Continuing the story of the Packard and the Pontiac, 1954 Ford Wagon and the Bug, my car saga continues.
Following the demise, and eventual resurrection of the Bug, I stumbled on a pickup for $200. It was a 1942 Dodge, with fresh paint, a clattering engine, and a four on the floor with a compound low gear. Unlike the others in this series, this is a photo of the actual vehicle.
This truck didn't last long either. . .a few months at best. I do remember owning it in the summer and driving it to the Valley Drive In several times, where we would stretch out in the bed of the truck and watch Russ Meyers movies, and movies like The Wife Swappers, Joe, Wild In The Streets, Where's Poppa, and Putney Swope. When the pickup gave up the ghost, I stumbled onto a guy who wanted a pickup truck. . .he was willing to take the Dodge in trade for his 1950 Panel truck, if I threw in another $100. And I became the proud owner of a panel truck.
The panel truck lasted a few months and I abandoned it in the low-income apartment complex where I lived with Roger Padvorac (my share of the rent was $13, one third of the $39 a month). Eventually a tow truck operator was going to take it away, but needed a title. I surrendered the title for the usual junker payment of $15.
A friend--Paul Kushner--took pity on me and gave me a pink 1959 Rambler he had parked in his yard for a year. I remember driving it back and forth to visit my college pals in Bellingham. It had a strange pushbutton gear system a/k/a "typewriter tranny." I loved the color of the car, and the fact that it was a gift made it even sweeter. It lasted a few months, and when it finally konked out, Paul came and towed it back to his place.
In September, 1973, after two years working as a barely-paid volunteer, I was moving away to college and could not afford a car. I owned no cars at all, for the next ten years, relying on buses, mooching rides, walking, hitchhiking, and from 1977 to 1982, the NYC subway system. ---o0o---
7 comments:
A great series, Jack, among my favorites, fer shur. and you know that my list of favorites is getting pretty long. I don't remember all of of these cars but I do remember the Packard and Moochie's wagon, the panel truck and I guess the Bug but I draw a blank on the pickup which is amazing because the pic shows it to have been a real eyepopper. I do remember nights in the Drive In but we usually relied on vehicles with trunks so that we could beat the per head fee. OOOPs, something is rising through the memory goop. Did Bill Seguin, you and I attend the Auburn Drive In once in that truck? I think I am have a memory of that. I can't see read the marquee but it's likely Corman or worse. I am amazed that the fella who gave you the Rambler had no problem towing it back to his house when it conked. Great stuff in the rich life of John Newton Brummet III.
I don't remember exactly who or where, but I do remember going to more than one drive in movie in that great old truck. And speaking of old cars, I remember you and Danny had the ultimate classic--a '55 or '56 Chevy Bel-air.
And I specifically remember the movie The Wife Swappers, about which IMDB said:
"The Wife Swappers was the first movie to really tie the sex and horror genres together. Sidelining at one point to become a stalker horror movie when a well spoken dirty phonecaller forces a woman to take her clothes off in public exhibitions that later will cause a `total nervous collapse necessitating prolonged hospitalisation', in stereotypical horror film fashion the titles open to screams of horror rather than joy. The depiction of the cult initially seen wearing theatrical masks also poses the question was The Wife Swappers Kubrick's closet inspiration for Eyes Wide Shut. Although mostly forgotten today, The Wife Swappers was one of the most successful British films at the tail end of the Swinging Sixties. Headlining a double bill with an obscure Sixties adaptation of ‘The Perfumed Garden' it appropriately became the couples favourite among the British sex cinema roster. The Wife Swappers is a Brit-sleaze classic."
When I write these "old days" stories I feel like a fogey, but I like it. I get a lot of props for having done things.
It was a light blue 55 4D 3 on the tree Belair, about 16 years old when we got in 1971. My history of cars would necessarily be a serial account of fender benders and crushed quarter panels almost all of which I did not own. In fact, Dan should have been the full owner of the Chevy. He initiated the purchase and had the dough to buy it outright but my folks insisted that we share it. I am still ashamed that I pretty much destroyed the car despite his steadfast maintenance efforts. I added a quart too much once and turned that gem of a car into an oil burner. One evening while prepping for a date with a half rack in the passenger seat I made a right off Meeker onto that main road downtown Kent when the passenger door flew open. I reached to pull it closed I ran up onto the curb at the gas station and crushed the right fender against a light pole. The replacement fender was a dark green. When I worked for the Vet's Animal Hosp I backed one of DVM's pickups into a car at the shopping center above the high school and paid $400 bucks out of pocket to keep it quiet. I drove Dave Johnson's cream white 54 Jag into something and ruined its right curved fender. I made a feeble attempt to make things right by purchasing a forest green replacement from a later model year. It did not fit. While on winter break our first year at Western Phil Kendall and I volunteered to the wheel of Mel's folks' pontiac during a night of carousing after Jerry wisely declined driving. We each put the car into separate ditches a total of 4 times. Again $400 bucks out of pocket for repairs. Later I was with Jerry and Vic Sheibert when we drove into one of those Wallingford retaining walls during a soupy night of Seattle fog and cabin smoke. I am relieved to report that I wasn't driving that night.
