1948 New Yorker
I have been a reader and occasional commenter on Curbside Classic since it began. In addition to the fascinating subject matter the excellent writing here makes this one of my favorite sites. I have recently been enjoying the First Line Literary Journal and thought it might be fun to try something similar here.
In that journal every story starts with the same first line. The story can be anything. It can be about the car shown, old Chryslers, any old car, you favorite balloon, the neighbors cat, or wherever the muse takes you. Of course the usual CC rules apply: nothing snarky, nothing insulting, nothing too off color, etc. Lets stick to a 500 word limit. I am sure that Paul will be happy to offer large cash prizes, luxurious trips, and other wonderful rewards for the best submissions! Or, he may choose to limit the prizes to hearty accolades.
Here is the first line for your fiction: I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist.
I hope you are inspired
Have fun. I can’t wait to read what you come up with.
Having experience in making vehicles look comical, the elongated nose of the Chrysler called to my artistic bent. Based on Chrysler’s adding to the wheelbase only in front of the cowl, the front end reminded me of a beagle, for some odd reason. Alas, with my welding skills lacking, I knew that only one shop in town could help. I fired up the silky smooth straight 8 and hightailed it to Bob’s Custom Shop. You know the one, right next to the Muffler and Brake shop, right? Anyway, Bob doesn’t seem too keen on adding Floppy Ears to the roof and a wagging tail in the back, but if this case of Bud doesn’t convince him, maybe the mickey I slipped in his bottle will…..
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. When you are planning a major crime, the conventional wisdom says to choose something boring and common, like a silver 4-Runner. But this was not just going to be any crime and the Chrysler was not going to be just any getaway car.
Robbing the clubhouse of a motorcycle gang was going to be dicey enough. Driving up in a 4-Runner would have gotten me beat up before I could get both feet on the ground. The Chrysler would be the kind of thing that would be expected there, so I would have the element of surprise going for me.
It started well. I pulled up and walked in. Nobody really noticed me as they played pool with the heavy metal music blaring from the speakers. They were all half under the influence of something or other, so I was ready.
My plan was to sneak up to the first one who noticed me and knock him out with the chloroform rag I held in my left hand. I would then grab the wad of cash he had in the pocket of his jeans and be gone before anyone else noticed.
But it all went so wrong the moment I felt that sneeze coming on. I went to wipe my nose and . . . . The next thing I knew I was bloody and laying on the back floor of my Chrysler as shovelfuls of dirt were covering it. Yes, I had failed and was being buried alive in my Chrysler.
I have had many terrible ideas, but buying that Chrysler was one of the worst.
Was this inspired by Stephen King’s short story “Dolan’s Cadillac”?
No, I just made it up as I went. It is easy to write creative fiction when I have actual work I should be doing instead.
At least it’s a roomy coffin! Well done.
I knew that buying the Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist I saw the ’49 Cosmopolitan first, a very rare fastback sedan in dark gray I saw the wrecking yard from old “66” outside Amarillo Texas I got off the main road and found the entrance Then I saw the ’48 Chrysler Imperial sedan They were $100 each, I bought both. Kevin was wiih me and could drive my ‘new condition ’49 Cadillac “62” sedan the 2000 miles back home. I replaced a wheel cylinder and sealed the others, and, what the hell, put a set of Dunlop wide whites on it and the hubcaps from the trunk I had my buffer in the Caddy’s trunk, a couple hours later the Imperial looked very nice I had a radiator shop boil out the gas tank for both the Imp and Lincoln and put new fuel pumps on I backflushed the radiator and filled it I told the yard I’d be back for the Lincoln next week. I led the way, my Emerald green Cad following I cruised at 50 mph awhile, the strait eight was silent, and wanted more I slowly rolled up to 75-80 mph and did that most of the way home It made 12-15 mpg and didn’t miss a beat, we made it home in two days. Kev was busy, so Norm went with me in my black ’59 LeBaron six window sedan with A/C to get the Cosmo The tires were original from ’49 (this was in 1971), the brakes held after bleeding, Norm and I switched back and forth in the cars I ran 50-55 because of the tires Norm, going down the Tehachepies got up to 110 and I expected a tire to blow any second, it didn’t. Home in two days, the Cosmo was a lovely metallic charcoal once detailed Norm bought the ’48 Imperial, I kept the fastback Cosmo awhile The interiors on both cleaned decently
When I saw the photo of the Chrysler that episode came flooding back, that story is true I used to buy and drive cars home from all over the country, I live in northern California
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist.
