Selling an Engine By Joe Hakim

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So I'm at my mate's house. It's my night off, and he's just finished work, so I go there for something to do. Do something other than my girlfriend for a change. My mate and I sit and smoke a couple of joints and listen to really old-school rap like NWA and Public Enemy. We talk about the good old days, even though we're still in our twenties. My mate recently split up with his girlfriend, so he's pretty fucked up. Although I'm sure he's past the worst of it, he's let himself go. He was attempting to completely renovate his house, but after she left it all fell apart, and the work remains unfinished. 'I just don't give a fuck anymore,' he says.

The easiest part of doing up a house is the ripping everything out bit. There's a knock at the door, and my mate 'screens' the caller. The wall that separated the living room and the dining room has been knocked out, making the downstairs of his house one huge room. Even though we're sat in the back of the house, the massive living room window clearly displays the fronts of all the houses on the opposite side of the terrace. You can also see everyone that walks past, and every car that creeps up the one-way-too-thin road, punctuated by speed bumps.

It's like having a massive plasma screen television set into the wall, but the channel is permanently stuck on the 'World Outside' show. 'Come in!' my mate shouts, and the front door opens. A lad that I've never met before walks in. He's attired in the atypical townie clobber: Le Shark pullover, Adidas tracksuit bottoms and Nike Air Max trainers. As soon as he speaks I realise that he's a traveller. Or a pikey, whatever you prefer.

'I came around earlier,' he says. 'My Dad wants that engine yer said yer were floggin'.' (I'm not even going to try to phonetically render the traveller accent.) 'Soz,' my mate says. 'I was offered a bit of overtime, and I really need the fuckin' cash, so I was late gettin' in.' 'But he needs it for tomorrow.' My mate thinks for a minute, takes a toke, and then a light bulb goes 'bing!' above his head. 'I've got an idea,' he says. 'Ring yer Dad for us.' The kid takes his phone out of his pocket. 'I've got me van on the road, so I'll take the engine round now,' my mate says. The kid presses a button on the phone and then puts it to his ear.

There's a pause. 'Fuck it, I'll take it round tonight,' my mate says. 'How will you get in it in the van?' I ask. 'Fuck knows,' he replies. 'I haven't even got an engine hoist.' 'What's an engine hoist?' I ask. I am completely useless in all mechanical situations and scenarios. I could write what I know about cars and engines on the back of a post-card. I don't even own a driving license. People usually look at me like I'm a bit retarded when I tell them this.

I remain in the house and roll joints while my mate and the pikey kid drag this engine across the yard from the garage to the van. This is no easy task. My mate's yard is littered with several vehicles, all in various states of repair; a couple of jeeps; a couple of BMWs; a transit van. The van is the only thing that runs. It's also the only vehicle that's taxed and tested. Roadworthy. The easiest part of doing up cars is the ripping everything out bit.

They push the engine to the back of the van on a trolley, and then the sky opens and it starts chucking it down, just to make everything a little more difficult. I make them both a cup of tea and go outside to offer assistance. 'The plan,' my mate says, 'is to get the engine as close to the van as possible. Then we strap a couple of ratchet straps to it, and the we lift it a bit at a time, taking the slack off the straps as we do, y'know, in case we have to let go of the engine.'

As it turns out, the engine is the heaviest object ever created. 'It's a Escort TDI engine,' my mate tells me. 'What does TDI mean?' I ask, and the pikey kid looks at me like I'm retarded. 'Turbo Diesel Intercooler.' 'I have a plan,' my mate says. It's still raining. So we're outside and it's raining, and my mate decides that the only thing to do is to use a jack to do the majority of the lifting. He balances two bricks on top of the jack, and the pikey kid and I tilt the engine while he shoves it under. We somehow manage to tip the engine onto the jack, and balancing it on the bricks for extra height. As my mate slowly pumps the lever on the jack, the engine lifts off the ground. I'm stood at one side trying to hold it steady. 'Let's walk it over to the lip of the van, carefully,' my mate says, and we rock the engine from side to side and push the jack along underneath. 'That's it, steady,' my mate says. 'Improvise, adapt and overcome, that's a task like this needs, a bit of military precision, summat like that.'

Continued .. Next Page

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