MORLEY’S WORKSHOP
FLAWED DOORS, DODGY OPERATORS AND BROCKY’S LADAS
The latest episode to make me wonder about mankind a ll started a few days ago when I jumped in the Melbourne Bloke Centre tow-pig, ran the fuel pump for a second or t wo and then hit t he key on 304 cubic inches of f ur y. Okay, f ur y is ta k ing t he piss, but wit h a big engine in a light car, a short f irst gear and a slipper y dif f, t his t hing would pull a pit-bull of f a poodle.
The next t hing to do – because t he air-con hasn’t worked since John Howard was PM – is hit the window switch. The glass ratt les down its runners (t he rubber guides are liv ing wit h Litt le Johnny t hese days) until it gets to about 200mm from t he bottom of its travel, at which point there’s a crea k, a whump and a giant bang as t he glass jumps ship and fa lls into t he bottom of t he door. I tr y to wind t he t hing up, but a ll I can hear is t he electric motor straining with a nnng nnng nnng noise like a fat bloke tr y ing to pass a cheese grater. Bugger.
Down at the MBC, instead of writing this column (which would have been impossible, I k now, because none of this had happened yet, but you get my drift) I rip into t he door, removing t he trim and ta k ing a squiz. It’s a mess in t here. I could buy a ll t he bits to rebuild t he door’s innards but, fra nk ly, since t he va lue of this vehicle doubles when a good song comes on the AirChief push-button, t hat’s not rea lly an option.
A much cheaper solution would be to buy a complete second-hand door and just bolt it on, complete with working window. So I hit the internerd and found a buy-sell site, upon which some random bloke si x suburbs over was selling a few doors of t he right make and model. I collared the phone and gave him a quick pop quiz on what he had. Yes, he says, I have t wo doors t hat will f it your car. One’s red and one’s black, he says. (My car’s white. Of course.) The red one has a bit of damage, he tells me, but they both have electric windows and they’re complete bar the door trim. Twenty-bucks apiece. I’ll see you in 20 minutes, I tell him.
When I get there, Old Mate ta kes me into the back yard where, a long the back fence, are lined up probably t wo dozen doors. Now, exactly how a person winds up with enough doors for si x cars, but no actua l cars, is anybody’ s guess. But I would have thought there were better things to collect. Like dead birds or navel lint or whatever.
Matey allows me a moment to admire his cache and then drags out the red and black doors in question. The red one does, indeed, have a bit of damage. Quite a bit. In fact it’s a damage wit habit of door. And it’s also a manual-window job. No good. But the black one? Um, it has an electric window, but it’s also damaged, including a screwdriver sized hole near the exterior handle (maybe that’s how he managed to curate t his remarkable collection). It’s damaged too, I point out. Ah, says t he bloke, so it is.
No good tome, mate, I break the news to him. Okay, he says, what about ten bucks and you can swap out the gut soft his one into your car. He’s missing the point: I want a simple, quick fix to keep as hit box on the road till the next calamity, not a project. So I turn down his offer of 50 percent off.
Then he tells me that if the doors aren’t gone by the end of the week, they’ re going to the scrap pies. Now, If I’d lured a bloke across si x suburbs to look at a product I’ve misrepresented( inadvertently, but anyway …) over the phone, I’d be inclined to give him the better of the two doors for nix. Just for his trouble. Especially if I’m probably going to junk it any way. Not t his bloke, he lets me walk. Which, if I can’t fix the tow-pig is looking like my immediate future anyway.