Little did I know just how bad of a decision that would be.
Oh, it started off innocuously enough- a couple hundred dollars here, a couple hundred there- but as the months wore on, the desire to have the perfect 1948 New Yorker started to consume my thoughts as well as the contents of my bank account.
Then one day, I received a phone call one morning while polishing the Chrysler’s impressive radio console to a gleaming shine. “Where have you been?” asked the somewhat familiar voice. I knew I remembered it from somewhere… Oh, yeah, work. The boss. I realized I hadn’t left the garage, in, ah, I don’t know…
Well, I actually didn’t know.
“We’ve been trying to get a hold of you,” he continued, “but we haven’t…”
I pulled the phone from my ear and quickly stabbed the Home button. Sure enough, there were 18 voicemails waiting for me. I winced and put the phone on speaker. It’s tough to hold a phone in one hand and polish a radio with the other.
“Anyway, Bob will be by with all the stuff from your desk later this afternoon. Sorry it had to come to this, but we just didn’t know what else to do.” I think he started saying some other things, but radio.
The next warning sign was when this strange woman walked into the garage. I think she screamed something about being my wife and that she was leaving or something along those lines, but these carburetors don’t rebuild themselves, and I had to inventory all the replacement interior bits that had just arrived from eBay.
The last straw, though, was when these officers from the Sheriff’s Department pulled up. Apparently banks expect you to repay large home equity loans, even if it’s for a good cause, like a 1948 Chrysler. Jerks.
At least I still had the car- they couldn’t take that away from me! Good thing that back seat is so roomy, too. And I had just reupholstered it. Lucky timing! So, I put all the spare parts and tools I could fit in the trunk, and drove off in search of greener pastures.
Well, it’s been a couple years now, and it’s just been the New Yorker and I, hanging out where we can. Turns out “Please Help- Need Change For Reproduction 1948 Window Cranks” isn’t the best sign to put up when asking for money. That’s alright, though, turns out whiskey is a lot cheaper than restoring a classic car, and it’s almost as much fun! One thing I’ve learned throughout this whole ordeal is that the stuff in the plastic bottles isn’t that bad. The trick is that you can’t stop drinking it, or it starts tasting HORRIBLE again.
Funny story, actually. Tonight I was in the back seat again enjoying a nice cocktail, as I usually do every time I scrape up three dollars and twenty-seven cents, when a man knocked on the window and startled me. “What do you want?”
“Excuse me, sir, do you know where the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest is?”
Well, that was quite enough! “No, you idiot. This is the CC Creative Competition Contest, and the inept jackass who’s been writing this at work while he should be programming has turned my life into a hellish parody of what once was. Now get away from my car before I stab you with the last screwdriver I haven’t traded for booze!”
The man was visibly startled and turned away. As he continued down the street, I could hear him mutter, under his breath…
“Christ, what an asshole.”
What a fabulous story arc – you start out as a stable computer programmer with a wife and a job and a house and your health. You get a worn and weathered 48 Chrysler. And at the end of it all you have none of those things – and after awhile a once again worn and weathered 48 Chrysler. Sic transit gloria Chrysler.
Thanks JP- that means a bunch! And that would be a great title for the story.
The story originally served as an excuse to make the joke at the end, but then I got into it. Your reply to Wildabeast above actually gave me the segue I needed to get to the end, too!