Let me know if you want to hear of the 3 near misses that I still marvel over.
Excellent series!
Kev, I had completely forgotten your propensity to lunch automobiles! That's a hoot.
And I DO want to hear about the three misses! /jack
Near Misses: The last of these occurred in the summer of 1985 and, while I was definitely lucky, law enforcement sometimes turned a blind eye to this kind of driving back then. You probably remember the Alaskan canneryman who was so stewed after a night’s drinking in Bellingham that a WA State bull pulled him over in the northbound lanes of I-5 as he headed south to Seattle. In truth, I had hidden his ornery canneryman’s keys on my mantle knowing that he had had way too much to drink. But he pestered me for 2 hours saying he had to get back to Seattle. I couldn’t be sure back to his girl or back to his boat but he was relentless. And I couldn’t persuade him that I didn’t know where his keys were. He went at me for 45 minutes before I gave up and handed him the keys. He staggered from my apt on High Street with one eye shut at about 4:00am. I remember waking with a start the next morning fearing the worst and regretting that I hadn’t been firmer with the keys. I was shocked, even then, to learn that the cop told him to sleep it off before he got back onto the freeway. He didn't so much as issue the canneryman a ticket.
Bellingham, WA ca 1980
I was visiting Jerry Melin during his last term at WWSC only a few years after the canneryman incident. Jerry had decided to retire a little earlier than I wished but allowed me the use of his VW Wagon as I continued my carousing. He cautioned me about its sticky throttle pedal which required an awkward stooping maneuver to unstick the pedal as I up or down shifted through every gear of the manual transmission. This maneuver definitely enlarged my weaving radius. A local B'ham cop pulled me over and asked if I had been drinking. I answered "Officer, I am drunk" This seemed to catch him off guard as he inspected my valid WA DL. I quickly offered that I was returning to NYC the next day and presented him my airline ticket along with my longest face. He asked if I could make it back to my host’s home and sent me off with the warning “You better not get pulled over again.” WHEW
Turnpike, Western PA ca 1984
By now my WA DL had lapsed and I hadn’t bothered to “exchange” it for a valid NYSDL. Mary Logue, you probably remember Mary, called me saying that Mazda towing her belongings to NYC had broken down just outside of Pittsburgh and asked if I would help her retrieve her stuff. She had arranged to borrow a van from some Minnesotan friends on the Lower East Side. I wasn’t working much and a road trip was a welcome break to the boredom so I jumped at the opportunity. The van was a real heap. It was mounted with large battered side view mirror frames with only shards of fun house glass remaining in each. The cabin rear view mirror provided minor visibility through the small back door windows. Once we got out of NYC I volunteered to do the driving. We got out to her things without any trouble and loaded the van. This eliminated any visibility except the fun house variety from the side mirrors. I remember ranting about a book I had just read as I roared up the Turnpike at about 80mph staying in the passing lane. Mary interrupted me to ask if I heard a siren. I said “Nah, it’s just road hum and engine noise”. Another 5 minutes with nothing but open highway before us I pulled into the right lanes when a PA state bull pulled up beside us. He was shrieking red with rage as he waved for me to pull over, I don’t think he had his weapon pulled but he was mad enough. He spluttered “didn’t you hear my siren?” I told him, politely, that I had not. He railed about the broken mirrors and the multiple violations I was facing when he asked for my license. I told him that I didn’t have a license. He flinched and said, “You mean, you don’t have your license with you”. Again, as politely as possible, I said, “No officer I don’t have a valid license”. He said, “Oh Christ, you are in some serious trouble, boy” He pulled me from the van and put me in the back of his cruiser. He asked Mary if she had $3,000 to pay the fines. She winced but said that she would get it. I said, “Mary, don’t bother” and the cop screamed “Then you are facing about 30 days in jail, son”. A calm had come over me, and this was strange, because during these years I was always so high strung and only moments before I had been haranguing Mary as if the world depended on it about some bad novel that she had had me read on the drive out. My polite but assured response to the cop’s threat of 30 days really rattled him. “I am willing to serve the 30 days, officer, I won’t allow my friend to bail me out of this one”. He was stumped. He asked "does anybody have a license in that van?” I said that my friend Mary did. He called her forward and inspected her license. He sent us on our way, I still believe, after calculating the costs to him in paperwork and to the Commonwealth for 90 hots and a cot costs. His last words to me were “You better not get caught behind the wheel of this vehicle again and if your friend is stopped for the mirrors you better not mention that you have been stopped before”. OOOOOMMMMM
