Midnight

"How are we looking right now?"

Midnight wanders from one side of the Chrysler's engine bay to the other, her eyes honed in on any problem spots."... I think we're good. I don't see anything."

"Alright – I'm gonna take it slow, speak up if you see anything catch."

Having been working on the Chrysler for the better part of two hours tonight – starting with the rusted exhaust bolts that would not come loose the previous night – Midnight and I have been making great progress. Now, with seemingly everything unhooked, I have the engine hoist hooked up to the engine and ready to start the process of actually pulling it out of its home.

Now is a time of bated breath; it is very easy to miss a wire hookup or other small detail, or snag something on the engine while it's being lifted. Without a cautious watchful approach, something minor can turn into a big headache later – at the very least, require the replacement of a component.

As I slowly pump the hydraulic jack on the engine hoist, the engine starts to raise little by little – at an awkward nose-up angle. Even though Midnight is keeping watch and shifting from one side to the other, I'm just about to pause—

*Thunk*

The engine abruptly shifts on the chain that holds it to the hook as it levels out.

"Transmission's loose," Midnight announces.

"Duly noted, thank you." I catch my breath for a moment after that startling movement. I really don't want to fuck something up – I can't imagine there's loads of replacement parts for some things on this car.

Midnight is making a bit easier though; her 'telekinesis' means she can keep the engine steady without getting in the way, or harm's way. Her eyes continue to show their brighter glow during this time as a good indicator that she's got the engine block locked down. However, I only get a few more pumps on the jack handle before Midnight flares a wing open, a signal to hold.

"Wire caught on the engine head this side. Give me a sec," she explains. It allows me to take another deep inhale and exhale to expel some anxiety while Midnight is focusing elsewhere. Normally, I don't find pulling engines this tense – but I suppose there has been the question of how patient Midnight can be. It's why I'm the one controlling the hoist, while she keeps the lookout.

Yes, she's gotten better with patience, but—

"John, chill the fuck out."

"What?"

Midnight doesn't respond to my instinctive answer. Instead, her face grows stern while she raises an eyebrow.

"Alright, so I'm a little tense."

"Sure. That's like being 'a little pregnant'."

"Hey, stop using my lines."

"What's yours is mine, and what's mine is mine."

"Shut up! That's mine, too!"

Midnight just smirks at me for a moment. "You need to relax," she says. "You were looking like you were straining on a fart."

"What if I am?"

"Then I hope you shit your pants. Now come on, let's keep going. There's plenty of room now on every side of the engine."

Despite Midnight's encouragement, I still set on a slow, methodical pace of hoisting the engine out of its home. Midnight doesn't have to halt me even once as I see the heads appear above the radiator support, then the entirety of the engine block – and finally, the bottom of the oil pan.

"You're clear," Midnight calls out. Despite her assurances, Midnight herself emits a sigh of relief. Even so, she perks up again almost instantly. "I could probably take it from here, by the way."

"Nuh-uh. That's a lot of weight to be heaving around with your abilities, Mid," I warn her.

"And I've shown before I can do it."

"You sure did. And completely sapped all of your energy and whined about a headache."

"Hey, that was after handling a dozen of em, jackass," Midnight reminds me, her face souring with my comment. "But fine, we'll do it the hard way."

"It's really not that much har—"

"Lalala not listening to your bullshit!" she interrupts while heading off to get the engine stand nearby. It's but a moment before she returns with it wheeling in front of her, stopping beside me before transitioning her power to the engine again. "Ready when you are."

"Home stretch, " I add with a nod. Middie holds the engine again while I spin the hoist around on its caster wheels. All that's left is mounting the engine on this stand so I can start tearing it apart.

It only takes a few more minutes of finagling the hoist and stand in position before the engine is lowered down to the level of the engine stand. The clatter of metal begins as Midnight starts moving around the various arms of the engine stand to actually get the engine mounted.

"You know what you're doing, right?"

"Please, give me more credit than that," Midnight huffs. "It's basically a shitty puzzle, moving these mounting arms in the slots to line up with the transmission bolt holes in the block."

"Alright, I'll give you credit – but only because you said please in this rare fleeting instance."

It really isn't a hard task to accomplish, as Midnight has everything in place and bolted up in a matter of a minute or two. "There," Midnight says as she unhooks the lifting chain from the hoist. "Was that really as bad as you made it out to be?"

"I wasn't really that tense, Middie."

"You suck at lying."

"Bite me. No wait, you've shown that you will," I shoot back, making sure to plaster on a big smile for her to go with my little reminder.

"I don't think I like you anymore," she responds, turning her nose up at me.

"Oh please. You aren't prissy enough to be doing that."

With the engine now free to be manipulated in any way I want, I give the engine another good once over now that it's in open light. It's remarkably clean for one, with only a bit of rust bubbling out from the silver paint in a few areas. More importantly, there are not a lot of oil streaks or grease to indicate leaks – or prior disassembly and mechanical work prior to our ownership.

However, the oil was apparently drained long ago – a double‐edged sword. It means we thankfully don't have ancient oil caked in the pan, but it also offers no clues as to what happened internally to park the car. I would imagine the oil would be sparkly silver, but hopefully, no chunks.