Love it! Perfectly captures that tunnel vision when you’re consumed with a task…but you never leave the tunnel. Very cool.
Thanks! Yours was great as well.
Very good – and relatable!
Thank you!
Love the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Contest reference – I can almost see the cartoon.
Come to think of it, that would make a great caption for almost any New Yorker cartoon…I’ll enter it next week and let you know 🙂
Do it! 🙂
You alls impress me every time out .
Thank you .
-Nate
I think the line stands for itself!
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist as it was a dark and stormy night.
They said the hurricane was coming and that there would be lots of rain and flooding but that we should shelter in place and not try to evacuate. Evacuating wouldn’t have worked anyway as the Chrysler wouldn’t start even though the battery did have a charge. As I write these words by the flickering dashboard lights I am feeling a cramp coming on since I am somewhat contorted as the water is almost chest high and I am holding the paper up to the tattered headliner. Thank goodness I had bought a space pen from Jack Klompus the last time I was in Florida visiting him at Del Boca Vista so it writes even when upside down.
The water seems to have leveled out and doesn’t appear to be rising any more so that’s good. Once it recedes completely I’m sure I can tow this car up to Indiana and sell it since the title will have been washed in all of the water. I hear a lot of people like old cars up there and as long as the door panels are all in place they generally aren’t too picky. It’s a good thing I have a large bag of pretzels but darned if they aren’t making me thirsty. All this water but nowhere for a man to get a drink…
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. I’m just an ordinary, average guy. As long as it runs, that’s all I care about. Oh, and that it’s American, and that it’s old. I don’t like new cars or foreign cars. They’re fine for other people, just not me. Chrysler always had a classy ring to it. Also a religious feel, with the first syllable being “Chrys” sounding like “Christ”. Chrysler is dignified. My friend’s got a Dodge. Very sturdy. The name Dodge is strong. Tough sounding. Dodge is made by Chrysler, so you know it’s good. So why did I say buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea? Because it didn’t run. But my friend took care of it. He got it running. That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. It was a simple plan–get it running first and worry about the details later. The neighbors will love it! Small children will be scared by its toothy chrome maw! When the rollback dropped it off in the driveway, I felt like the coolest guy in town. Or, at least in a few square blocks…
I made myself a celebratory Manhattan and gazed out the window upon my acquisition. It looked so classy.. I made another Manhattan. Isn’t that a Kaiser? Call it a New Yorker instead, and have a third. Oh bother, I’ve run out of vermouth. That’s ok, this rye is pretty good straight…
I woke up the next morning still in my armchair with an empty bottle of rye at my feet and a pounding headache. I looked out the window at my new…empty driveway. The previous day seemed fuzzy. Had I imagined it all? Think. I opened the front door, winced at the sunlight, and there was the Chrysler…at the very end of the driveway. Huh? Had someone tried to steal it? Kids rolled it there? Weird.
Anyway, I had things to do. Went to run some errands, and came back to see the Chrysler exactly where I had left it. Good. Later, I looked out the window at it as I went to bed, 1948 car in the driveway of a 1946 house. How historically accurate.
The next morning it was on the street in front of the house. No time to investigate, late for work, but this is getting seriously weird. Someone in the neighborhood must be messing with me.
Tuesday morning, it’s in the back yard. How on earth did it get there without moving the Volvo? I’m becoming scared of this thing. There must have been a reason it was only $200.
Wednesday morning it’s sitting on the front walk, chrome grille grinning straight at me as I open my front door. I leave for work through the back door, having failed to convince the local police department that a potentially possessed ’48 Chrysler should be high on their list of priorities. It feels like the headlights are watching me as I walk by.
Thursday morning I walk downstairs, and it’s in my living room. My confidence in my sanity is going, going, gone. I spend the day upstairs. Sleep isn’t forthcoming.
