Tinkering at Tinker – Part 2

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       After answering to Captain Jones, I drove into downtown Oklahoma City to discuss my slander problem with a lawyer named Ned Bastow. He told me that I could file a civil lawsuit against Privett in the District Court. The case would likely cost me $10- to $15,000 in legal fees and court costs with a probable recovery of some portion of my property damages and costs to mitigate Privett’s diversion of water onto my property. Although I was unable to substantiate that any monetary damages resulted from Privett’s slander, Ned advised me that I could sue for punitive damages to deter him from further slander. He told me that recovery of punitive damages is purely determined by the whim of a jury. I could also sue for my legal costs, which is iffy. Bottom line: I’d spend at least $10,000 to recover a pittance of that with a windsock deciding whether or not I’d win any punitive damages or reimbursement of my legal costs.

       Instead, I filed suit against Privett in the Small Claims Court for their maximum allowable $600. In the lower court, I could only sue for property damages and related costs, as well as my out-of-pocket expenses arising from Privett lying to my boss, such as mileage to and from Tinker on my day of leave. Slander and libel are not within the purview of Small Claims Court.

       Ned advised me that Privett had the right to transfer my Small Claims suit to the District Court if he so desired, which Privett did. Ned had also warned me that Privett might try to scare me off with this tactic. Privett couldn’t have been more wrong.

       Since Privett wanted to play hardball and my legal fees would likely run at least $10- to $15,000, I instructed my attorney to bump up my $600 Small Claims suit to $188,501 in the District Court: $2,500 for property damage, $186,000 for punitive damages relating to Privett’s slander, and $1.00 for nominal damages in lieu of actual damages incurred from his defamation.

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       To prevent Privett’s runoff water from entering the back of my house, I quickly taught myself how to build concrete forms. I remembered some of it from working construction in Florida as a teenager. I built the forms for a 15’ by 40’ by 5” concrete patio and estimated a little overage to fill the intricate forms for three ornate concrete benches. I ordered eight yards of concrete for delivery. The rebar-reinforced patio and benches came out superbly with practically no concrete left in the concrete truck’s mixer drum. I even built a French drain around my new patio, extending to the corners of my house. Then I built an elevated flower bed along the length of my property that adjoined Privett’s to dam his damn dam. While I was working on it, Richard wheeled himself to the chain-link fence separating our properties and smoothly screamed, “You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch! You son of a bitch!” over and over. I could only imagine the horrible lies Privett had told Richard. All of them nasty and godless, I’m sure.

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       I taught myself brick-laying in the fall of 1983 in the process of building a wood-burning brick grill on a concrete slab near my garden. I used firebrick to surround the cooking area of the grill, and I topped the grill off with a beautiful custom stainless steel grate. After each time that I cooked ribs, steak, or chicken on it, I dumped the ashes into my garden, which, along with the leaves and grass clippings, broke up the clay nicely. By the time spring rolled around, I could stuff my fingers deep into the rich soil.

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       Soon after the mortar of my brick grill cured, I invited Bart and his wife, Lola, over for steaks. Even though my grill was about a hundred feet behind my house, someone called the fire department on me. Privett’s glares made it clear who that someone was. Fortunately, we had plenty of steaks on hand to serve the firemen who responded. After dinner, Bart pulled me aside, and we initiated our counter-insurgency plan, code-named: “TIT-for-tat.”

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       Bart had an entire wall of his study covered with shelves containing hundreds of books, many of which had the word “Payback” in the titles. Bart had numerous hobbies, including auto mechanics and woodwork. Payback was his favorite.

       Bart ordered every magazine on earth under Privett’s name. He went to the library and pulled out the order forms that were attached to the bindings of every magazine, dozens of them. Bart even ordered subscriptions for Pent House, Hustler, Qui, and Playboy. Of course, he filled in the order forms in block print.

       I went on a night mission. I’d learned in Security Police that nobody is awake between the hours of three and four. Night people rarely stay up past three, and early birds rarely get up before four.

       I dressed in dark clothing, including black gloves and a toboggan cap. I slinked Ninja-style across the chain-link fence separating Privett’s yard and mine. Using an eyedropper, I dosed every one of Privett’s plants in his garden with a few drops of gasoline. While doing so, I spotted Privett’s garden tiller covered by a metal wash basin. I’d learned during my study of auto mechanics that spark plug sockets come in two sizes: 5/8 inches and 13/16 inches. I returned to my shop and grabbed both sizes, a ratchet, and several lead pellets to feed into his tiller’s combustion chamber. Another slink into Privett’s garden, and his tiller was set to “go.” What a racket that made the next evening!

