Duct

"This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got."

-- second stanza of Henry Reed's "Naming of Parts"

--

It is called the air intake tube, or the intake duct, or boot; those are the names of the part. If you're looking into the engine, it is near you on the right side, beside the radiator, beside the compressor, down from the battery. To reach its clamps, you have to unplug a cord that clips to a stationary port, and stick the screwdriver over and under tubes and hot parts, like threading a needle except with the thread and needle reversed. It pops out and shimmies up and into your hands, steaming, the split in its rubber ribs like a dying fish's gaping mouth, like a useless puppet. It is hot--I hope you're wearing gloves.

My parents bought me the roadside safety/repair kit as a birthday gift. It's almost exactly two months since my birthday, and I've already used half of its contents: Band-Aids for self-repair, gloves for protection from a hot engine, and the entire roll of duct tape.

Because that's what the first mechanic did. He had me wait in the driver's seat and start and turn off the engine, and he removed the air intake tube and put some duct tape over the hole. And it held, through a month of city driving and a set of long drives up to Wisconsin.

But after a furious day of driving late, the high speeds caused the engine to grow so hot as to melt the duct tape--yes, melt it--until the old split split again, and so split a new one at the other end of the eight-inch tube. Yesterday, when I started the car, the old bitch screamed and revved again, upset at being awoken, and I knew duct tape could no longer suffice.

Still, I tried. I used a whole roll and still it roared.

See, the air coming into the engine has to be restricted with this kind of car. The engine's computer only factors for so much air, and if more is coming in--say, through a hole in the intake tube--the engine compensates by revving to use up the oxygen, and the computer scrambles, and you get what I got: 4500 RPMs in park, and shudders and stammers at 60 MPH.

--

So I bought the part, and learned its name in the process.

Brought the new tube home in plastic wrapping, like a gift. Peeled it out with a screwdriver, and needled that tool to the old tube, feeble in its gray duct repairs at both ends like an old man using two canes. I unscrewed the clamps. With gritty gloves on, I extracted the tube and tossed it. The new one popped on like it lived there.

I screwed it down, cranked the key, and it purred. A big quiet cat, tamed by amateur hands. Gloved hands.

Then I drove the quiet car to a Home Depot, where I bought another roll of duct tape. You never know when you'll need another temporary fix.

--

Like the narrator in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I like this kind of fixing. The easy solution, I know, is to have someone else take care of it--it's tempting, too, when plans start to hound. I don't mean to sound pretentious. I am not a mechanic, but I like to fix things rather than get them fixed. I'd sooner install my own shower head than call the plumber, and I'd sooner brush my own damn teeth than go to the dentist.

Doing it yourself also saves money. Convenience costs.

Today I had the naming of parts.