I had performed all my duties and was rewarded with an excellent dinner. My companion told me I could watch television until she was done with the dishes.
I plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. In a few minutes, I heard her behind me, letting out a groan. Her worst fears were realized. I was watching Mecum’s Auto Auction. We began the negotiation of how many car sales we would watch.
The fare is mostly muscle cars of the 60s, but there are a smattering of unique gems from other eras. I enjoy the blood lust for them as they roll onto the carpet, but I strive to keep it vicarious. I am not cut out for collecting.
For one thing, maintaining the pristine condition requires no small amount of effort. And, to preserve the specimen means that it doesn’t see much road. I’m long on enjoying and short on maintenance. If I’m spending that kind of money on a car, I’m driving it.
For example, an ’87 Vette convertible popped up on the block. It had 18,000 miles on it. I had bought one new. When I sold it many years ago, it carried 160,000 more miles than this one and was well into its second motor.
We arrived at a settlement of 15 cars. While I ponder if I would bid that much or not on each, I don’t get too emotionally involved. The gavel dropped on the fifteenth car and I reached for the remote. But then, I felt the hair prickle on my neck and froze.
“That was your 15,” said my companion. I shushed her, which reflects how far my mind was away from the rational.
A ’63 Pontiac Tempest had rolled onto the carpet, and the festivities commenced. “Don’t bid!” I heard myself yell aloud.
I’ve probably owned upwards of a couple dozen vehicles, including a ’63 Tempest. They all had their plusses and minuses, but the Tempest stands out from the pack. It was, without a doubt, the worst car I ever had. A nightmare.
When I left for college, I had sold my car for tuition money. It was the second I had owned, and both had been carefully crafted for drag racing. I worked in an auto store, so parts, tools and expertise were readily available. They ran like champs.
In college, I worked my way through as a store detective for a department store chain. I could take the bus to work. For my first year-and-a-half, my wages and savings barely covered tuition and living expenses. But then, my co-op job kicked in, which was part of my strategy.
I would need a car for the job, but the added income would cover that and a little more. I began looking as soon as I had secured the job, but had connections back home (Philadelphia) who had access to cheap iron. A relative told me he located the perfect steed.
It sounded incredible. The ’63 Tempest had sleek lines and this one sported a very hot color combo: silver body and black interior and vinyl top. How could it be that cheap? I would learn a lesson in that vein.
So, I flew standby to Philly to pick it up. Love at first sight. That wouldn’t last long.
I waited until late evening. Back then, radar patrol was sparse and almost nonexistent on weekday evenings. I could bury the pedal and burn straight through.
The only thing I had been apprehensive about was that this car was a four cylinder, a rarity in American cars at the time. My source assured me that it was no problem in this mid-sized car. But, I was finding it a little reluctant on the grades of the western Pennsylvania foothills.
I persevered and burned through the route. Also, one of the pistons. It blew around Columbus, Ohio. That was an ordeal, but I was fortunate to have it happen so close to a place with the necessary resources.
I lived at the top of Straight Street. I assumed it was so named because it went straight up. My silver bullet could barely chug up the incline and I lived in fear of blowing another expensive component. I thought of alternative routes, but the only way to reach the top of a hill is up.
Then, I was out on a date and the car wouldn’t start after a movie. I popped the hood and it was a mess. Someone had tried to steal the carburetor and/or other parts and had just given up. True, it had nothing to do with the design or quality, but the car was beginning to look snakebit.
A few weeks later, a growing puddle began to appear under the rear axle. What the heck was this?
What this was was the brainchild of John Delorean, sire of the GTO, Delorean and other automotive milestones. Most cars were front-heavy, with the motor and transmission located by the front wheels. His idea with this car was to mount the transmission on the rear axle, creating a more balanced weight distribution. Interesting theory, poor execution.
The transmissions leaked and were not easily accessible. To check fluid level or add it was a giant pain in the butt. You opened the trunk, removed the spare, rolled back the liner and removed the bolts of a cover plate. Then, you crawled in to access the filler tube. After you had checked and added the fluid, you reversed the steps. Do this enough and you omit some of them.
Another option was to repair or replace the transmission. But, it was such an oddball, the cost was prohibitive and I already had too much sunk into this money pit.
An apparent solution emerged. I was home for a holiday and that always entailed at least one night out with my old rowdy friends. It was posited that we spend it at some of the seedier bars over in New Jersey. But, everyone was apprehensive to drive because things have a habit of disappearing or getting damaged in Jersey. People, too.
Serendipity. I volunteered to supply the cartage. It’s not that I really expected the car to get snatched, but wouldn't be all that broken up if it happened.
Sure enough, we came out of the third stop of the night and there was nothing but empty space (and a puddle of transmission fluid) where my heap had been parked. I gazed heavenward in thanks.
The next morning, I dutifully filed the paperwork with the authorities. The officer took the information as though this was completely routine, which it was. I asked how long it usually took to recover a stolen vehicle and what the chances were. He just looked at me like I had recently debarked at Ellis Island.
The following day, I was checking flights to plan my standby return to Cincinnati. The phone rang just as I hung it up. It was a police officer informing me that they had found my car. He sounded almost surprised. I wasn’t. It had been abandoned, not even worthy of a thief or chop shop. The ultimate testimony to its pitiful traits.
I picked up the Tempest and a few cans of transmission fluid, in preparation for the return trip. I had plenty of driving time to contemplate my next move. I had always felt a reluctance to dump the problem on someone else.
A few months later, I was at one of those restaurants with parking lot service. This one was fun to hang out at. My friends were giving me grief about the car. An elderly gentleman in the adjoining parking place came over and asked if I cared to sell it. I said I would, but warned him of its drawbacks. He said that was fine with him, as he fixed everything from trucks to tractors on his farm. The deal was done.
So now, I’m watching the bidding on a similar machine and wondering if the aspirants knew what they were getting into. But, creeping into my consciousness were the memories of the good times. It was, after all, part of the wild college days.
The gavel fell once again and I wished good luck and good times to the new owner.
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