Mercy
"A kiss, I am cold...close you eyes and lose your soul"
See the story at the bottom of this page to find out more about Mercy's rescue...
Mercy During her revival.
This was attempt #1 of 7 trips to Colorado Springs over 70 miles away to revive this hearse
The hearses name is Mercy. I chose this name in reference to the fact that I felt it was like a sister car to my 1967 Miller Meteor. There is a song that has a line that includes the name ‘Sister Salvation’ by KMFDM. The other influence on her name was the group Sisters of Mercy. I decided that the name Salvation should go to my Miller Meteor, and the name Mercy should go to the Superior, as it was a bit of mercy on my part to rescue this car. I felt that the two names really complimented my cars together.
This was by far the creepiest hearse I have ever had an experience with. Let me tell you why.
This car has been sitting for about three years, with a pretty colorful background. The man that I bought her from had actually taken the car as part of a payment for a debt owed to him by a punk rock band that he had done some recording for. In the three years that he owned it, it had never run, and to top it all off, I had one more little bonus added against my favor of starting this beast up: The last person who had worked on the hearse to try to get it running turned out to be a speed addict who had consumed a 6 pack prior to working on her.
The back two windows were busted out. The years of weather had cracked and torn the white drapes into ribbons that hung from a single rod inside the windows. To sit back and watch the wind blow through the compartment, you could watch it blow the remaining strips of cloth and whip them around the outside of the car.
I had been to visit this hearse several times. I had bought the hearse somewhere in April, and it was now well into July. I had the delusion that I could simply find some little idiotic problem in the engine and drive it home. Merely taking the car for parts was out of the question, so I had to see what could be done on the engine. I opened up the hood and noticed a distinct lack of a carburetor. Roughly a few hundred small spider webs hung between every corner the engine had to offer, a silent testimony to the only denizens this car had known for some time. If only the knew that their humble habitat was about to become filled with the thunder of an engine roaring to life, maybe they would have chosen the nearby wood pile instead.
I started out early this night, which was 11:00 PM, the hour that has for me, become the manifestation of the lifestyle one adopts when they work a day job, and yet choose to stay out until 6:00 in the morning. You stay out all night, sleep an hour before work, and at the end of your day enjoy a coma like sleep for four hours before getting ready to do it all over again. This time was different for many reasons. One of those reasons was that I had a few more people with me for backup this time. Not that any of my friends were there to offer any particular help, but the company was help enough, plus when there are three other people present, you feel an ill defined sense of urgency to actually accomplish what you set out to do, so you will not look like a jackass in front of them.
Jason, another Denver Hearse Association member and fellow hearse enthusiast would ride shotgun to my tinkering with the flashlight and remind me that, yes you DO need to put the rotor back on if you intend to get the car to start. Christina his girlfriend was also present to keep both Jason and my girlie Amy a little company. For the most part, I have come to the conclusion that people really don’t care if a car turns over or not unless it has something to do with their own car, so it was nice that they were there to talk to each other and keep from getting bored.
The hearse itself was located in the city of Colorado Springs, about 60 miles outside of Denver. On a normal day, it is pretty much a straightforward little town, with little 30-story buildings aspiring to one day be big skyscrapers. At the time when we arrived however, there was no one else on the streets. I get the distinct impression that in a town that small, the only two places to go on the roads at that hour were either to jail, or the hospital. We however were on our way to a hearse. I find something awkward and spooky about broad 4 lane streets that are totally empty in the middle of the night. The traffic lights still work in regular rotation, as if all the living population had left the streets, and the signals were still mindful of their duties to a non-existent traffic flow.
We unloaded the tools and started to work. At this point there was almost no light, minus my headlights, and a dull flashlight that really should have had some new batteries.
The first problem had to be the lack of fuel. The old fuel pump was no longer delivering, so a new one had been installed on a previous visit. I did not want to give up on getting this car running. The cheapest estimate on a tow to my house was $180. This to me was a bad bet because I bought the hearse itself for $200.
After that, I had done some tests and found that there was decent compression, but it was not igniting. Sometimes even though you know better, your brain blocks out the answer. This was one of those times. The engine sound like crap when it turned over, so I assumed the worst: Timing chain. I had figured, hey, no chance am I going to repair that in someone else’s back yard. I had been turning this dilemma over and over in my mind, until about two days prior to this trip.
I was skimming through posts on the Professional Car Society Message Board. I usually read some at a glance if they sound interesting. I hit a sentence that did not make any impression at the time. I only remember the gist of it being “I finally replaced the coil and now it starts fine.” Even at the time this seemed superfluous. About three hours later that sentence hit me again. Then I really thought it over, and I decided that $10 for a part is a good gamble. I went to the store, picked one up, and headed out to see what I could do.
After a while installing the new coil, (which mind you followed a new fuel pump and carb) we decided to give it a try, but I had a thought. We pulled my current 67 hearse up to the non-running hulk in the back ally. I noticed that the entire set of plug wires was completely out of order, I could pretty much piece together what happened from there. The drug addict had somehow gotten far enough along to realize that the problem lay somewhere in the ignition, however lacking any real grasp of common sense, he pulled the wires completely off and tried to arrange them in a perfectly symmetrical pattern on both side of the distributor cap (all the ones on the right side of the cap going to the right side of the engine, all of the ones on the left side going to the left) and while I have to admit that from a aesthetic standpoint it LOOKED better, it would not do in the automotive world.
After this, everyone sensing an air of impending…well something. I think everyone knew I was going to try to start the hearse, and depending on the hearses reaction, I would either swear and throw a tool at the ground, or I would scream like a little schoolgirl with happiness. Thankfully, it started.
The engine, well, it pretty much roared to life. To say it merely started, this would be an understatement. It was more as if the engine screamed and shot fire to the fullest extent of its capability, as an affirmation of it re-admission into life. Huge flames shot from the carb, and a broken radiator hose gave a splendid smoke show after about two minutes (I had not noticed it being broken on the initial startup) more smoke than I previously ever witnessed, even in dank goth clubs with bad stereo systems, poured from the tailpipe.
The old T-3 headlights gave a pale illumination to the garage door, and at that moment I knew it was going to be all right. We fixed the hose and restarted the engine for the inaugural run of Mercy.
Shaking and convulsing she backed out of the driveway. The whole night had been sort of shadowed by slight drizzling rain. I hit the wipers, which smeared the dirty rain into a filmy mucus over the window. There was no reflection in the side mirrors, as they were out of adjustment, but even that was a little eerie, as if there was really nothing behind us at all. The front windshield was not much better, as the filmy mud was just being pushed around by the wipers. Jason and I took her around the block and back.
Normally a hearse is able to be both classy, and strangely compelling. Mercy was just strangely scary. When we got back, the exhaust formed a wall of smoke around the headlights, and I would have to say that the effect was pretty much complete. Half dead car, surrounded by smoke, covered in dirt. She looked great.
I left her there for the night, as it was 4:30 in the morning, and I leave for work at 6:00. I will be back soon for the drive, but I did not want to risk a problem on the interstate with only two hours left before work.
I think that now I will go to sleep, as I have not had any since I heard the loud coughing of a resurrected engine, and choking of 20 yards of exhaust. I am tired, but thank you for listening to my little story.
-Zachary Byron Helm