Friday morning. I wake and peer downstairs. No Chrysler. No evidence that it was ever there. Nothing amiss in the yard. It all seems like a bad, creepy dream. I walk outside, thinking about how to explain yesterday’s absence from work to my boss. Preoccupied. I fail to notice the tire noise of an approaching car, unaccompanied by any sound from the engine.
The Chrysler is doing at least 70 MPH as it jumps the curb, headed straight for me. The last thing I see, as I turn around, is that chrome grin…
Christine’s dad!
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. In my gut, I knew I was acting like a nut, but my head was full of delightful excuses. They really knew how to make ’em back in the good old days, after all. Heck, I could sell my old Geo Prizm, (that dull, boring appliance of a car) and have the Chrysler as my daily driver! Visions of West Coast Hipster Credibility danced in my head as I handed over the cash and collected the keys. I only stalled a few times on the ten-mile ride home. Not bad! Even though I hadn’t owned a car with a standard transmission in over twenty years, I knew it would come back to me. After all, it was like riding a bike, wasn’t it? I gave the Geo to my nephew Shaun who needed a car for his new job delivering pizzas, in exchange for a vague promise of eventual payment.
Monday morning the Chrysler wouldn’t start. Pressing the starter button resulted in a faint groaning noise and nothing more. I realized at that moment that I shouldn’t have just *sat* in the car the night before, listening to the oldies station on that delightful, dusty-smelling vacuum tube radio. Where the heck was I going to find a new 6-Volt battery?
Speaking of bicycles, that day I huffed and puffed the five miles to work and barely made it in on time. My new supervisor looked at me like I was Insanity Incarnate, but what did she know? I was living the Hipster Dream.
That afternoon, for the first time in weeks, it began to rain. On my way home, on a steep downhill street, I lost control of the bike on the slippery pavement, and landed hard on the sidewalk. My collarbone and two of the fingers on my right hand were broken, and the ribs on my right side were badly bruised. There was no way I would be able to ride a bike or drive a car with a standard shift for a long, long time. I missed my dull, boring Geo and its automatic tranny so much! I needed it back, and I knew that Shaun would understand.
As I sat in the Hospital Lobby waiting for the past-due Uber driver to pick me up, my cell phone rang. “Hello, Uncle Mike? I had a little problem with the Nissan or whatever it is yesterday. I think it might be totaled. Do you think I could borrow that old Dodge to deliver pizzas tonight?”
I know a guy who had a similar accident. Bikes + booze + gravel don’t mix.
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist.
The price was right – $350, due mostly to the frame having irreparable rot. Oddly, the body was in quite remarkable condition as was the bulk of the body shell.
At around this same time, my wife had been harping about my Chevrolet pickup (seen in the picture) only having an extended cab. She wanted to be able to take our five kids with us in the same vehicle.
Women.
Once I got the Chrysler home, and having no clue what to do with it, I parked it in the shed. Several days later I downloaded the picture you see above. Then it hit me!
As it sat, the Chrysler was toast. The wheelbase of the Chevrolet pickup was close enough. Soon enough the cab and bed came off the pickup and ditto for the Chrysler.
While it took some fabrication, I now have the only LS1 powered 1948 Chrysler 4×4. It’s been great – we can all go four-wheeling together and it’s so damn comfortable.
In retrospect, buying this Chrysler was an awesome idea and I’m glad I didn’t resist.
I knew that buying the old ‘Chrysler’ was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. I’ve always had a thing for relics of a bygone era and this one really struck my fancy.
Where it came from, who knows? It looked like it had been submerged in a peat bog for eons, but that only added to its air of mystery. Who made these things I wondered, and why? But the price was right, and as I brought it home I contemplated what the wife might have to say about it.
It was a warm day, close to 120 degrees, which didn’t make the journey easier, but I eventually arrived at our steamy nest. Mrs. Argentinosaurus was fussing over this year’s egg when I arrived and the look on her face was cryptic to say the least.
