Midnight

It's been almost a week since I gave Midnight the go-ahead for a project car of her choosing. The idea has become a source of excitement for me.

But...

Midnight has been mum on the subject beyond the first night. There has not been a single suggestion since then.

Now, she has continued to peer out the passenger window while we drive around the yard and pull parts. But there's been no signs of interest from her.

It's honestly starting to bother me a bit. Less about the car, and more about Midnight.

I can safely say that due to how excited she was when I agreed to the plan. Where did that excitement go?

Saturday morning feels like the right time to start asking questions and pick her brain to sate my own curiosity.

Today is that day - while both of us are being lazy on the couch.

"Whatcha doin?" I ask as I glance over to Midnight.

"Listening to you ask me what I'm doing," she drones, her face buried in the laptop as usual.

"What were you doing before that?"

"Checking orders."

I lean over so I'm resting on her barrel. "It's Saturday."

"Very astute observation, dumbshit."

"Aww, now I have to come up with a cute pet name for you too."

Midnight doesn't say anything, but she's trying hard not to smirk at that. Before she fails, her wing abruptly opens and swats me.

I yield for the time being - though as soon as her appendage is neatly folded back, I'm resting up against her again.

"You don't learn, do you?"

"No, I don't. Hit me again, mistress."

Midnight slowly turns her head, looking at me with disgust and concern.

"Too far?"

"What is wrong with you?"

"Well it is Saturday, so if you want me to spend the time, I can tell you everything."

"I'll pass, John."

"No one ever wants to hear my problems," I pout.

I give it a few moments of Midnight reading through items on her screen before speaking up again.

"Anything of interest car-wise or part-wise?" I ask, hopeful to hear a reaction from something she lists.

"Not too much. Taillight housings for a '63 Galaxie, tail panel trim for a '68 Dart GTS... a hood tachometer housing for a '70 Rebel Machine?" she finishes, turning to me for clarification.

"AMC Rebel Machine. One-year-only car - patriotic as hell, and rare as hell. I doubt I have that."

"Anyway - bumpers for a Buick Wildcat, door window glass for a Pontiac Lemans, et cetera, et cetera."

Nothing other than the single instance of further clarity from me - no real enthusiasm.

Damn.

"What's your issue all of a sudden?" she asks calmly, looking me up and down.

Maybe I made a face. Or some reflexive movement that she sensed. Who knows.

"I guess I'm just sort of shocked you haven't settled on a project car, Midnight," I admit reluctantly. "By no means am I pressuring you to decide, but with how excited you were with the prospect - haven't heard anything since."

"Well color me surprised," Midnight answers, closing her laptop with a hoof to focus squarely on me. "Do you take me for someone that rash when it comes to decisions?"

"Not really, I guess. I don't know - never gave it a thought."

"Okay - I'm not, not about something like this," she replies. "You gave me the stipulations of something we can find parts for and something that isn't a basket case. My biggest decision amongst that is finding something... right."

"Right?"

Midnight purses her lips as she sits and ponders an explanation.

As the lightbulb in her head lights up, so do her eyes - in a figurative sense.

"What's your favorite car of all time?"

That question is like getting hammered in the gut. "Whoa whoa whoa - you can't spring a question like that and expect an answer right away, Middie," I caution her.

"Oh? Why not?" she retorts with a lick of sarcasm and innocence dashed in her voice.

"That is something that requires a lot of soul-searching and thought to answer - if it is even possible at all," I wax with a flair of drama.

"Alright, dramatics aside - I'm doing the same thing. I don't know what I want for sure. But I want something that fits me in a sense."

"And you haven't found that particular something that just vibes with you," I add, beginning to understand her predicament.

"Yes, exactly."

I have my answer now, but I still don't feel very satisfied.

"Is there a certain kind of car you're looking for? Some sort of attribute that I can sort of work with to help, or is it just having to see it to know?"

Midnight's face contorts once again as she mulls what I've thrown out there for her. In the meantime, I sit up and pet her side, fixing the errant fur where I had been leaning against her.