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       I had two garages on my half-acre lot, one attached to and one detached from the house. I set my sights on running an underground power line to the detached garage a hundred feet behind my house. Upon Bart’s recommendation, I ordered the four-inch thick Residential Electrical Wiring book from Popular Science that was based on the National Electrical Code. I mastered all of the relevant sections of that book as I planned the 200-amp electrical service for my auto mechanic shop.

       The regulation allowed me to bury the cable without conduit if it was at least 24 inches deep. I couldn’t Ditch Witch the route in which to bury the 8-gauge electrical wire because the path traversed the massive roots of a hundred-plus-foot-tall cottonwood tree. I invited Dan Mayo to assist with the project, and he brought a grubbing hoe and a shovel. I picked the worst possible day to dig that ditch by hand through solid clay for 116 feet to my shop. The temperature zoomed over 100°.

       Dan was a powerful, stocky man. His biceps were nearly as big as my thighs. I still had the gumption that I had as a sixteen-year-old gravedigger, if not the stamina. Dan and I fought over that grubbing hoe, bantering over who was tired and who wasn’t. There was no mistaking that we were both bone-tired by the time we spent four hours excavating that ditch by hand.

       We attached the three 8-gauge wires to the 200-amp breaker panel that I had installed in the garage. All that remained was connecting those wires to the electric meter. Under normal circumstances, that would require having the 240-volt current from the transformer to the house turned off; however, that necessitates a county electrical inspection first. The inspector would’ve wanted to see my permit. I didn’t have one, so Dan attached my new 200-amp service to the power grid LIVE. That’s sort of like wiring your lamp’s electrical cord into its plug while the plug is in the wall socket, but with twice the potential for death.

       Over the following week, I strung 12-gauge wire to outlets throughout my detached garage, painted the floor with gray sealant paint, installed a wood-burning stove, and painted the walls beige. Or at least the sample patch in Sears’ Paint Department looked like beige. While I was painting it in the middle of the night, it sure looked pink, though. In the light of the next day, there was no mistaking the bright pink that I’d painted on my shop walls! This would not do! I repainted it light gray instead. The last touch was a barn-door window that I built on the back side of my garage to let the breeze into my shop during the hot summers. Now, I was in the auto mechanics business. I just needed cars to fix.

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       I spent hundreds of hours at the Legal Library in downtown Oklahoma City over the months leading up to the trial. I taught my lawyer Ned all there is to know about the history of slander suits in Oklahoma, arming him with every single precedent documented in that library.

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       Word began to spread around the AWACS Wing that Lieutenant Zachary would repair your car for a minimal fee: a 12-pack of Busch beer, and in the case of large jobs, a particular Craftsman tool. I foraged good used replacement parts from the local salvage yard whenever possible. As time went by, my reputation flourished, and cars were typically lined up in my backyard on Friday nights. My customers kept my refrigerator full of beer. If their car didn’t run, I would pull it across town with a tow strap. I quickly accumulated a sizeable library of Chilton’s repair manuals and performed tune-ups, fluid replacements, and brake repairs. I diagnosed and replaced thermostats and water pumps, batteries, alternators, distributors, starters, ignition coils, mufflers, catalytic converters, all types of engine sensors, throw-out bearings, clutches, pressure plates, and lots and lots more.

       Yep, I did it all. In fact, Bart soon began to call me for advice about any mechanical issues. When I latch onto a sparkle, there’s no stopping me. Over the next few months, I accumulated every Craftsman tool imaginable, and my customers gladly donated hundreds of cases of beer toward my insatiable thirst for alcohol. Obviously, I had started drinking again. It’s either all or none. Nothing in between.

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       I was rotating the tires on a customer’s car with my brand-new air-powered ratchet. The sliding curtain door of my shop faced Privett’s garden. I looked up and saw Privett defiantly facing me with his hands on his hips. I grinned, flippantly pointed my ratchet at Privett, and squeezed off my resounding message: ZZZZING, ZZZZING, ZZZZING!!!

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       My exuberant application of nitrogen on my garden the previous fall resulted in jalapeño trees instead of bushes the second season. Everything on top of the ground, especially the foliage, grew hysterically. Everything under the ground barely grew at all. My carrots and potatoes were like toothpicks and marbles, their bushy tops robbing them of nutrients. My neighbors’ derisive jeers kicked my determination into overdrive. I took another soil sample to the Agriculture Department at Oklahoma State University and followed their instructions precisely this time.

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       I had seen Privett traipsing around to all the neighbors with his arms full of vegetables from his garden. I didn’t give it any thought. Terry Sweeney, the teenager who lived down the street, was taking auto mechanics in high school and was extremely interested in learning. His desire to learn had sparked my zest for teaching. Word got back to me through Terry that Privett had been going around to all the neighbors, saying that he just happened to have some extra vegetables and “Oh, by the way, you shouldn’t let your children play with his child because he likes to sue people.”

