Have you ever named a vehicle? In 1966 I was at the end of my junior year of high-school. I bought a 1950 Plymouth. It was one of those big, bulky bubble-shaped cars that you see on the old black and white movies about gangsters. I was just 16 at the time and I had already ruined a 1955 Ford. It leaked oil and I didn’t watch it closely enough, so it died of dehydration.
I had been driving since I was 14 so when I suddenly found myself without wheels, after two years of relative independence, I went through freedom withdrawals.
About 6 weeks after killing the Ford, my dad stumbled upon a buddy who owned that ’50 Plymouth. Don was a scary-looking fat, bald-headed fellow (OMG, I have become Don) who had owned the car for quite some time. It was in fairly good shape. He only wanted $75 for it, but there was a problem. I didn’t have any money.
My dad told me that he talked Don into letting me pay him off at $5 per week. Dad went on to say, “Let me warn you. Don is one mean son-of-a-bitch, and if you don’t pay him he’ll just take your car away”.
YIPPEE!!! New wheels!!!
The Plymouth may have been a minor step backwards from the Ford, as far as I was concerned, but nobody else would have noticed the difference because both cars were essentially just clunkers. It had hints of its original dark-blue paint job, but there was just as much red primer paint showing through. Every time I washed it, which was only once or twice, more blue was replaced by even more red.
Anyway, with new wheels under my way-too-heavy teenaged lead-foot I raced (relatively speaking, considering it weighed about two tons, only had a 6-cylinder engine and was 17 years old) over to my girlfriend’s house. We were both happy to have a means to escape the piercing eyes of the old people. Susan climbed into the front seat and took up the position in the middle, right next to me. She instantly, affectionately and accurately named that Plymouth, ”The Bomb.” From that day on, it had its moniker.
As that summer progressed, The Bomb slipped further and further into disrepair. It had two very bald tires, but that was no problem. In those days all tires had inner-tubes, so I just waited until the tread got so thin that the inner-tube squirted out and popped. Then I scrambled to buy another old used tire and inner-tube.
One time I took several buddies to the mountains to go tubing (In those days we tied inner-tubes together). On the way back, Lee scraped his initials into the fuzzy fabric that made up the remainder of the headliner, then everybody else had to do it.
Before long, I took The Bomb 4-wheeling and was surprised how well it did. But I bounced off a tree, so the already-ugly body had a nice new dent in the right rear fender. About that time Ivan suggested I paint a bunch of witty one-liners on the outside, but I never did do that.
To make matters worse, I tried to make day-to-day repairs myself. That was a disaster because I was completely car-dumb in 1966 (It is hard to believe, but I was even worse than I am now). The windshield was in two parts, split by a vertical frame. Somehow, the driver’s side broke, so I just took out the glass from that side. That made for some fairly interesting experiences when it rained. Both rain drops and the windshield wiper flopped around on the dash board while my legs got soaked.
Eventually the radio went out, probably from a combination of bouncing around on jeep trails and drowning from all of the rain water. No self respecting teenager can function without music so I pulled the radio out of the dash and used the mountain-sized floor-hump as if it was an operating table. I had no idea what the heck I was doing so I performed the only radio surgery I knew, which was to jiggle the wires. Oddly, that worked for a while, so I put the radio back into the dash.
A couple days later, the radio went out again, so I knew I needed to adopt a wiser tactic. I removed the radio again and jiggled the wires until it worked, just like the previous time, only this time I didn’t bother to put the whole contraption back into the dash. Why bother? It might need fixed again. So, I just left it there on the hump, and told it, “You’re on your own.” Thereafter it did a fairly good balancing act, but once in a while it tried to venture into the peddle area.
Meanwhile Susan had to find a new place to dangle her long and skinny, teenaged legs.
Before you criticize me for not maintaining The Bomb, you should take into consideration the fact that I had no money. After all I never had time to look for a job because I was too busy terrorizing the mountain roads. So, through no fault of my own, I was on a very limited budget.
That fall we went back to school and right away they held the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, in which the girls ask the guys to go with them. One of our class-mates was named Doug. He owned a very nice and well-repaired 1957 Chevy. For some reason, known only to God himself, Susan dumped me and asked Doug to go to the dance. Humph!!!.
That winter, I nurtured The Bomb along the best I could and found the heater to be a good friend, considering there was no windshield on the driver’s side. About that time Patty and I started to see each other.
In my quest to impress her, The Bomb and I took her up a dirt road and then headed strait up a VERY steep mountain-side that had a hint of a trail, which must have been made by a tractor. I just wanted to show her how high The Bomb could climb.
I made several runs at it, each time starting out farther back so I could get more speed and climb even higher. By about the third run, Patty had enough. She “acted” like she was scared by screaming and digging her fingernails into the seat, but I knew she was bluffing; so, when she insisted that I let her out, I went even faster.
Then, I hit a big bump and the trunk popped open, spilling everything, including the very bald spare tire that I had not bothered to fasten down – just like the radio. The tire was so anxious to escape it immediately stood up on its end and rolled right down that hill. It was so happy to get away it was jumping up and down as it rolled down the mountainside, eventually reaching speeds upwards of mock-two. I guess The Bomb really impressed Patty because she has been hanging around ever since.
As I reflect back, The Bomb was the most tolerant friend I have ever had. Now, I realize that I got away with a lot more than I should have. About the only thing I did correctly regarding The Bomb was make my 15 payments right on time, mostly because I feared a bald-headed dude named Don.
