It's a truism of the human condition that encounters with mothers-in-law rarely end well. The same thing can usually be said of landlords. The sight of my mother-in-law's green Tacoma trundling up the driveway is a dread-inspiring thing on the best of days, and being $400 behind on the rent we owed her pretty much guaranteed an Old West standoff on the front lawn. But as hot as she was sure to be, her truck was absolutely steaming. Some people might have smelled antifreeze in the white cloud billowing from under the truck's hood -- but I smelled opportunity.
The first five minutes played out about as I assumed it would. After getting out of the truck, Gwen coldly breezed right past me, sparing only a glance at the brand-new, $700 nitrous kit sitting on my shop table. I could hear the conversation inside the house; the usual "why isn't the grass mowed" and "when are you going to move that broken-down car" recriminations had been replaced with "I need money now. My truck is broken down."
I already had my drain pan, pliers and ratchet set in hand when my wife hissed from the open garage door: "Go do something about this!"
I started the truck and watched the temperature gauge climb. I felt the top radiator hose; with the truck overheating and the hose much cooler, I knew immediately what had happened. I waited a few while for the engine to cool, and opened the petcock drain valve on the radiator to drain the coolant. not that I needed to -- most of the coolant had already steamed out. I suggested that my wife take her mom out to the flea market, knowing they'd be gone at least a couple of hours. Being car-savvy herself, she knew what I had in mind.
About 20 minutes, a trip to the parts store and two bottles of iced Frapuccino later, I returned with the new thermostat and gasket. After closing the drain valve, I traced the upper hose back to the engine. Two bolts later, the thermostat housing was off the engine, and the old, rusted thermostat was out. I didn't need to take the hose off the housing.
After dropping in a new thermostat, I installed the housing with a new gasket. The thermostat had a little "jiggle valve" on it, which serves to relieve pressure built up in the engine. In this case, with the four-cylinder, it didn't matter how that was oriented; but if this had been the V-6, the jiggle valve on the thermostat would have been oriented so it pointed straight up.
The torque specs on the bolts were 10 to 14 foot-pounds, so I torqued them to 14 foot-pounds. It would have been the same for the V-6. With everything buttoned up and the cooling system filled and bled, the truck started and ran with no overheating and no leaks.
Two hours later, I got a text. "On our way. Make it look good." I finished my coffee, then dug into my old parts collection to find a wheel bearing coated with dirty grease. I rubbed the grease all over my arms, face and in my hair, and threw some dirt on for good measure. By the time they got back, I was wearing my most ripped up shirt, shakily leaning on the Tacoma's fender for support, and looking overall as though I'd just done mortal combat with a 70-foot robot.
"Oh Gwen," I said. "It was close. But we made it. Barely. The worst part was recalibrating the Heisenberg compensators. You could have easily fried the matter chambers. And the sacrificial ionic protection fluid was way low -- the warp cores were about a second from breaching." My thousand-yard stare told the story of the ordeal.
"Oh, my," she said. "I don't know how you do it. I can't imagine how much that would have cost at the dealership."
"Actually, funny you should mention it. Book time was something like...I don't remember. I think it was $450 and some change. Plus parts. But," I said, "don't worry about it. We're family."
