Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                                Episode – 4 

By August 1990, Johnny B. Whiskey had carved out a name for himself on the blacktop backroads of central Georgia. At just 21, his reputation rode loud and proud in the form of a flat-black 1968 Dodge Dart with red steel wheels, a snarling 340 small block under the hood, and a well-earned stack of folded twenties in the glovebox from late-night wins.

The Dart wasn’t just a car anymore—it was part of him. It had outrun Camaros, Mustangs, and even the occasional cocky Grand National that thought it had something to prove. County Line Road had become his unofficial quarter mile, and he knew it like the back of his calloused hand.

But on one late August Sunday morning, after walking a big-block Nova by two car lengths before dawn, Johnny felt something he didn’t like.

The Dart coughed. Not loud—just a little hiccup at idle. It stumbled at a stoplight—a bit of hesitation off idle. To anyone else, it would’ve seemed like nothing. But Johnny knew his car, and something was off.

He coasted quietly into the narrow gravel drive behind his parents’ place, where a small two-bay garage sat. The left side held old garden tools, bikes with flat tires, and shelves lined with dusty mason jars. The right side was sacred. Johnny and his dad had cleaned it out the day the Dart came home. Oil stains now marked the concrete like scars from old battles. A pegboard of tools hung under a bare bulb, and an old Sun Tune-Up Tester sat in the corner like a silent war veteran.

Johnny rolled the Dart inside, engine still ticking hot, and shut it down.

The garage settled into quiet.

He cracked a Coke from the mini fridge, tossed the hood up, and rolled the Sun machine into place. The giant analog dials blinked awake as he hooked the probes up—tach, dwell, timing light all connected with the practiced rhythm of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

The readings told him what he already suspected.

The dwell was bouncing around. A dual-point distributor with just a few degrees of scatter meant something was slipping or out of adjustment. Johnny reached into the engine bay, distributor cap off, screwdriver in hand, fiddling with the tiny screws on the breaker plate.

Half an hour passed.

Then, an hour.

The dwell still danced around like a jukebox needle on a pothole.

He cussed under his breath. “What the hell…”

Behind him, the screen door creaked open and slammed shut.

“Boy,” came the familiar voice, “you in there turning screws or carving wood?”

Johnny looked up. His dad, James Whiskey, stood in the doorway, leaning against a shelf with a cup of coffee and wearing a well-aged Goodyear cap: fifty-something, half gray, and all business.

“It’s not holding dwell,” Johnny muttered. “I think the rubbing block’s worn.”

James walked up slowly, glancing down at the open distributor. He took a sip of his coffee, looked at the machine, and nodded like he was remembering an old song.

“Back when I had the ‘Cuda,” he said, “I could set those points blindfolded with a matchbook cover and a feeler gauge.”

Johnny sighed. “Yeah, well, I got your $3,000 machine here, and it still ain’t right.”

His dad gave a slight grin. “That’s your problem right there—you’re watching the dials instead of listening to the car.”

Johnny stepped aside, and his dad grabbed a battered dwell tool from the drawer like he was pulling Excalibur from the stone. He carefully rotated the engine over with a breaker bar until the rubbing block rode the high point of the cam. Then, with the grace only experience gives, he backed off the screws, slid in the feeler gauge, and adjusted the gap.

Click.

Tighten.

Click.

Repeat for the second set.

James didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He moved with the patience of a man who’d done it long before Disco died.

“Alright,” he said. “Fire it.”

Johnny hopped in and turned the key.

The Dart barked to life with a sharper crack than before. The idle leveled out. The tach on the Sun machine sat rock steady. The motor sounded clean. Healthy.

His dad raised the timing light. “Bring it out to 2500, and hold it,” James yelled over the screaming 340. Checking the timing mark, he adjusted the distributor just a hair.

“That’s 36 degrees all in. Let her idle down.”

Johnny leaned out the window, wide-eyed. “It’s never sounded that good.”

His dad just nodded as he tightened the distributor screw. “Because now it’s right.”

Later that afternoon, with the Dart purring like a jungle cat on the prowl, Johnny pulled up to Jennifer’s house. She was already outside, holding two cones from the little corner dairy stand they both loved—vanilla for her, strawberry swirl for him.

He stepped out and nodded at the car. “Wanna hear something beautiful?”

She smiled and leaned in. “I already did when you came up the block.”

They climbed in, the seat still warm from the sun, and headed down the road with the windows down and the smell of ice cream, gasoline, and summer filling the air.

As they cruised past the edge of town, Johnny glanced at Jennifer and said, “You know, I think I finally figured this thing out.”

She smiled, licking her cone. “You’re talking about the Dart, right?”

Johnny just grinned.

“Mostly.”