BY CATHERINE DOOK

“This old van,” our mechanic said firmly, “is not worth fixing.”

“Not worth fixing!” I gasped. John and I simultaneously turned our heads to look at the brown 1979 Execuvan squatting disreputably on his lot. The nether edge of the chassis which had disintegrated raggedly into rust looked for all the world like a torn hem dangling from the skirt of a blowsy alcoholic and the shag carpet interior hadn’t quite recovered from the funk of a year ago when Ralphie the chain-smoking handyman had slept onboard her for a week and half.

“You don’t understand,” John said.

“We LOVE this van.” I finished the sentence.

“We’ll never be able to afford another one,” John said. “We could never find one as. . .”

“Free,” I interrupted. “And I write whole articles about this van.  Why, I’ve been known to quote you in print.”

“Oh God,” our mechanic said.

We turned piteous faces toward him. “You have to fix it,” John said.

“Money is no object,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said, turning his startled face toward me.

Our mechanic sighed. “It needs a new carburetor,” he said. He sounded grumpy. “And you’ll have to do some serious work on the radiator. Your hoses are shot. And your heater coil is no good. I figure about $1,500” he finished. “At least.”

“Sold!” I cried.

“I guess so,” John said. To read more, a membership is needed: Click here to subscribe