Chapter 5

Friday, June 16, 2006

Friday at Mendoza's Engine Center started out like normal until the shop foreman announced that there would be a meeting of all employees from both shops in the big loading bay before lunch. There was a lot of confusion in the air as the employees began to gather. Scott overheard one fabrication shop employee telling another, "Just like my last job, they called us all in for the bad news."

Everybody got quiet as the two foremen walked in. They were quickly followed by Mr. Mendoza and the office staff. Mr. Mendoza jumped up on a small stack of wooden pallets so that people could see him.

"Can everybody hear me?" he asked. There were murmurs of assent. "Okay, good. I know things have been tight lately since we had to cut some hours. It means a lot to me, and the company, that you stuck through these hard times. It's nice to come before you and have some good news. Thanks to some terrific work by the front office staff, I can announce that we won the overhaul and maintenance contract for Trans-Pecos Gas. That's all their fleet vehicles for three years!"

There was an explosion of exclamations and spontaneous hand clapping.

"That's right, a three year contract. That means stability for the company, and not just for the engine center. I fully anticipate a lot of cross over to the fabrication shop."

The mood in the loading bay had completely turned around. The men were exchanging smiles and slaps on the back.

Mr. Mendoza continued explaining the kind of work that they expected with the contract, and then announced a couple of promotions within the company. Finally, "I've got one last announcement. Rico Lopez came to us over a year ago and has turned out to be one of the fab shop's most reliable employees. I made a promise to him. If Rico would get his GED then we would pay for him to attend the advanced welding school in Midland."

Mr. Mendoza held up a piece of paper, "This is Rico's GED transcript, which means that he'll be headed to Midland in August. Congratulations Rico! If you want to find out about professional training classes or schools, talk to your supervisor or shop foreman. The better trained you are, the better product that Mendoza's turns out. Last thing, I swear, lunch is on the company today!"

There were more cheers.

"Enjoy it folks, we've earned it," and with that Mr. Mendoza jumped down. He walked through the crowd shaking hands and exchanging greetings. Scott thought that he looked like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

Rico caught Scott's attention and waved him over.

"How about that, gringo?"

"Congratulations, Rico, I knew you would pass," Scott replied. He was really happy for Rico.

Rico lowered his voice, "And how did your own test go?"

Scott held his thumb up and winked.

Rico took a last look at Scott and said, "Try to stay out of jail."

On Saturday, after his shift at Mendoza's, Scott was riding back to the ranch. The temperature was flirting with the century mark. He hadn't seen any sign of Mr. Piotrowski on the previous two days, so he was surprised to see him sitting on his front porch, waving. Scott waved back and stopped.

"How are you Mr. Piotrowski?"

"It's hotter than blazes, but I'm doing fine Scott. Thanks for asking. I've got some good news," he said. "I stopped by Meritt's this morning and had the cute waitress help me with the computer."

Scott was trying to figure out which waitress was the 'cute' one. Maybe Mr. Piotrowski had different standards than a fourteen year old because he was drawing a blank.

"The costume jewelry has seven bids!" he announced.

"Hey, that's great Mr. Piotrowski. You were careful with your password and remembered to log off right?"

"Yes, yes, I was very careful."

"Just checking."

"No, you're right. It's something I'll have to be careful about. I won't keep you, but wanted to share the news. What do you have planned for tomorrow?" he asked.

"I want to try and get all of the windows washed," Scott said.

"I like it. Then off you go, I'll see you first thing."

Sunday morning dawned, and it looked like it was going be another scorcher. Scott had been up early and finished his few summertime chores. He grabbed a quick breakfast with Mrs. Delgado, and then jumped on his bike.

Mr. Piotrowski was waiting for Scott. They moved buckets and sponges around to the side of the house, and hooked up a longer water hose. Scott mixed some of the window washing concentrate with water in one of the buckets. Then he stepped back to consider the task.

"Mr. Piotrowski, we need a ladder. We really should do the second floor windows first. Do you have an extension ladder?"

"You're right, I should have thought of that. There are a couple of ladders in the storage building. Look toward the back on the side closest to the house and you should see them."