"Well first off, it's gotta have some guts to it," she states matter-of-factly.

"Of course - I'm not putting something together that's all show and no go," I comment in agreement. "But let's not go overkill, either."

"What's 'overkill' in your definition?" she inquires, her mischievous grin growing wide enough to display her fangs.

"It should be something streetable. I don't want something that is miserable to drive around town or idles like shit because of a hot cam."

"Psh. Pussy."

"Believe me when I say you'll thank me for that boundary - been around enough to know unless you're drag racing or trying to win a dick-measuring contest, you can't completely sacrifice drivability. But that's stuff we can hammer out later in any car - either aftermarket parts or an engine swap. We got plenty of engines lying around."

"All right, point taken. That doesn't do much narrowing down then," she concedes reluctantly.

As I wait for her next thought, I start fucking around with her hair - twisting it and twirling it around.

"You're going to fix that later."

"Maybe. I want to see how stupid I can make your hair look. You have so much of it."

"You suggesting I should cut it?"

I can only offer a shrug. "I wouldn't go overboard. I like your long hair. Maybe a trim? That's up to you."

"Hm. Maybe."

"What else are you looking for in a car?"

"Something at least a little comfortable. I don't want to feel cramped inside of it."

"Like a full-size car - a land yacht?"

"Ehhh... maybe not that big," she backs off.

"But you don't want a Dart or a Nova."

"Nope. Add any pony car to that list."

"Aww, but then I can't make any lame 'pony in your pony car' jokes."

"Even better," Midnight cheerfully responds.

"So basically midsize and up, comfortable, and something that offers a good kick when you mash it."

"Yes. And something stylish, something as good-looking as me," she crows with cockiness.

"So why are we even trying then?"

The comment causes Midnight's gaze to snap directly to me with a glare.

"What?"

"We sure as shit ain't finding something as good-looking as you. Chill."

Midnight opens her mouth to respond - before her jolt of anger subsides as the comment finally registers.

"I think that's the first time you ever referred to yourself as good-looking, rather than disparaging," I say with a grin, reaching over and scratching an ear.

Midnight's muzzle scrunches up, unable to figure out any sort of reply. "We're talking about cars, John."

I can't help but sigh. "Fine, be that way."

With both hands, I ruffle up her hair and mane, making it worse than the traditional bedhead she wakes up with every morning.

"Seriously?" she asks, mildly annoyed.

"You look crazy now."

"I am crazy to deal with you every day."

"Is that really so bad?"

"... it's tolerable."

"So you like it."

Midnight's wing opens up again, this time reaching up to my head with the tip of her primary feathers. She swirls it around, apparently hoping to mess up my hair as badly as hers.

It doesn't really work, considering the short cut. But damn, it feels relaxing feeling the soft plumage graze my head. I emit an exaggerated content sigh, complete with a dumb smile.

"Bastard," she grumbles.

"That was a nice scalp massage, though. I could get used to this."

Midnight's wing whaps me in the face before retracting.

"That's abuse."

"Shaddup, stupid."

"Alright. So what do you want to do today?"

Midnight lazily shrugs. "It's been a long week. Do we need to do anything?"

"No, not really. You just want to lounge around on the couch all day?"

"Why not?"

"...eh, screw it. You talked me into it. I'm surprised you're learning to be a lazy ass."

"I'm full of surprises. But it's not being a lazy ass if I busted my ass all week."

"I can go with that argument. Now, entertain me," I demand, laying over on my side and using Midnight as a pillow again.

"John, you got a moment?"

Squinting as I pull my head out of the dim engine bay to brace for the bright desert sun, Midnight stands off to my right, directly in front of the car I'm wrenching on.

"I can make time. What's up?"

"...I'm having issues, and before I end up ruining something or lose my temper, I figured I should ask you."

Despite her hesitance, Midnight's honesty gets a smile out of me. It wasn't that long ago she would have let her temper and impatience take over rather than seek advice.

"Lead the way."

Midnight sets off at a decent trot, making me take steps at a rather brisk pace to keep up with her.