“It’s for the baby!”, I said hopefully and saw her look soften (as much as a argentinosaurus’ look can).
“Oh honey,” she said, “it’s cute!”. I’ll put it over here with that little fossil my brother found.
Disaster averted. She probably knew full well I’d bought it for myself I thought, as I absentmindedly tried putting the little fossil biped inside the ‘Chrysler’ (it actually fit quite well). But she’s understanding that way.
This is better than the Bad Hemingway Contest and the Bulwer-Lytton Contest! In the commonly accepted sense of better, not as in so bad it’s better!
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. My odd sense of humor has gotten me in trouble before, and I’ve always been able to walk away laughing. And I needed a laugh.
I was out shopping for a car that day, but a minivan, not a 70-year-old bucket of bolts held together by rust. But I was ALONE, which had become somewhat of a novelty, and it’s also when I get into the most mischief. You see, my wife and I just had a baby – our first – six weeks before. Yes, we knew it was coming, but were somehow completely unprepared, including automotively. Naively, we had assumed that Cassie’s Saturn Ion would be fine for a family car; after all it was fine for her for the past decade.
But babies use up a ton of space. I could barely get that awful rear-facing baby seat in the back. And then there was the car itself. With 120,000 miles, it had more than its share of problems, including a weak air conditioner, which in August with a newborn is… an atrocity. Needless to say, it had been a stressful few weeks.
So one day, Cassie told me we needed a new car. NOW. That morning I set off on a mission: To get a family car. A big one. NOW. Cassie’s sister has a Chrysler minivan, and she likes it, so she told me to find a slightly used one and trade in the Saturn. NOW. She was so desperate for a new car, she said it’s even OK if it’s black… and she hates black cars.
Well, I’m on my way to CarMax, and then I see it. Right next to the muffler shop where we took the Saturn for its last round of repairs. A BIG, used Chrysler. I’ve always dreamed of having a car from the 1940s; it’s one of those unfulfilled dreams of mine. Cassie knows that and always rolls her eyes. I stopped and looked, and then Spencer, the guy from the shop came out. Right then I told myself: “If it starts, I’ll buy it.” It started.
When I drove up to our house, I was hoping to surprise Cassie by telling her I bought a used black Chrysler. But she saw – no, heard – me coming. As I stepped down out of that New Yorker, I knew I was in trouble. No smile, just rage. Oops. All the neighbors heard her scream at me. Oops. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to buy a project car.
I still have it, along with a minivan, and a wife who curses “that thing” in the driveway. Someday I’ll laugh at this all – that day just hasn’t come yet. Like I told my neighbors, I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist.
I knew buying that Chrysler was a terrible idea but I couldn’t resist. I had attended the estate sale for some furniture I was interested in. I had noticed the add mentioned the car and that it had been in storage for over fifty years. The car was outside a garage that looked like it had been demolished but was in incredibly good shape. It must have been like new when it was parked. The last sticker on it was from 1960.
I have an affinity for big black cars and the price was right so it followed me home. My wife wasn’t thrilled, “,looks like it should be following a hearse” was her only comment.
My grandson Paul loved it from the start, though. He spent hours in the garage with me fixing it up and his greatest joy was going for road trips with his grandpa.
I noticed a lot of times he’d be sitting in the back chattering away to someone. When I asked him, he’d just reply ” it’s my friend Billy that lives in the car!” Hey, five year olds are five year olds,and whatever keeps him happy. As time went on though, issues appeared. Paul became obsessed with spending all his time in the car, even running away when his mom wouldn’t let him come over. He kept saying “Billy” was so lonely. No one understood his behavior as he had been such a sweet, obedient child. I won’t go into details of those terrible few months except to say his parents had to finally hospitalize him.
I ended up driving through the neighborhood where I had bought the car and noticed an elderly gentleman cleaning his car. I stopped and introduced myself as the gentleman who had bought the old New Yorker and did he know anything about the history?
