Monday, June 25, 2012

My '69 Chevelle


     
     She looked like she sprung herself from the cages of a Bruce Springsteen song and roared through the Badlands on her way to the hilltop in Seattle where I lived.  This was no gleaming machine from a dealer’s lot.  The lady in question was a 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle that was born before the advent of unleaded gasoline.   Her dark blue skin was blemished all over the place from almost 25 years of hard living.  She was built like a fullback- not too tall but wide enough to make her presence known.  On many occasions, I had to jump the solenoid as the car wouldn’t always turn over with the key. In order the jump the solenoid, one has to open the hood and jam a screwdriver in just the right spot in order to get juice to go from the battery directly to the engine.  I'm amazed to this day that I didn't end up as one of those cartoon people who turn into x-rays and levitate when zapped with a surge of electricity.  That car took me on some amazing adventures, including the Oregon Country Fair and the Grateful Dead shows in Las Vegas.  As much as those adventures are stories unto themselves, what I'll remember most was her smell.

     My girl was born in an era before the EPA and other pesky legislators poked their noses around and decided that cars should have things like “environmentally sound emissions”.  Every time I started her up, huge clouds of smoke would bellow out of the exhaust and cover the entire street like it was a KISS concert. Because the floor had holes in it, the smoke would enter the car and make me cough if I was driving for a while.  After one long road trip, I could taste the exhaust on my tongue as I drove. When I  took a shower that evening and rinsed my hair, the water turned black.  There are times where I find myself amazed, almost 20 years later, that these long fume-drenched trips didn't earn me a tumor or two.  The real concern I had every time I took this car out on the road was whether the car would die on me or if it would be impounded for being a public menace.

     She survived an inquiry by the Washington State Police somewhere near the town of Ellensburg.  On my way to Las Vegas, they pulled me over after smelling me drive past them.  I didn’t get a ticket for the emissions as I happened to be driving without insurance but thankfully, I was able to connive my way out of that situation.   One of my neighbors used to leave notes on my windshield threatening to call the police if I didn’t do something about the clouds emanating from my tailpipe.  I was eventually forced to get an emissions test so I could renew my auto registration.  Somehow, perhaps via divine inspiration, the car passed.  Shortly thereafter, I was starting her up and putting on another KISS show in the street when my neighbor began pounding angrily on my driver’s side window.  As he yelled at me, I revved the engine and shoved the emissions test results up against the glass, taunting him with gleeful shouts of “I passed!  I passed!”

    Sadly, as is inevitable with used cars, the only thing she couldn’t dodge was Father Time.  There were a few visits to my local garage, some via tow truck.  I had already replaced the brakes and a few other components as part of the process where all used car owners are forced to justify to themselves yet another expense for their aging vehicle.  One day on my way home, the car was wheezing and lurching as I tried to get up the hill.  I got as far as the mechanic before the car died.  A couple of days later, the mechanic declared her dead as in “you can either buy a brand-new engine and spend more than the car is worth or say goodbye”.  Euthanasia seemed like the logical choice.  I left the car on the side street around the block and said I’d figure out what to do.  As I walked down the street past the spot where the car now resided, I would steal little peeks as if it were an ex that I really didn’t want to see but had to glimpse at anyway.

     After a month had passed, I received a phone call from the mechanic.  Not only was he tired of seeing the car, there was a new odor emanating from the trunk.  I ventured down the hill and opened the trunk to discover a cooler full of mucky water that used to be ice.  Floating in the water was a pile of what used to be ground beef. I cleaned everything out, walked around the corner to the mechanic’s office and handed over the title so that he could either dispose of the car or bring this rusting Lazarus back to life for his benefit.  I never learned what the mechanic did with my car but I never saw (nor smelled) her again.

Photo courtesy of blogcatalog.com

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