But there's only one way to be sure – and my focus is on that while I carefully invert the Hemi so that the oil pan is facing up toward me.

"Wow, going one step further tonight. Somebody ate their Wheaties this morning."

I jokingly scowl at Midnight, whose face just lights up with glee again after using another one of my stupid lines. "You keep that up, and you'll start turning into me."

"Ha. There's no way I could free fall down to your level."

"Now I don't think I like you anymore."

"You couldn't live without me. I take it you're going to pull the oil pan and see what's up on the inside, huh?"

I nod my head. "Yeah, sort of the moment of truth now to see if we have something salvageable or a hefty lawn ornament."

"Is that what's got you wound up?"

"...kinda."

"Even though you said yourself this car was a good deal whether the engine could be repaired? Even though you suggested an engine swap would be simple enough in that case?"

"Hey, shut up. You make it sound irrational now."

Midnight goes silent, preferring to stare at me expectantly with a touch of amusement lining her slight grin.

"I'd just really like to keep the engine, I guess. It's... well, it's not unique, just different," I manage to piece together.

"Just open it up already," Midnight replies as a ratchet with the correct size socket snapped onto the end levitates into my open hand.

"Alright, but you're gonna have to deal with my sour mood if the reveal shows something unpleasant," I threaten her in jest, pointing the ratchet handle at her.

"Aha – no. You'll manage," she retorts.

With the ratchet, I work my way around the perimeter of the oil pan – first breaking loose each bolt, then returning in another circuit to remove them. Happily, none of them break or put up enough of a struggle to damage the bolt heads, despite having sat in the same location for damn near seventy years now.

"Drumroll, please," I announce while thumping the sides of the oil pan with a mallet to break the gasket seal loose.

"I'm not indulging your stupidity – it just encourages you."

"You just want to be a spoilsport. That's your pleasure," I argue.

"That's a perk, not a priority."

I'm unsure of exactly how the oil pickup is routed and what may possibly be stuck to the inside of the pan, so I take time and care to actually take the oil pan off of the bottom end. The gaskets are dried out enough to cause little issue, and before long, Midnight and I are staring at a collection of assembled cast and machined surfaces within the bottom of the engine block.

Well, everything is where it should be; there is no apparent shrapnel or missing parts – not that I expected to find that. But my attention quickly focuses on the crankshaft, and more specifically, the journals where it rides in the block and where the connecting rods for each piston rotate. The first two main bearing journals and the first four conrods and their running surfaces look clean from what I can see around the end caps.

It's when I get to viewing the connecting rod for cylinder number five that I see some ugliness. Unlike every other journal surface that still retains a relatively shiny silvery color, tinged gold via normal wear and oil residue, this one is a foreboding mixture of violet, blue, and brown hues that indicate excessive heat and friction.

This problem child was clearly not receiving the lubricating oil it needed. But it is a fortuitous find – the damage, if it proves more traumatic than scoring that could be cleaned up via a machining shop, is relegated to just the crank and the offending connecting rod and rod cap bearings.

"I'm assuming since one of these areas doesn't look like the others, that's bad," Midnight quips.

"Depends on your definition of bad," I answer her, looking up. "The block probably wasn't affected by that, and that was my biggest concern."

"Can that be fixed, though?"

"One way to find out – I gotta get a good view of that crank journal."

With the aid of a breaker bar, the resounding crack of two more bolts coming loose echoes through the shop. It takes only a token effort of prying to remove the rod end cap and get an unobstructed view of the crank journal in question. This time, it is not a welcome sight that greets my eyes.

With the rod bearings still in their respective homes of the block and the rod end cap, I can only assume something managed to slip its way into the tight gap and start eating away at the surface of the crank – or at the very least, starve it of oil. Just at a glance, there are enough deep gouges to assure me this crank is beyond help.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess we're going to be sourcing a replacement."

I look up at Midnight, greeted by a look of mild disappointment on her face. "Yeah, I wouldn't trust it. Sometimes you can have a machine shop mill down the journal to clean it up and use thicker bearings - but that only works to a point," I explain, running a fingernail across the damaged, grooved surface; it catches quite easily. "On the plus side – the crankshaft can become a new mailbox post or shop paperweight. Your choice."

She cracks a smile at that amusing little comment I tack onto the end. "Fair enough, she answers back. "I take it everything else is good?"

"As far as I can see with the naked eye, yes. It would still be a good idea to completely disassemble and send the block out for a thorough once over and clean up – but that was already my plan. But I feel a lot better now than I did when starting tonight."

"Well good – where should we continue with that bump in the road out of the way?" she inquires. I'm wary of that question – as I feel she forgot to add 'tonight' to the tail end.

"That sounds like a tomorrow problem," I remark, taking note of how her smile and optimism falter in a flash. "I'd like to get some rest and relaxation in before work tomorrow."

"Aww, come on. This has been relaxing," she fires back.

"Midnight, desperation is not a good look for you."

Her muzzle scrunches up at my response, but Midnight hesitates offering up a rebuttal. I'm sure she knows I won't let her come up with some other lame excuse to follow it.

"...fiiine."

"That's the spirit."

"Shut up, you sissy."