He said he was really shocked they had torn the garage down to get the car out after all the tragedy. He would have dropped the garage on it!
He explained a young couple had lived there with their little boy. One day the father and son were out driving. This of course was in the days before seat belts and the little boy was standing in the front seat when his dad had to make a panic stop. He hit his head on a piece of wood trim in the car and was killed. The Dad was devastated. He never drove again and spent days in the car keeping his little boy company, he said. This went on for years.
Around 1972, his wife had had enough. When he was away on a business trip she had the garage permanently sealed shut, filling in all the doors and windows with cement blocks. When he returned, all the neighbors could hear the ruckus. He was pounding the walls screaming “Billy would be so lonely”. Wait a second! Who was Billy?? “That was his five year old son that was killed. Anyhow, they took him away in a strait jacket and I heard he was institutionalized for years before he died”
Dear God..what had I done??
Delightfully spooky. Nicely done!
+1
More truth than fiction. I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist.I mean why not? No one was bidding on it and I had 15 dollars to spare.When your almost 17 in the summer with nothing to do it seems like a good idea at the time. When the auctioneer said “sold to the young man in the white t-shirt” I knew there was no turning back. I was now the owner of a 48 Chrysler Windsor Coupe.
I was familiar with Chryslers my family had owned 2 in recent years .A 51 Windsor, which my mom gave to uncle Ralph after his 55 Ford spun a rod bearing, and a 62 New Yorker which was my Mom’s current ride.
I had to do now was to figure out how to get the beast home. I ended up driving it, all I needed was to jump the battery. What to do with it after I got it home was another problem. The car had a serious tilt to the passenger side.
“What the hell is that?” my neighbor Eugene asked. “It is a 48 Chrysler Coupe, my father calls it a Businessmen’s Coupe you know for salesmen types.”
” What did the guy sell, Elephants, it leaning to one side? ” “The springs are shot, got to find some springs to replace it. ” I replied. “Where ja get it?” he asked. ” At the Police Auction behind Jim Walter’s” I replied. “How much?” asked Eugene ” Fifteen dollars”, I replied. “Only Fifteen?” asked Eugene ” Yeah, I said they auction cars there every Friday Morning it’s in the classifieds”.
I never did get the springs for that car, I just drove it around all summer then I sold to someone for Fifty Bucks. Meanwhile Eugene and our friends Gary and JoJo ,became regulars at the Police Auctions. Over the next few years I bought Austin Healey 3000s, MGs, a bunch of Morris Minors including two Pick Up trucks a Panel Delivery and a Convertible. Eugene and Gary bought a 59 Plymouth Wagon with a blown enginefor Ten bucks and a 48 Plymouth fourdoor for twenty dollars and swapped the motor into the station wagon. Loading the wagon with our friends and going to the “Dusk till Dawn” program at the Driven Theatre to watch the Spaghetti westerns marathon.
All good things must come to an end. The police auction moved to the other side of the county so it wasn’t easy to get to. We all grew up and got real jobs and I got married and started a family. Craigslist has now replaced the police auction for where to find cheap Cars. But every once I find myself looking in the paper for the announcement for the Police Auction. But now the auctions are held online. You can’t kick the tires or look into the eyes of the other bidder. Kind of takes the fun out of it, don’t you think?
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. It ran (sort of) and drove (kind of), and the guy was only asking $350! I peeled three Benjamins off my roll, and he bit.
Spending money always makes me hungry, so I stopped for lunch on my way home. Mulling my purchase over lunch, I realized what a mistake I’d made. The car was going to eat me alive in restoration costs.
After I finished my burger, I changed my plans for going home. I drove straight to the scrapyard and parked the old Chrysler on the scale. The scale read 3932 pounds. “Huh.” I thought to myself, “I thought these old cars were much heavier.”