Scott went through the side door and turned on the light switch. The lights flickered and snapped on. He finally spotted the ladders in the back corner. Getting to them was another question all together. He moved some boxes out of the way, and started clearing a path. The air in the storage building was absolutely still. He started to sweat. The heat in the building was already stifling; by afternoon it was going to be intolerable.

Scott finally got near the corner, but was blocked by a big pile covered with a dusty green tarp. He pulled the tarp back and found a jumble. There were several boxes of different sizes. Some items were wrapped in a thick ply plastic that had turned yellow with age. Other objects were wrapped in what looked like old oily rags. There was another tarp wrapped around something low on the floor. Scott moved the first box and tried to make some space. The second box had its base and corners reinforced with strips of wood. There was something heavy in it. He slid it over. He moved some smaller items and pulled the corner of the second tarp back.

He was staring at two, chromed wire spoke wheels. Looking again he started to realize what was spread out around him. He grabbed the plastic sheeting and pulled it back to find the front forks of a small motorcycle. Digging further he found the seat, its vinyl had turned brittle and cracked from the heat. Another box held a headlight. The bike's frame was propped up against the wall wrapped in a blanket. He found the tank covered in plastic and a layer of old cloth. He turned it upright. 'Yamaha' stared back at him from the side of the tank.

"What's taking you so long in there?" Mr. Piotrowski's voice was muted in the still air. He slowly picked his way through the path that Scott had made.

"I had to move some things, look," he said excitedly pointing at the disassembled motorcycle.

"Hmmm," Mr. Piotrowski grumbled. "Can you hand me the end of the ladder? We can carry it out and get started on those windows that you were so eager to tackle."

"Yes, sir."

The two carried the ladder around to where the buckets were set up. Mr. Piotrowski ran the ladder extension up, and Scott helped him place it beside the second story window.

"You be careful going up and down this ladder. Watch that you don't let the rungs get wet with soap or they'll be slicker than cow shit. If you can't reach something, come back down and we'll move the ladder. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir, safety first."

They spent all of the morning, and an hour after lunch, washing windows. Sitting quietly in the kitchen afterwards drinking a glass of ice water, Scott was trying to figure out what was bothering Mr. Piotrowski.

Mr. Piotrowski coughed to get his attention, "Scott, about that motorcycle you found?"

"Yes, sir?"

"That was something that I was saving for my ... son," he explained.

"Oh."

"What I was thinking about was that we still haven't agreed on how much I was going to pay you. So, if you'd be interested, how about I trade you the motorcycle and some other incidentals in exchange for your labor?"

Scott took a breath, "Are you sure Mr. Piotrowski, I wouldn't want to—"

"Scott, I've thought about it. I'd like to see that bike go to somebody who could appreciate it. I think that somebody is you. Am I right?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I mean it's what I've been working so hard for. Can you tell me anymore about it? All I know is that it was an older model Yamaha, but that's all I could see."

"It's a 1976 Yamaha RD 200. They were a great little two-stroke bike, air cooled with twin exhausts. Six speed. It had a front drum brake, but I converted it to a disk brake. It's much better behaved that way, trust me. You know, I've forgotten how much work had been done to that little bike. A word of warning. It's going to take a ton of time and effort to get it back to running condition. It's hasn't been started in over twenty-five years. Plus, it's in several different piles. Another thing, you'll have to work on it on your own time."

Scott quickly agreed, "Not a problem. Thank you, Mr. Piotrowski."

He was thrilled. A two hundred cubic centimeter engine was well within the 250 cc size limit that the state of Texas required for young riders. Whatever it cost to get this bike running again, mentally crossing his fingers, it would have to be less than what he'd planned to spend on a modern bike. No matter how old, he thought that the road bike would be more civilized than the street legal 125 cc dirt bikes that he had been considering.

Scott was so excited that he hadn't realized that Mr. Piotrowski was still speaking. He replayed the last several minutes back in his head. This was interesting. Mr. Piotrowski wanted to remodel the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms, and put an office upstairs in one of the unused rooms. He had just been asked a question; did he know anybody who could do the work?

Scott focused, "I can ask around."