East Hampton, NY July 4th 1985
As Jerry & Dot’s guest I attended a backyard BBQ in the house they owned with Marie Conway and her NYFD husband Brian(??). Jerry and I got an early start and steadily wore out the day hoisting drivers, cape cods & salty dogs. At about 10:00pm Jerry barked let’s go out. Now, I wasn’t working too much and I was his guest and Jerry was notoriously generous so what could I have said? As we were just about to hit the door Jerry said, “Kev, you’ve got to drive. I got pulled over last week. The cops gave me a DUI (about ½ a DWI) and I just can’t afford it, so you have to drive”. Now, I needn’t remind you that I didn’t have a license but what could I do? By Jeeves, I drove. I remember the car as a Dodge Dart type of deal, of course it could have been a Plymouth but certainly an early 70’s vintage. We went from bar to bar, it was the 4th and the joints were jumpin’ and the folks were bumpin’ and we’d tip a few and get back on the tour. At about 3:00AM or so we were drivin’ to our next destination when I we came up over a small slope of road. A couple hundred feet before us there was a half dozen or so cruisers with their cherries blazing. We had driven into a drunk trap. I felt sunk for sure. I first thought of pulling a U eee but knew almost instinctually that that would be a flat out admission of guilt so I joined the queue that crept slowly forward. Now, Jerry had long practiced designating other drivers since his scrape with the Auburn fuzz in 1973. He had passed the keys to me and was just about passed out in the seat next to me as I gulped with dread. When we rolled up to the cop he shined his light into my face and asked through the window, “How’re doin’ this evening?.” I kept it brief, “Fine, officer.” I knew I was dead meat, certainly his next utterance was going to be “License and registration, please” and then he was going to make me blow and the gig was going to be up and I’d be carted off in cuffs, but he didn’t ask me for my license or the registration. Instead, he asked, “Have you done any drinkin’ tonight?” “I have had a couple of beers, officer”. In fact, I had had a couple of sixers of beer and the aforementioned summer drinks and wine with dinner and some cognac before we left the house, too. Somehow I had crossed from blaring heaving drunkenness right back into that netherworld of cold stoned sober. Oh, I was drunk all right. I surely would have blown well over .1, maybe as high as .16. But I wasn’t slurring and I was calm and steady as doom. Anyway, the cop in response to my grossly understated quantity estimate said, “You know that’s a pretty stock answer… a couple of beers”. I acknowledged “So it is, officer”, and then, sticking to my guns, added “but that’s what I’ve had tonight, officer”. At this moment he raised his flashlight to reveal Jerry slouched in the passenger seat. He said, “it looks like your friend has had a lot more than a couple of beers”. When was this dance going to end? I was getting ready to crack but the veteran improviser Mel broke through with a brilliant chorus in his best one eyed post double packed camel tabaccy rasp “That’s why he’s drivin’, officer”. And that did it. The cop chuckled and shaking his head he said “get home safe, gentleman” Oh, sure it helped that another 20-30 cars were lining up behind us and the cops certainly had to save precious Hamptons’ jail space for the real bull goose loonies but there’s no mistake that was a close call. Too close. I mean “ I think we did head home and I can honestly say that I have never driven a vehicle with so much as a whiff of hootch on my breath ever since. I had spent my luck full up by that time.
Sorry for going on so long.
Wow! Great great stories. I think I'd heard most of them...but cumulatively...whew!
The best part is how much our world has changed.
Well, that's the second best part. The best part is that we all survived (mostly) after having done such retarded things.
A current Mary Logue bio:
http://www.walkerbooks.com/authors/index.php?cmd=showtitles&author_id=22&author_name=Mary%20Logue&author_type=1
interesting!
/jack
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