Captainkirk's Duster project
It was late on Friday evening; the house was quiet and my wife had retired to bed already. I was sitting in my den, deeply engrossed in Larry Shepard’s How to Hot Rod Smallblock Mopar Engines, when I heard one of the French den doors creak slowly open. I paid it no mind; it’s very typical behavior for my black cat Dillon to follow me from room to room and curl up nearby wherever I am. If I’m in my den, he will poke a paw in the door if it’s ajar and quietly bat it open with outstretched paw…squeeeeeak…and saunter in like he owns the place. Sometimes I wonder…
Hearing the slight groaning of the hinges, I just assumed it was him again. Besides, I was lost in the chapter on engine blueprinting.
It wasn’t until I caught a whiff of wood smoke and saddle leather that I raised my eyes from the page I was reading.
“Hello, Cappy”
Oh, Hello, Duke! What brings you to my neck of the woods? And don’t call me “Cappy”…
He jerked a thumb towards my worn sofa. “You mind?”
Mind? Hell no! Sit down, pard! Where are my manners?
His eyes shifted towards the unopened bottle of Jameson’s on my makeshift bar, again; “You mind?”
I didn’t. Not for him, anyway. I got up and grabbed the unopened bottle and was about to hand it to him, then remembered this was The Duke, not Frank Sinatra. I tossed it his way and he snatched it out of the air deftly, the way someone might snatch an errant fly.
He looked at it quizzically, searching for a cork, but figured out the screw-on top thing in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.
He tipped his head back, and the bottle with it.
Glug...glug…glug…
Three huge bubbles burped up to the upended bottom on the bottle. When he lowered it, more than a quarter of the golden contents were missing…”Ahhhhh!” he hissed, with undeniable enjoyment, a huge grin crossing his lips. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve much like Rooster Cogburn in True Grit; all that was missing tonight was the eye patch. “Cappy?” He handed me the bottle by the neck.
Now, I love my Jameson’s. But when I partake, and not all that often, it’s usually less than an inch in the bottom of a tumbler, and I nurse it a good long time. So long in fact, that I stopped using ice a long time ago because it would melt well before I was finished. And Jameson’s is too good to water down, my friends.
I tipped the bottle back and took a snort myownself, and immediately felt a river of molten lava fan out across my chest. A hacking cough escaped me and my eyes began sprouting water like firehose…Dang!
Nothing like good Irish whiskey, eh, Duke?
“EYE-rish whiskey? Well, why ditten’ja say so?” he cackled. “Pass that hooch back my way, Cappy!”
The upended bottle burped twice more, sounding like an office water cooler on break time.
When he handed it back, it was less than half full.
Cautiously screwing the top back on, I deliberately pushed it to the side, out of reach. I mean, he IS The Duke and all, but still…
So, what brings you out to my neck of the woods?
“Cappy, I come ta have a talk with you.”
Sure, Duke! What’s on your mind?
“Well, it’s about what you’ve been doin’…”
I was pleased. He must have noticed the flurry of activity with the new pistons, boring the block +.030 and my current dilemma regarding con rods…
“You’re goin’ at it all wrong, Cappy”
I was stunned. Wrong? But…the block…?
“You’re spendin’ all this time on my motor, my heart…which is good, mind ya…don’t take me wrong, Pilgrim. But, where are ya gonna put it when you’re done?”
In the engine bay, where it belongs. Whad’ja think, I was gonna put it in the trunk?
By now my ego was stinging worse than my chest after the Jameson’s.
He took off his hat and twirled the brim between his fingers. His voice got soft and low, as it always does when he’s serious and giving sage advice…”Now, listen, Cappy. That car isn’t any more ready for a motor than, well…my herd was ready for Abilene in ‘Red River’ when I first started the Dunson ranch. It takes time, and sweat, and hard work. You have an engine compartment still in primer, front and rear suspension still out of the car, no fuel lines, brake lines, master cylinder or any of that other stuff that needs to go in before you drop me off stands. Winter’s comin’ on and it will be too cold to paint, and you haven’t even bought paint yet for the engine bay. You’re chasin’ a mustang that can’t be caught, Pilgrim. You’re gonna finish this engine and have nowhere to bolt it. I wouldn’t tell you this if I wasn’t right, and I am, Cappy. And you know it. Sure, go ahead; work on the motor over the winter. But you’re concentrating on the wrong horse, Pilgrim. Somebody’s gotta say it, you’re too darn stubborn to see it, but I’ll say it. I’ll say it. Now quit hidin’ that bottle and hand it back to me.”
Ouch. Wordlessly, I handed back the bottle, then took it from him and took a pull myself.
He was right, of course. Why did he always have to be right? I closed my eyes, feeling the burn of high-test Irish whiskey going down the sewer pipe and let out a long sigh.