Okay, so her impatience isn't completely gone...

Or maybe it's excitement?

Nonetheless, it's only a dozen cars down the row and across the aisle before she stops and circles around the back of a low-slung blue coupe.

Well, well, well. It's a Chevy Corvair - second gen.

I join Midnight at the rear of the car - where the engine is.

"Am I crazy, or is the intake on this thing part of the cylinder head?" she asks, pointing a hoof down into the dirty, dingy engine bay.

I honestly don't know the answer offhand - meaning I need to poke my head in and get a closer look. I know these flat-six boxer engines are air-cooled, so the head should be aluminum...

And it is. I can also see where she's unbolted the top set of fasteners that hold the head to the cylinders themselves. But that has nothing to do with the intake...

Furthermore, I don't see any sort of seam where the grease-stained aluminum runner separates from the head. There are no other bolt heads or holes to be seen, aside from where the carburetor mounts.

"You are crazy, but that's a solid piece, Middie," I say as I rise back up out of the rather cramped space.

Midnight shakes her head as she snorts. "So do we chalk that order up to someone that doesn't have a fuck what they're doing?" she responds with mild frustration. "The order specifically said the intake - no head or anything else."

"Well, if you really feel adventurous, you can try taking the head off now. But yeah, we're gonna have to ask for clarification on that one."

"If I'm feeling adventurous, huh?"

I shrug, looking around at the engine again. Knowing little to jack squat, I'm more or less trying to gauge how much work it would be to pull it and have it handy in the shop.

Well, there's not much room side to side - might have to come out of the bottom. The exhaust is underneath, too... And I don't see any timing covers up front, either. It may not even be an overhead cam.

"I think it's more trouble than it would be worth right now - I think it's a pushrod engine," I announce, turning to her.

Midnight's nose instantly wrinkles at that revelation.

"In other words, take the valve cover off to take off the rocker arms and pushrods as well as your standard fare of bullshit. I'll pass."

"I figured as much, but who am I to judge if you had a wild hair up your ass?"

"What was the point of this, anyway - a cheap sports car, I assume?"

I scratch my head at the question as Midnight gathers up her tools and closes the rear decklid.

"I don't think that was the original intention, believe it or not. When Chevy first came out with the Corvair, it was touted as a compact economy car - like the Volkswagen Beetle. And that's what the engineering and design teams leaned toward - something that would stand out, rather than just a normal small car like Ford and Chrysler did."

"By the sounds of it, you like them."

"They have a certain charm, particularly the second generation," I reply, patting the weather-beaten fender of the car in question. "I don't know exactly when or why, but at some point, Chevy came out with the Nova - well, Chevy II when it first came out - and that was their economy car, and moved this to something more sport-oriented as far as advertising. But there were wagons and light pickups based on this chassis design, too."

Midnight glances around at different aspects and angles of the car with uncertainty.

"Thinking about this as a project?" I prod her with a grin.

In reality, it's in relatively good shape, and at a glance, looks quite complete. Certainly would be interesting to work on. But Midnight shakes her head, extinguishing any anticipation that had begun to build.

"I'm not a fan - I think it's fuck ugly. And if it's air-cooled, probably not a lot of power. So much for having any balls."

"Really? The Porsche 911 would like to disagree with you."

"Point, but no," she reiterates. "If this was such a good car, why don't they make anything like this nowadays?"

"Same as most failed GM products - bad press and questionable decisions."

I leave it at that and start to walk away, knowing full well what I'm doing.

"Asshole, that doesn't explain anything!" Midnight barks at me from behind.

I whirl back around, having only made it a few steps. "Well, that's the truth of it. What else should I say?" I respond, unable to prevent a shit-eating grin from crossing my face.

"I want the full rundown."

"You mean another storytime about shitbox cars? Albeit not a shitbox this time?"

"Stop being a queer," she laments with a roll of her eyes.

"Only a kiss from you can save me from the clutches of faggotry, Middie."

"I doubt that," she retorts as she trots up to me, meeting with a pucker of her lips as I bend down and smooch her.