I took my scale slip to the counter, and learned that scrap car bodies were $195/metric ton today. I took my $350 from the guy, and smiled smugly as I pulled up the app an summoned an Uber for the ride home.
I spent the afternoon driving around in a cool old Chrysler, had a nice lunch, and made $40 (after lunch) for my troubles. It was a good day.
NNOOooooooo……
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. The seller, a frail old man with an over-run garden offered a keen price and a full-tank of gas. He had opened the front door and a gout of warm stale, catsmell air billowed out. He simply handed me the keys and told me to look the car over. Despite the even layer of dirt on the car´s body work, it looked to be in good condition: a 2004 car, a 300C – retirement car, naturally. The rubber seals made an unsticking sound as I unlocked the car and dragged on the door handle. Inside: an overflowing ashtray with old cigar butts. Apart from that, nothing else. Empty glove compartment, no junk on the speckless carpets. The key slid into the ignition with a sandy resistance: twist. Without hesitation the motor roared into life. 14,345 km on the clock. I handed over the cash immediately and drove off, getting accustomed to the car´s heft and weight. It was quite a change from the Kia Picanto I´d recently totalled. For a few weeks everything went fine apart from the car´s prodgious appetitite for fuel. Then the bills kept coming: a new set of tyres, a replacement gearbox, a new engine seal, fuel pump replacement (three of them), new window motors, new gear-shift fascia. One morning as I washed the car I noticed a line of bubbles around the doors´edges. I looked inside the boot and detected a suspicious smell. Pulling the carpet up I found it was sodden. Some kind of slimey green substance grew in the recycled wadding Chrysler used for the sound proofing. Then, as I was out on a rare and unproblematic errand, I dabbed the cigar lighter to fire up a smoke. A slew of engine warning lights flashed across the dashboard; the speedo arrow span around the dial and the rev counter span up to 5000 without the engine doing anything much. The car didn´t miss a beat but the warning systems were blinking like Naples by night. I carried on home, stopped the car and waited a few minutes. The radio tuned itself – settling on 104.4 FM where there was strong throbbing buzz of interference or Justin Bieber. I turned the volume dial to zero and the volume went up, probably to 11. I had to get out of the car. I shut the door but the bass made the windows throb. Then the noise stopped as suddenly as it had began. Leaving the car unlocked I slumped inside the house and began composing some text. “2004 Chrysler 300C: 16900 km, two owners. A/C, heated seats and free tank of petrol. Reluctant sale.”
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist. I needed a ride after my Nissan was totaled in a hit-and-run. I needed a ride soon. Way too soon. I only had $400 but the owner, a Mr. LeMay or something like that, heard my story and made me promise ‘you’ll take care of her, and she’ll take care of you, heah?” I promised him I would and drove back home, my friend who helped me look at the Chrysler following me in case there was trouble before we got home. Home.
Home, well it wasn’t home no more. My roommate’s prodigal daughter was returning and she needed her old room back. Not that I could blame my roommate, family comes first after all. I couldn’t find another place I could afford, what with the rental situation in Portland and Vancouver. So I was moving in with family for awhile. I didn’t want to rent a U-Haul. “Hell” I thought. “Maybe the one-way penalty for not returning one of their vans to the original shop would be more than what I would pay for an old car.”. 2200 miles equated to $1,464 according to the U-Haul website and a van wasn’t available…so much money for a half-empty 10′ truck that meant I’d hear boxes sliding around every time I went around a corner or had to stop suddenly.
So I went online and shopped. I’d found nothing but crapped out beaters on Cragslist so far. I spotted an ad on Craigslist. “73 Chrysler. Runs”. And here I was. A new-to-me car. U-Haul’s website said the truck got 12 mpg. Hell, that big V-8 should at least get that if I kept it to around 60. That left $1064 for repairs if I was lucky.