The den door creaked again like a rusty barn door hinge and I opened my eyes to say something, anything…and saw Dillon move silently like a shadow across the carpet. Other than that, the den was completely empty and silent, except for a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s and the lingering smell of wood smoke and saddle leather…
It was late on Friday evening; the house was quiet and my wife had retired to bed already. I was sitting in my den, deeply engrossed in Larry Shepard’s How to Hot Rod Smallblock Mopar Engines, when I heard one of the French den doors creak slowly open. I paid it no mind; it’s very typical behavior for my black cat Dillon to follow me from room to room and curl up nearby wherever I am. If I’m in my den, he will poke a paw in the door if it’s ajar and quietly bat it open with outstretched paw…squeeeeeak…and saunter in like he owns the place. Sometimes I wonder…
Hearing the slight groaning of the hinges, I just assumed it was him again. Besides, I was lost in the chapter on engine blueprinting.
It wasn’t until I caught a whiff of wood smoke and saddle leather that I raised my eyes from the page I was reading.
“Hello, Cappy”
Oh, Hello, Duke! What brings you to my neck of the woods? And don’t call me “Cappy”…
He jerked a thumb towards my worn sofa. “You mind?”
Mind? Hell no! Sit down, pard! Where are my manners?
His eyes shifted towards the unopened bottle of Jameson’s on my makeshift bar, again; “You mind?”
I didn’t. Not for him, anyway. I got up and grabbed the unopened bottle and was about to hand it to him, then remembered this was The Duke, not Frank Sinatra. I tossed it his way and he snatched it out of the air deftly, the way someone might snatch an errant fly.
He looked at it quizzically, searching for a cork, but figured out the screw-on top thing in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.
He tipped his head back, and the bottle with it.
Glug...glug…glug…
Three huge bubbles burped up to the upended bottom on the bottle. When he lowered it, more than a quarter of the golden contents were missing…”Ahhhhh!” he hissed, with undeniable enjoyment, a huge grin crossing his lips. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve much like Rooster Cogburn in True Grit; all that was missing tonight was the eye patch. “Cappy?” He handed me the bottle by the neck.
Now, I love my Jameson’s. But when I partake, and not all that often, it’s usually less than an inch in the bottom of a tumbler, and I nurse it a good long time. So long in fact, that I stopped using ice a long time ago because it would melt well before I was finished. And Jameson’s is too good to water down, my friends.
I tipped the bottle back and took a snort myownself, and immediately felt a river of molten lava fan out across my chest. A hacking cough escaped me and my eyes began sprouting water like firehose…Dang!
Nothing like good Irish whiskey, eh, Duke?
“EYE-rish whiskey? Well, why ditten’ja say so?” he cackled. “Pass that hooch back my way, Cappy!”
The upended bottle burped twice more, sounding like an office water cooler on break time.
When he handed it back, it was less than half full.
Cautiously screwing the top back on, I deliberately pushed it to the side, out of reach. I mean, he IS The Duke and all, but still…
So, what brings you out to my neck of the woods?
“Cappy, I come ta have a talk with you.”
Sure, Duke! What’s on your mind?
“Well, it’s about what you’ve been doin’…”
I was pleased. He must have noticed the flurry of activity with the new pistons, boring the block +.030 and my current dilemma regarding con rods…
“You’re goin’ at it all wrong, Cappy”
I was stunned. Wrong? But…the block…?
“You’re spendin’ all this time on my motor, my heart…which is good, mind ya…don’t take me wrong, Pilgrim. But, where are ya gonna put it when you’re done?”
In the engine bay, where it belongs. Whad’ja think, I was gonna put it in the trunk?
By now my ego was stinging worse than my chest after the Jameson’s.
He took off his hat and twirled the brim between his fingers. His voice got soft and low, as it always does when he’s serious and giving sage advice…”Now, listen, Cappy. That car isn’t any more ready for a motor than, well…my herd was ready for Abilene in ‘Red River’ when I first started the Dunson ranch. It takes time, and sweat, and hard work. You have an engine compartment still in primer, front and rear suspension still out of the car, no fuel lines, brake lines, master cylinder or any of that other stuff that needs to go in before you drop me off stands. Winter’s comin’ on and it will be too cold to paint, and you haven’t even bought paint yet for the engine bay. You’re chasin’ a mustang that can’t be caught, Pilgrim. You’re gonna finish this engine and have nowhere to bolt it. I wouldn’t tell you this if I wasn’t right, and I am, Cappy. And you know it. Sure, go ahead; work on the motor over the winter. But you’re concentrating on the wrong horse, Pilgrim. Somebody’s gotta say it, you’re too darn stubborn to see it, but I’ll say it. I’ll say it. Now quit hidin’ that bottle and hand it back to me.”
Ouch. Wordlessly, I handed back the bottle, then took it from him and took a pull myself.
He was right, of course. Why did he always have to be right? I closed my eyes, feeling the burn of high-test Irish whiskey going down the sewer pipe and let out a long sigh.
The den door creaked again like a rusty barn door hinge and I opened my eyes to say something, anything…and saw Dillon move silently like a shadow across the carpet. Other than that, the den was completely empty and silent, except for a half-empty bottle of Jameson’s and the lingering smell of wood smoke and saddle leather…