"I'd appreciate it. Why don't we move that pile of motorcycle bits over to the stall where I'd been parking the panel truck? I'm going to leave it outside since I'm using it so much now," Mr. Piotrowski said.

Together they moved the lighter boxes and bits down to the stall. Scott cleared out a wider path. With more space and the help of a dolly, they moved the front end, the reinforced box holding the engine, and the frame.

Mr. Piotrowski wiped the sweat from his eyes and declared, "I may be too old for much more of that nonsense."

"You shouldn't overdo it," Scott said concerned.

"Have you been colluding with those women from the auxiliary?" asked Mr. Piotrowski. "Never mind, those women don't collude, they command."

They shared a smile.

"We're going to have to do something about this building. There's not enough room to work in here, and it's too damn hot."

Mr. Piotrowski walked over to the hose by the back door of the house. He turned on the faucet while they both took drinks from the hose and splashed water on their faces.

"We need a tent," he announced.

"Huh?"

"Come on, we need something to trade," Mr. Piotrowski said. He moved quickly to the storage building with Scott close on his heels. Inside he made his way to a section that Scott had not been in yet. Mr. Piotrowski was muttering to himself, "No. Not that. Where is that durned thing. Ah ha!" He pulled down a box with a grunt and set it gently on the floor.

"Need to find some spare tubes," he announced. "Open up some of those boxes for me."

Scott was completely confused, and it must have shown on his face.

"Vacuum tubes, son," said Mr. Piotrowski. He rummaged through a nearby box that was open and pulled out a small object and handed it to him.

"That, my young friend, is a vacuum tube. They ran the world before the transistor or semiconductor."

Scott examined the object. It was a glass tube. The glass had a silvery sheen to it, and the 'nipple' end was blackened. There was a metal structure inside the glass, and it had plugs on the flat end. He turned to Mr. Piotrowski with a quizzical look.

"That one is burnt out. We need to find some spares."

Scott moved to open some of the smaller boxes.

"Don't you have a pocket knife?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

"No, sir."

"Good grief, every boy should have a pocket knife." Mr. Piotrowski walked to another shelf and dug around. He unwrapped a small box, and brought over a knife and opened it. It had horn style grips and two blades which Mr. Piotrowski tested with his thumb.

"I'll teach you how to sharpen this later. Always cut away from yourself, never toward you." Mr. Piotrowski pointed to a scar at the base of his index finger. "I got that when I was about eleven years old because I hadn't learned that lesson."

"I'll be careful. Thanks, Mr. Piotrowski!"

"It's just an old pocket knife. That's what we call an incidental by the way. Besides, you'll need it."

Incidental was another word that Scott liked. He found a box full of vacuum tubes packed in individual cardboard boxes, and then carried the mystery box into the kitchen for Mr. Piotrowski. It weighed about thirty pounds he guessed. It turned out to hold a radio, but not one that he had ever seen the likes of. It was covered with a pretty, burl wood veneer. Offset from the center it had had a large round glass covered golden dial. It looked elegant, and had the word 'Silvertone' printed at the center. The case was more like a piece of furniture than a radio. Mr. Piotrowski fiddled with the knobs, but the radio was dead. He took the back loose and showed Scott the vacuum tubes. He pulled one that was burnt out and found a replacement. He plugged it in, turned the radio on and it crackled to life.

"We're in business. Tomorrow we go trading."

Mr. Piotrowski told him that he didn't have to show up until 11:00 a.m. on Monday. They were going to go to town.

Scott spent a leisurely Monday morning reading. He had enjoyed a quiet breakfast with Mrs. Delgado before returning to his room. The school district, and the public library, had a summer reading program. Most of his peers wouldn't finish the reading list, or would wait until the last week of summer vacation to start, Scott planned to finish in a couple of weeks.

Mr. Piotrowski was driving the sedan today. He explained that they were going to see an old friend of his. On the east side of Fort Stockton they pulled into the parking lot of a building that Scott had seen before, but had never been in. The long metal building stood alone in an empty, dusty lot. It was the Veterans of Foreign Wars post. The VFW was a social center for the older set in Fort Stockton. They had dances, and let people rent out the hall. This afternoon there were only a few cars parked in the lot.

