Ragtop Man

“I’m a ragtop man.” I uttered that in the mid-sixties and heard it flung back at me in a movie almost 20 years later. I had a band in high school. I also worked in a car shop and drag raced. These two are connected. The members of the band decided we needed a cool vehicle to haul around our stuff. Since I was known for turning junkers into hot rods, all eyes turned to me. Steve, my partner in a variety of creative projects, prevailed upon me to find an old hearse and convert it into our band wagon. He was not very well tuned in because hearses weren’t cheap. We were in the midst of the surfing craze and the surfers were grabbing up hearses to haul their boards. Besides, I had determined that my next project would be a convertible, lusting for the wind blowing through my lush mane (yes, I had hair). I looked Steve in the eye. “I’m a ragtop man.” Steve would go on to be a prominent screenwriter and based a character upon me. I didn’t realize that until Nick Nolte laid the line on Eddie Murphy. I contacted Steve and he admitted using me as the model. When I asked about the possibility of royalties, the story changed to “loosely based upon you.” But, I digress. I didn’t get the convertible, at least not then. A local mob guy was shot in his trusty old limousine and I was able to get it cheap. The body had sat in the car which sat in a garage for an extended period before it was discovered. The weather wasn’t cool. The band usually rode with the windows down in it, regardless of air temperature. Later on, I had the means to be a ragtop man and went through a series of convertibles. But, they fell out of fashion and I was losing my passion for them anyway. Until a few months ago. Something clicked, some switch was thrown or whatever. And, it was a burning for old school. That is, not for some flashy, hey-look-at-me dart but rather just a barge with the top lopped off. This was for me to experience not others to view. I wanted the anti-cool droptop. I began a search. It was hard. Most modern convertibles are models that are trying to be cool. Some of the chic older ones merited preservation and are selling at premium price. But, chic isn’t what I wanted, anyway. I desired the nerd convertible. Hardly anyone bothered to care for them, much less restore them. They were rusting hulks in some field. I watched a movie and there was a squared-off Chevy Cavalier convertible with that hideous safety overreaction roll bar. Perfect. I did a web search of ads. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Ashes to ashes. I continued the search on a sporadic basis. There were hundreds of Mustangs, Eclipses, Miatas and other posers. Ugh. Maybe I had to compromise and change my standards. No, I forged on. Somewhere out there, there was something between the uber-priced classic Buicks and just-too-cute Toyota MR2s. I would find it. Yesterday was just one more of wading through hundreds of ads for effete offerings and I almost missed her. There she was in all her boxy clunkiness, a ’94 Olds Cutlass. A brand society had kicked to the curb. Old enough to depress the price but not so long in the tooth that it commanded classic bucks. Someone had cared for it, even though they had barely driven it (41,000 miles). I contacted the seller, trying to conceal the salivating, and set an appointment for the next day. I didn’t sleep last night, as is my custom. Be careful what you wish for. The phrase I repeated over and over as I drove to the meeting. I had researched the car and made a checklist of weak points to look out for. My greatest fears were confirmed. It was almost perfect. Now, it’s case of thinking it through. Be careful what you wish for.