"Anyway, the second generation didn't have an issue, but the damage was done by what happened with the first-gen. Having an engine in the ass end like that makes for much different handling qualities than your run-of-the-mill front-engined car."

"So people didn't know what to expect, or what?"

"A little bit of that. The issue is the first generation's rear suspension - swing axles. It's the same thing the Beetle uses, but we're talking about a heavier car here. And the thing with that kind of axle is it has massive amounts of camber change because the drive axle itself is only jointed where it goes into the trans, not the wheel. So you lose contact patch of the tire in situations where you're turning or hitting the brakes - or even bumps in the road. Makes the ass end want to come around when the weight starts shifting."

"And you're telling me the chucklefucks in charge of designing that didn't know?"

I can't help but let a small laugh escape. "Oh, they did, and the simple solution would be a front sway bar to counteract the issue. But the bean counters said that would not be cost-effective, so it was eliminated in favor of tire pressure differences between front and rear - which works if people paid attention to the owner's manual."

"Why is this one different, then?" Midnight inquires, pointing a hoof to the old blue coupe.

"Second generation went to fully independent rear suspension, similar to the Corvette's setup. Before that, GM made the front sway bar standard at some point in the first-gen."

I pause a moment as I decide how best to continue.

"But, to be honest, the problems were kinda exaggerated by some dick that wanted to sell a book. Guy was right about the omission of the front sway bar for cost reasons, but these things weren't out on the road endangering everyone's lives."

"In other words, there really isn't anything wrong with them."

"Not really, no. They weren't much worse than any other car, even taking those handling quirks into account."

Midnight shakes her head, trudging forward to the car I had previously been working on while I join right beside her.

"Humans have to be some of the dumbest fucking creatures on earth," she mutters as I follow her.

"Yeah, in some ways. But let me remind you that I fall into the category of human."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that fact, John," she replies with a grin.

"I figured as much."

"Anyway, what are you working on?" she asks as I resume my earlier position under the hood of a Buick.

"Taking a stubborn intake manifold off of this car. Let me reiterate that I don't give you shit jobs," I say, pointing the end of a ratchet to two bolt heads snapped clean off, now lying on the radiator support.

"Well, I picked my own out today, so I can't blame you if I wanted to," Midnight calmly replies.

"Oh yeah. I honestly forgot about that."

There's a pause in the conversation as I strain on the next intake bolt - which eases itself loose, bit by bit.

"All things considered, do you really think a car like that Corvair would have made it far in terms of production beyond... well, whenever they stopped?"

"It's an interesting question to consider. But honestly - probably not," I admit. "There's a lot that's unique just to that car, and once the seventies rolled around and everyone was struggling for sales - hell, you see how much badge-engineered crap GM made in the eighties. I think it would have been axed sooner or later. But it's a neat little footnote in history."

"Fair enough. But another question for you."

"Shoot."

"Are you going to pester me with the notion of every car I have questions about being a possible project car?"

I look up, finding Midnight staring at me knowingly.

"Sorry. Really not trying to be annoying, but you're also taking more time than I expected," I admit.

"Well, there is a little bit of fun watching you squirm over this," she cackles.

"Midnight, you already do that to me every time I watch you walk away."

"...what?"

"Hm?"

Midnight looks confounded by my remark, her brow raised while I go back to working on the intake.

"You're awful," she sputters after a time. "I'm going to get something else done and leave you with your sick mind."

"Okay, lemme know if you need anything."

"I hope not."

As Midnight walks away, I look up to see a more pronounced sway of her hips than normal.

Huh...

At that moment, she turns her head and narrows her eyes at me. "It's gonna be hard to get shit done when you aren't watching what you're doing, dumbass!" she taunts.

Is... she teasing me?

I might have just created a monster.

"Gonna be hard for you to get parts pulled when you're lollygagging!"

With that, Midnight gallops off down the path, leaving me to wonder where things exactly stand between the two of us yet again...

Goddammit. Leaning over the fender just got difficult and uncomfortable.

Stupid sexy Midnight.