Scott carried the radio in its box while Mr. Piotrowski pushed his way through the front door.

A man stood up from a table where a group was playing dominos, "Good grief, look who it is. Sergeant Piotrowski, as I live and breathe, I thought when you paid for that lifetime membership that we might see you more than once a decade."

Mr. Piotrowski pointed to a table and told Scott to set the box down there. Then he went to shake hands with the men.

"Who is this young fellow, Alex?" asked one of them.

"That's Scott MacIntyre, he's working for me this summer."

"So it's true, you are going back into business?" asked the first man.

"I'm clearing out my building that much is true. Let me jaw at you a bit about something." Mr. Piotrowski turned back to Scott, "Saddle up to the bar and order a root beer, it's on me."

Scott went up to the bar. There were two older men there nursing early afternoon beers. They were watching a tiny television mounted above the bar. The bartender leaned over and asked, "What'll you have young man?"

"Root beer, please."

"Ah, excellent choice. This was a particularly good vintage with a full and robust flavor." The bartender reached into a cooler and took out a large glass mug that was frosted over. He walked to the end of the bar and pulled a tap that dispensed a foamy brown liquid. Putting a paper coaster on the bar top he set the mug down, and with a wave of his hand invited Scott to try the concoction.

Scott took one tentative drink, and then he took a long deep pull from the mug.

"Good?" inquired the bartender

"Yes, sir," replied Scott as he wiped the foam from his lip. "That's really good."

"Now, you stick to root beer so you don't end up like these two," he indicated the men watching the television. One of them looked over and saluted the bartender with a rude finger.

Scott was draining the mug when Mr. Piotrowski approached the bar. "How much?" he asked.

"On the house, Alex. Don't be such a stranger. We'd like to see you around here, and you can bring this young man back with you. We need a little life in this place."

Scott carried the radio out to a truck in the parking lot under the supervision of the man that Mr. Piotrowski been talking with. The man waved and went back into the VFW building.

Mr. Piotrowski was rubbing his hands together, "Yes, sir, that's what I call a good trade. Is there anywhere in town that you'd like to go to while we're here?"

"Could we go to the library?" It was just a couple of blocks east of the VFW.

At the library Mr. Piotrowski headed for the public computers while Scott went to the vocational section. He was looking for motorcycle repair manuals. Thumbing through the small section he found one volume on vintage two-stroke motorcycles of the 1970s, he grabbed it. He went to the catalog computer and spent several minutes searching. It looked like he was going to have to order a manual for the Yamaha. Maybe he could get one through the engine repair center.

Scott checked out the book, and found a very excited Mr. Piotrowski at the computers.

"Scott, we sold the costume jewelry." He lowered his voice and looked around at the other library patrons, "For a hundred and twenty-eight dollars!"

"No kidding? That's terrific Mr. Piotrowski. We should get it boxed up and shipped out this afternoon."

"I was thinking the same thing. What do you have there?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"A book on two-stroke motorcycles."

"Ah."

After a quick trip to the house to take the jewelry box to the post office at Meritt's, Mr. Piotrowski gave him the rest of the day off. They would start clearing out the storage building the next day he told him.

The next morning Scott was very eager to get to Mr. Piotrowski's. When he pedaled up to the house there was a big extended cab pickup truck with an empty flat bed trailer parked in the driveway. Scott followed the sound of voices to the back of the house.

A group of men were erecting a large open sided tent set at a right angle to the storage building. It was going to run along the back side of the gravel driveway. The house, the storage building, and the tent formed three sides of a box. Mr. Piotrowski saw him and shouted, "Morning."

"You traded an old radio for all of this?" Scott asked.

"I traded something somebody wanted for the use of this tent for as long as I need it," explained Mr. Piotrowski. "It's eighteen by thirty foot. The way I see this working is that we'll move items from the building to the tent where we'll inventory it. We'll have shade, and some fresh air. Then we can sort out what to sell in the yard sale, and what to sell online. How does that strike you?"

