Читать книгу Ordinary Sins - Jim Heynen - Страница 13

WHO LOVED COMBUSTION ENGINES

This man loved combustion engines. All kinds. All sizes. He loved the sound of ignition, the firing up—from the calm purr of his large car engine to the fierce whining of his chain saw. He loved them all equally, like children with different but admirable talents: his self-propelled lawn mower, his leaf blower, his Jet Ski, his snowmobile, his speedboat, his motorcycle. He had a combustion engine for his wood splitter. He had a combustion engine for his back-up electrical generator.

This man understood not only how but why a combustion engine works. He knew which lubricants were best for the tireless throats of the cylinders. He knew the kind of exercise and treatment the knuckles of the pistons needed. He knew how every flexing muscle of the combustion engine needed a regular workout, pumping iron. Use it or lose it, he said, as he fired up one of his combustion engines to fit his mood and the occasion. He was an expert on nutrition and preferred the high-calorie fuels to the wimpy low-octane blends. He knew the delicate ecology of the combustion engine, how everything needed to stay in balance to keep the world moving, to keep his world moving. He loved the world of combustion engines the way an eagle loves the open sky. He loved the smell of gasoline as it went in. He loved the smell of the exhaust as it came out. He loved the circulation of the combustion engine, the natural cycle of things.

While others might plan to eat and drink their way through their storage cellars if calamity should strike, for him the key to survival was in the spark and explosion of the combustion engine. Let them eat and drink, he figured. I’ll turn to my combustion engines, and I’ll be out of here! He kept spare combustion engines sealed in plastic on his cellar shelves. Just in case. Just in case.