       Some people never learn.

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       Bart and I huddled. Then, I went around to all the neighbors and told them my side of the story. Two of the neighbors told me that they thought it was odd the way Privett was wandering around the neighborhood, giving away his vegetables and spewing gutter-talk about me. Both of them happily volunteered to be witnesses in my favor at the slander trial.

       Bart planned to call the Cowboy Hall of Fame in Oklahoma City from Florida to get Privett fired from his security job. Before Bart went on leave to Orlando the following week, he did a little tactical research. He scouted the layout of the Hall of Fame and then gathered further corroboratory details from a nearby antique auto show. Bear in mind that Bart is as eloquent as one gets. He loved going out to the high schools and rallying the seniors to join the Air Force. He was ultra-persuasive.

       Bart stopped by my shop when he returned from leave.

       “It worked like magic!” Bart exclaimed. “I called from my parent’s house in Orlando and enticed the President with a few substantiating tidbits about my antique Jaguars that I had shipped to Oklahoma City the previous weekend. I told him that we decided to visit the Cowboy Hall of Fame while my family and I were in town. My voice strained when I described how my little girl and I were standing in front of the portrait of John Wayne when she accidentally dropped her candy wrapper on the floor. I told him that a security guard named Privett stormed up to Cindy and screamed at her, ‘Do you throw trash on the floor in your house, little girl?! Pick it up, now!’  

       I told him that Cindy started crying, and when I tried to intervene, Privett shouted, ‘Shut up! I wasn’t talking to you!’

       I told the President that I was flabbergasted and that we immediately left the Cowboy Hall of Fame, declaring, ‘We will never, ever return to that establishment where that disrespectful man verbally molested my daughter.’

       The President came unglued, promising, ‘Sir, I assure you that security guard will never have the opportunity to do that again. I’d be honored if you would allow me to give you a personal tour of the Cowboy Hall of Fame the next time you’re in town.’ ”

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       I don’t recall how I happened to visit a farm on the outskirts of Midwest City, but I distinctly remember the 1963 Volkswagen Beetle sitting behind a barn. It had been the focal point of periodic target practice throughout the years. Off the cuff, I asked the farmer, “Was the transmission good when you last parked it here?”

       “Shor was,” the weathered man said.

       “Would you take a hundred and fifty dollars for it?”

       “Shor ‘nuff.”

       The farmer let me borrow his cattle trailer to transport the antique Bug. When I pushed the rusted hull out into my backyard, Bubber soured, “Ewww, what are you going to do with that?”

       “You’ll see.”

       I ordered the Auto Body Repair manual from Popular Science and the 480-page chuckle-filled How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive. I spent the next three months pouring my heart into restoring my Bug to its former self with artistic modifications. I taught myself all about auto bodywork in the process of giving my Bug a Baha makeover using an oxy-acetylene torch to sculpt the fenders with sleek new lines. I pulled the engine and took it to the auto hobby shop at the airbase where I bored out the cylinders on their lathe, stepping up its combustion chamber volume from 1200 to 1500cc. I replaced the brake lines, calipers, and brake shoes.

       Before I was half-way through the project, I started driving my Bug to work and got three offers the first day.

       I lovingly healed my Bug’s gunshot wounds and rust holes with pounds of Bondo fiberglass resin applied to square yards of fiberglass cloth. I learned all the dos and don’ts of bodywork the hard way. After I filled all the holes with Bondo, sprayed on a base coat of primer paint, and then spray-painted my baby with layers of sky blue paint, I realized how much I didn’t know about auto bodywork. I ripped out my work with a heavy-duty grinder and tried again, and again, until the seams were seamless, until you could see no ripple of the underlying Bondo through seven layers of high-gloss lacquer. My Bug’s snazzy pinstriping sowed a big grin on my face. The racing tires with chrome rims planted a big grin on everyone else’s face.

       I had to wrangle Bubber to help me install the new plush carpet. She didn’t bother to take off her engagement ring, and thus she snagged the setting and lost my quarter-carat diamond that I won when I was five years old. I should’ve divorced her then and there for her nasty attitude compounded by her carelessness.

       But, alas, I didn’t. Bubber would continue to be a thorn in my side for a few more years.

       There were a few odds and ends that I would’ve liked to restore before calling it done, however, the lawsuit was taking a toll on my finances. I decided to sell my Bug for a small profit to Airman Williams, who worked with me. That way, I could see it every day at work. He owned my Bug for less than a week before he totaled it.

       Damn!

Click here to read the conclusion of “Tinkering at Tinker”