Scott could see that Mr. Piotrowski was getting excited about their progress, "Gosh Mr. Piotrowski, I can't see a better way of doing it." Then he remembered something else, "Before I forget, I asked Jorge about contractors. He said to tell you to 'call Billy' and you'd know who that was."

"Jorge told me to call Billy?" Mr. Piotrowski's voice sounded odd.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Piotrowski grunted, "We'll see."

The men had finished putting up the tent, and were driving tie downs into the hard Texas soil to run guy-lines to. After tying the lines off they asked Mr. Piotrowski to inspect the tent. He tried to give them some money, but they insisted that they had been taken care of. The men unloaded a couple of dollies; a furniture dolly and an appliance dolly, and drove off.

Mr. Piotrowski was nodding, "That was an excellent trade."

Scott spent the next two days moving boxes from the first two sections of the storage building out to the tent. Surrounding these two sections were large steel shelves that were filled with every imaginable item. They needed the floor space just to get to the shelves. Mr. Piotrowski wasn't worried about leaving the items under the tent. There was little theft in Pecos County. Besides as he liked to tell Scott, he was still pretty good with a scattergun.

On Wednesday afternoon Mr. Piotrowski told Scott that he didn't need him until Sunday, but if he wanted to stop by after working at Mendoza's then he was more than welcome to tinker on the motorcycle.

Scott agreed, as Mr. Piotrowski knew he would.

Work at Mendoza's seemed to drag by. Scott had to shake himself mentally. He was fortunate to have one job, let alone two. He got back into the right mindset and the day passed faster. Working in the small engine department with Noah was educational. He hoped some of what he was learning would transfer to the motorcycle. He asked Noah how to go about making a personal purchase through the company.

"What do you want to buy?" Noah asked.

"I need manuals for a 1976 Yamaha motorcycle."

"So you got one, that's great. Talk to the front office. You'll get an employee discount."

Scott was in the front office while the ladies looked up the right manuals for him on the computer when Mr. Mendoza walked in.

"Scotty, what are you up to today?" asked Mr. Mendoza.

"He's ordering some motorcycle manuals with his employee discount," explained one of the ladies.

"You bought a motorcycle?" asked Mr. Mendoza.

Scott explained about the trade that he worked with Mr. Piotrowski, and about the condition of the motorcycle.

"That sounds like a good summer project. I'll tell you what, why don't you bring the motor in to the shop and Noah can help you get it ready to run. We'll consider it part of your training," offered Mr. Mendoza.

"Really? That would be great. I really appreciate it sir."

"Think nothing of it. I have fond memories of an old Yamaha I had back in the day. Those are fun motorcycles, as long as you're safe."

"Don't worry Mr. Mendoza. I think I'm getting that lecture, I mean 'reminder' from everybody. Judge Upcott is very insistent on the subject. Since he's the one who's going to sign off on my hardship license after I complete the safety course, I'm taking it very seriously."

"That's good to hear. At least you have a good head on your shoulders, maybe it will keep you from doing anything too dangerous," he said. "By the way, Eddie says to say hello. Connie and the girls will be back from my brother's place the second week of July, but the boys are staying until August. She's going to want to feed you, so I expect I'll being seeing you for supper from time to time."

"Yes, sir," Scott said. Mrs. Mendoza was a fine cook. He liked eating with the family, but without Eddie there it might be a little strange.

After work Scott hustled to get to Mr. Piotrowski's so that he could get started on the bike. There was a note on the back door explaining that Mr. Piotrowski had gone to town, and that the carriage door was unlocked.

Scott took a notebook from his backpack and started to inventory parts. He unwrapped each item and tried to lay it out in an organized fashion. It was all there, from what he could tell, a complete motorcycle. All he had to do was to put it back together and get it running. This was going to be a huge job.

Starting a new page he began writing down all the things that he was going to have to replace. The rubber grips on the pegs, kick starter, and handlebars had all dried and rotted. He needed new tires, light bulbs, brake cable, spark plugs, filters, gaskets, seals. Whew. Did he need to rebuild the front forks? The seat he could live with, maybe he'd put some duct tape over the cracks.

