consumables had already cost me nearly two hundred extra dollars.
And that still was not the end of the parts I needed to buy.
“Let’s see, the things that aren’t here are the carburetor, distributor, coil, plugs, intake, and radiator...”
(Translator’s Note: Carburetor - A carburetor mixes fuel and air before they enter the engine. It was standard on older cars before modern electronic fuel injection took over.)
I crossed items off the parts list I had written on paper one by one as I checked what was left.
The things I had excluded from online ordering were the parts that required compatibility checks, along with the ones that were large and heavy.
In other words, the ones that would come with murderous shipping costs.
“I don’t exactly like the idea, but I guess I have no choice except to go there.”
Whether by bad luck or good, I already knew the best shop where I could get all the remaining parts in one go.
“Well, a lot of time has passed. It’s not like that guy is guaranteed to still be working there...”
I downed the beer that was half left in one go, crushed the can, and tossed it into the trash can a short distance away.
Thunk—
Nothing about this place has changed.
After waking up early in the morning, I drove the truck to a parts shop south of Tucson.
Screeech—
I parked the truck in front of the store and took a moment to look around.
{Hutchins Vintage Auto Parts}
{Hutchins Vintage Auto Parts}
“If It Ain’t Ford, It Ain’t Here.”
“We don’t deal in anything but Ford.”
The color had faded a little, that was all.
The sign looked exactly the same as it had when I was a kid, and even the dry cactus standing in front of the door, dead or alive, was still there.
It was as though time had stopped throughout the entire area around this shop.
I’m sure that nosy personality hasn’t changed either.
The Hutchins family—country bumpkins fanatical about Ford.
And among them, Steven, who had been my classmate in high school, was an especially arrogant bastard who had ruled the school thanks to his superior physique.
Of course, him aside, I had not the slightest desire to run into any familiar faces in this town.
There were no beautiful memories here worth dragging back out and chewing over.
“Whew.”
I let out a long sigh and pushed open the door.
Jingle—
The metal bell hanging by the entrance rang. A faint smell of dust, cardboard boxes, and rubber rushed at me.
The interior was a mess.
The atmosphere was completely different from Miguel’s shop.
Under the low lights beyond the long rows of shelves, a large white man stood with his back to me, busily working on something.
A sun-darkened nape, an old work shirt, and dark brown hair sticking out from beneath a worn cap.
Steven Hutchins...
Ten years had passed, but I could tell it was him just from his back.
“What can we help you find?”
At that moment, another person suddenly appeared from the side.
A man in his mid-fifties, with a rough beard.
It was his father.
“I’m looking for some parts for a 302.”
Good. Better to place the order with this man as quickly as possible and get out—
At that very moment, the guy sitting at the workbench whipped his head around.
The moment his eyes met mine, they widened, then narrowed again just as quickly.
Without a word, he set the screwdriver in his hand down on the bench with a thunk.
Then—
Stride, stride—
He snatched up the towel hanging from the chair, wiped the oil off his hands, and came straight toward me.
“Hey, wait a sec! Aren’t you Jason? Wow, how many years has it been?”
Damn it.
That orangutan-faced bastard with the broad, flat mug recognized me instantly.