So I said my goodbyes and spent my remaining time getting the Chrysler in shape. Oil change. Spark plugs. Points. The brakes were ok except for one rear wheel which needed a new pair of shoes because the brake cylinder had leaked all over them. That set me back $300. They said the front was ok, but to take it easy on hills. Antifreeze. Air filter. Spare ballast resistor. There was plenty of fluid in the differential and the transmission. I’d sure lucked out there. Cleaning the interior and some new seat covers and floor mats finished the job. A new radio antenna.
The fateful morning came much too quickly. I’d loaded the car with all my stuff the day before. Boxes of books. Clothes. Souvenirs from the three years I’d lived here. My laptop would ride up front and provide me with music and audiobooks for the trip. My toolbox right by the fender in the trunk. I arose much, much too early, it was 5 am and the Moon was setting in the west with Venus rising in the east . No one else was awake. I went around my room and gathered the last few things. The urge to get going was already strong and pulling harder and harder at me like an insistent child. Like an otherworldy force. By the time everyone else woke up I could be past Roseburg or The Dalles and I’d beat the Portland traffic, too…
The black ’73 Imperial started on the first attempt, the new battery spinning the Hamtrack Hummingbird faster than the old one. I put the Torqueflite into gear and, like the Joad family, drove away into an uncertain future, headlights warming the pavement in front of me. The 440 was running strong, I knew I’d make it.
Then the AM radio came on by itself. “Wow!” I said to myself. “I didn’t know Portland had a 50’s only rock and roll station…
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist the piercing fear from a gun barrel pointed blankly to my head. I nodded to the hooded figure out of sight to my left.
“Ofcourse,” I said, in someone elses’ dry and high voice.
He thrust the papers at me in the darkness.
“Sign” he grunted.
I grasped a sweaty pen, made a shaky mark in the spot.
“Yours now” he said. “Get in.”
The barrel moved a foot, and he heaved the musty door aside. I did not hesitate.
“You’ve never been here, got it?”
This with breath from him of an early death upon it, a wizened young man of drugs. His friends stood as suspicious shadows just beyond sight, and coughed and snickered.
I nodded. I turned to the dash, a Wurlitzer winking of chromery in the dark. In my mind, this piece of art cleaned and shining was the glory of my incredible bargain 48 Chrysler. I had won a small lottery. I was for once not the loser. I was to make myself some easy money. Why, this had low miles, celebrity ownership, worth serious dollars unknown to the edge-of-city sellers.
My greedy mind.
“Inspection only in evening, cash only”.
Ofcourse I rang like an eager puppy, gave every detail they needed, and more.
On rushing there, I ignored the seedy back road in the dust, the signs and smells of things illicit in the landscape, the darkened wreck of a house. The gun barrel came into my window before I saw a soul.
Now, in an electric sweat, I started the beast, my bargain, but this gearbox – I pulled and yanked and revved and in some improbably high gear I moaned away in slow motion. “Remember, we have your number and all the rest” came that harsh voice from behind.
Out now swinging ponderously onto the lonely road in this tomb, this tomb with my name on the papers. What the hell was in here? Where was whatever it was they were so desperate to be rid of? I had to be shot of this crate, and fast. Sweat, sweat, speed up you groaning barge. 40, 50 mph into the sepia headlight glow, get me away.
I could see better now. Lights! Why are the lights getting brighter?
Flashing blue and red behind. I wrestled my prize to a stop on the verge and stalled.
They came in fours, guns drawn, orders screaming.
“Do not move!”
I did not move an inch, save a twitch to see a grimy future flash in front of me.
Really interesting twist to that one! Awesome story!
I knew that buying the old Chrysler was a terrible idea, but I just couldn’t resist;
When I brought it home, I knew she’d be pissed.
She cared not whether Deluxe or New Yorker,
’twas another old car to the miserable porker.
“It’s the old car or me”, she demanded at volume,
So I turned the ignition and grasped the shift column.
I never looked back, and I still have the beast,
The Chrysler, I mean, not the fat poltergeest.