The good news was there was no rust or corrosion that he could see. He'd have to find somebody to tune and balance the spoke wheels. Noah at the engine center would at least help him with the motor and transmission. Once he had the manuals, he should be able to get this all back together in time for his birthday in January. It was starting to get dark so Scott threw a tarp back over the spread out bike, closed the door, and headed back to the ranch. Mr. Piotrowski hadn't returned yet.

At work the next day, Noah was helping Scott fill out an order form for the parts that he would need. Noah suggested a few things that Scott hadn't even considered. The shop foreman interrupted them. Scott explained about the motorcycle and what they were doing. The foreman suggested that he move the whole thing to the shop. That way he'd clear out more space for Mr. Piotrowski. Scott wasn't sure if the foreman wanted to help him get the motorcycle running, or help speed along the eventual yard sale that the entire Fort Stockton area seemed to be waiting on.

The days were starting to pass by in a blur. Tuesday found Scott surrounded by piles of boxes. The inventory had been progressing nicely. He had stopped being amazed at the variety of things they were clearing out. The box immediately in front of Scott had what he had just described on paper as, 'Door knobs, various, antique brass?'

"Scott, let's grab some lunch. How about I treat you to a sandwich at Meritt's? We can check the computer too," Mr. Piotrowski's head was poking through a space in the boxes.

"Is it lunch already?" Scott looked at his watch, tapping the face. It still read 10:30.

"Your watch broke?"

"Yes, sir, I guess it finally wore out," Scott wrote a note on the cardboard box lid, secured the pen to the clipboard and stood up. He stepped out from the cage of boxes and looked around for Mr. Piotrowski.

Mr. Piotrowski was coming out of the storage building with a box in his hands.

"Here you go. With the place nearly cleared out I can finally find some things. We'll call this another incidental," he said handing Scott the box.

The box was labeled 'Omega' and had the Greek symbol printed boldly above the text. Scott opened the box and there was another tightly fitted into the first. It was red with gold highlights and looked very fancy. He took that box out and opened it. Inside was a big silvery steel watch on a flexible bracelet.

"It's a watch," Scott said simply, looking at it.

"I bought a bunch of those from a fellow in Houston too many years ago to even think about. Here, let's see how much we'll have to adjust it to get it to fit," Mr. Piotrowski said. With his big hands he slid the watch over Scott's hand. It looked huge on his arm, "Come into the kitchen, I'm going to have to take some links out."

Scott sat in the kitchen holding the watch carefully in his hands while Mr. Piotrowski poked through a box of small tools.

The watch had three buttons on the side. The face of the watch looked amazing to Scott. It had three little sub dials with tiny number and hash marks. Printed in delicate letters above the hands were the words 'Omega Speedmaster Professional.' It was the back of the watch that caused Scott to gasp. He pointed at it.

'The First Watch Worn on the Moon. Flight Qualified by NASA for All Manned Space Missions.'

Mr. Piotrowski just chuckled, "Marketing, Scott. I think the early astronauts wore the same kind in space. Companies advertised even the slimmest connection to the space race, so all the watches of this type have that stamped into the back. People were space crazy back then. It was bigger than the Super Bowl, World Series, and Christmas all combined. Too bad that's all gone. I think we were better off many ways then. We had hope for the future. If we could put a man on the moon, what couldn't we do?"

He took the watch from Scott's hands and removed several links with a special tool.

"Try it now."

Scott closed the clasp and shook his wrist, "It fits Mr. Piotrowski."

"Alright then, I'll put these links in a baggie and you keep them in the box. When you get bigger you can add them back in."

The large watch gleamed and he couldn't stop staring at it. The head of the watch was almost bigger than his wrist.

"You might want to set the time and wind it," Mr. Piotrowski chided gently.

They looked over the manual and Scott set the time. He wound the watch. The third 'sweep' hand wasn't moving. It pointed straight up at twelve. That's when Scott noticed one of the hands on of the sub dials was moving. That must be the second hand. He needed to read the manual more carefully.

"Let's go get us a burger and a shake," Mr. Piotrowski said as he stood up.

That night at the bunkhouse Scott put the big red Omega watch box next to his postcard from Eddie. He went to sleep wondering if life could get any better.