In a moment of what I considered familial love, I called my younger brother to take a look at my wife's scooter. In hindsite, I now realize that it was really a total loss of sensibilities on my part.
My brother had been out of work for about 2 years and I needed someone to look at my scooter so we could sell it to get my wife a bigger one. I thought I could get my scooter fixed and give him a few bucks. Big Mistake. Big Huge Mistake.
When my middle brother heard that I had given it to the younger one to look over, he just shook his head and said "And to think I used to look up to you".
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Did he bring you a box of small parts back with it?"
"He still has it." I said, puzzled. "He works on small engines, doesn't he?"
"Why do you think he doesn't have a job? He is a want to be mechanic."
"Great. NOW you tell me!" I uttered in an elevated voice as I slowly imagined my scooter with a box of spare parts sitting in a junk heap.
"Just make sure that he gives back all the parts." Middle Brother warned as he hung up the phone.
My mother also thought me a dummy but I hoped for the best and after two weeks of asking him if it was ready yet (I now know why he never answered my calls but rather, text messaged me back) he finally brought it back on Christmas Day while I was at my niece's house for dinner.
I arrived home that day and there it was back on the porch. It looked exactly as it had when he took it. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that it was not bad at all. I locked it up and went to start it. No key was in the ignition. Afraid that the dog had possibly eaten it, I called him (voice mail again) and he texted me right back that he had left them in the cooler on the car port. Now why didn't I think of that? I started it right up but it died almost immediately and I figured it was because of the cold. That was a week ago. Today, it was in the high 40's so I figured I would give it another go. My wife was in the shower getting ready to go get her hair cut.
I unlocked the scooter and placed the key in the ignition. I pressed the starter and it roared to life--actually, it purred to life (it is a scooter, after all) and then died immediately. I sat down on the scooter, straddling my Hogg like the Biker Dude I am, and pressed the starter again. Again it started immediately only to die again.
More determined than ever, I gave a tug on the throttle and then hit the starter again. And again. And again. Suddenly, I felt a little warm on my left leg. I looked down only to see flames licking at my jeans from the engine between my legs. My jaw dropped open and I remember saying one of those words we tell our children not to say.
I was off the scooter like a rocket, and I placed the kickstand down so I could run inside to get the fire extinguisher. Once in the kitchen, I remembered that we don't have a fire extinguisher (Note to self: Buy a fire extinguisher). Panicking, I grabbed a kitchen towel thinking I could beat the flames down. As I lashed at the flickering flames, I noticed the plastic body was dripping onto the carport. Not a good sign in my thinking. I think it was then that it dawned on me that the gas tank was full and that gasoline is explosive and my carport is about ten feet from my back door and I really began to panic.
Suddenly, saner thinking took over and one of the voices in my head screamed at me: "Hey, Dummy! Do you think you ought to get this thing out in the yard before it explodes and catches your house and car on fire?" Good Idea, I remember thinking, so I rocked it off the kickstand and pushed it very fast to the front yard about 25 feet from the cars or house. I placed the kickstand down and backed away hurredly.
While I was watching the flames lick ever higher toward the tree I so smartly placed it under, I thought a hose might put out the fire. We have a hydrant at the front of the house so I ran to the back yard to grab a hose. Then I realized the dog ate them both...which is another story for another time.
I looked back up front in time to see the scooter topple over and as the gas from the tank spilled out the flames shot up reaching out for the tree limbs like a firey hand from Hell. This is not a good thing, I remember thinking. The smoke was rolling higher and as the tires caught fire, there was a large column of thick black smoke reaching about thirty feet in the air.
Now we live three miles from town and I was sure that someone would see the smoke and call the fire department and I did not want to begin to think how to describe what happened to the fire fighters. I had no need to worry as car after car drove by and just stared at me as they drove by. I guess the fire department was busy watching bowl games because no one from there ever showed up.
After about ten minutes, the fire was burning bright enough to have led wise men afar and I got the bright idea that if I smothered the fire, I could put it out. Off to the house I went again in search of something to smother the fire. I spied a bag of cat litter in the pantry so I grabbed it and took off like Smokey Bear. The fire was extremely high now and I opened the bag and slung the contents for all it was worth. It was only then that I realized that the "cat litter" was actually dog litter pellets, which are really just compressed sawdust. Not my brightest moment there, as I watched the flames touch the tree limbs for the first time.
Ten more minutes, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel as the gasoline burned away and the only combustible left were the tires--which really smell bad when burning, BTW. I grabbed the dog's water dish and after about 20 trips between the wash room and the scooter had managed to end up with a smoldering mess.
I went inside to share the news with my wife, who had managed to hear not a thing.
"Honey," I called out. "Take a look in the front yard."
"What did HE (the dog) do now?" She asked warily.
"Nothing, this time he is innocent. It was my brother." I replied.
"Your Brother?" She asked as she came out of the bathroom and looked out the double windows at the heap of smoldering metal and rubber. She stopped suddenly, turned and looked at me, then looked back at the mess out front. Without another word, she turned and went back into the bathroom. I remember thinking, "That went well."
The moral of the story is this: Never let your family "fix" your stuff. Unless of course, they are licensed and bonded. Anyone in need of a slightly charred Scooter. I can offer you one hot deal. All it needs is a little paint, and tires, and brakes, some molded plastic for the body, and an engine. Sort off gives a whole new meaning to having a Fire Sale.