Many years later, I learned that my dad paid Don the full amount for The Bomb right up front and Don forwarded my payments back to my dad. Dads can be pretty cool sometimes.
Next time we can discuss "Old Blue".
drop by my other blog.
I had been driving since I was 14 so when I suddenly found myself without wheels, after two years of relative independence, I went through freedom withdrawals.
About 6 weeks after killing the Ford, my dad stumbled upon a buddy who owned that ’50 Plymouth. Don was a scary-looking fat, bald-headed fellow (OMG, I have become Don) who had owned the car for quite some time. It was in fairly good shape. He only wanted $75 for it, but there was a problem. I didn’t have any money.
My dad told me that he talked Don into letting me pay him off at $5 per week. Dad went on to say, “Let me warn you. Don is one mean son-of-a-bitch, and if you don’t pay him he’ll just take your car away”.
YIPPEE!!! New wheels!!!
The Plymouth may have been a minor step backwards from the Ford, as far as I was concerned, but nobody else would have noticed the difference because both cars were essentially just clunkers. It had hints of its original dark-blue paint job, but there was just as much red primer paint showing through. Every time I washed it, which was only once or twice, more blue was replaced by even more red.
Anyway, with new wheels under my way-too-heavy teenaged lead-foot I raced (relatively speaking, considering it weighed about two tons, only had a 6-cylinder engine and was 17 years old) over to my girlfriend’s house. We were both happy to have a means to escape the piercing eyes of the old people. Susan climbed into the front seat and took up the position in the middle, right next to me. She instantly, affectionately and accurately named that Plymouth, ”The Bomb.” From that day on, it had its moniker.
As that summer progressed, The Bomb slipped further and further into disrepair. It had two very bald tires, but that was no problem. In those days all tires had inner-tubes, so I just waited until the tread got so thin that the inner-tube squirted out and popped. Then I scrambled to buy another old used tire and inner-tube.
One time I took several buddies to the mountains to go tubing (In those days we tied inner-tubes together). On the way back, Lee scraped his initials into the fuzzy fabric that made up the remainder of the headliner, then everybody else had to do it.
Before long, I took The Bomb 4-wheeling and was surprised how well it did. But I bounced off a tree, so the already-ugly body had a nice new dent in the right rear fender. About that time Ivan suggested I paint a bunch of witty one-liners on the outside, but I never did do that.
To make matters worse, I tried to make day-to-day repairs myself. That was a disaster because I was completely car-dumb in 1966 (It is hard to believe, but I was even worse than I am now). The windshield was in two parts, split by a vertical frame. Somehow, the driver’s side broke, so I just took out the glass from that side. That made for some fairly interesting experiences when it rained. Both rain drops and the windshield wiper flopped around on the dash board while my legs got soaked.
Eventually the radio went out, probably from a combination of bouncing around on jeep trails and drowning from all of the rain water. No self respecting teenager can function without music so I pulled the radio out of the dash and used the mountain-sized floor-hump as if it was an operating table. I had no idea what the heck I was doing so I performed the only radio surgery I knew, which was to jiggle the wires. Oddly, that worked for a while, so I put the radio back into the dash.
A couple days later, the radio went out again, so I knew I needed to adopt a wiser tactic. I removed the radio again and jiggled the wires until it worked, just like the previous time, only this time I didn’t bother to put the whole contraption back into the dash. Why bother? It might need fixed again. So, I just left it there on the hump, and told it, “You’re on your own.” Thereafter it did a fairly good balancing act, but once in a while it tried to venture into the peddle area.
Meanwhile Susan had to find a new place to dangle her long and skinny, teenaged legs.
Before you criticize me for not maintaining The Bomb, you should take into consideration the fact that I had no money. After all I never had time to look for a job because I was too busy terrorizing the mountain roads. So, through no fault of my own, I was on a very limited budget.
That fall we went back to school and right away they held the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, in which the girls ask the guys to go with them. One of our class-mates was named Doug. He owned a very nice and well-repaired 1957 Chevy. For some reason, known only to God himself, Susan dumped me and asked Doug to go to the dance. Humph!!!.
That winter, I nurtured The Bomb along the best I could and found the heater to be a good friend, considering there was no windshield on the driver’s side. About that time Patty and I started to see each other.
In my quest to impress her, The Bomb and I took her up a dirt road and then headed strait up a VERY steep mountain-side that had a hint of a trail, which must have been made by a tractor. I just wanted to show her how high The Bomb could climb.
I made several runs at it, each time starting out farther back so I could get more speed and climb even higher. By about the third run, Patty had enough. She “acted” like she was scared by screaming and digging her fingernails into the seat, but I knew she was bluffing; so, when she insisted that I let her out, I went even faster.
Then, I hit a big bump and the trunk popped open, spilling everything, including the very bald spare tire that I had not bothered to fasten down – just like the radio. The tire was so anxious to escape it immediately stood up on its end and rolled right down that hill. It was so happy to get away it was jumping up and down as it rolled down the mountainside, eventually reaching speeds upwards of mock-two. I guess The Bomb really impressed Patty because she has been hanging around ever since.
As I reflect back, The Bomb was the most tolerant friend I have ever had. Now, I realize that I got away with a lot more than I should have. About the only thing I did correctly regarding The Bomb was make my 15 payments right on time, mostly because I feared a bald-headed dude named Don.
Many years later, I learned that my dad paid Don the full amount for The Bomb right up front and Don forwarded my payments back to my dad. Dads can be pretty cool sometimes.
Next time we can discuss "Old Blue".
drop by my other blog.
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