It was a frigid December day in 1972. The week between Christmas and New Years. Nobody was car shopping. Nobody. This writer had been working odd jobs since he was ten years old, giving every single dime to his mother to save for him. Over those seven years, the nest egg had grown to just over $1,800. Quite a sum in 1972. As a Christmas gift that year, his parents promised to supplement his savings to help buy his first car. They wanted him to be able to enjoy it during the Spring of his senior year in high school. If only he could have fully appreciated his mom and dad then - like he does today.
Stewart Avenue, just south of Atlanta, was a "safe zone" in those days. Unlike today, there was no need for the concealed carry of multiple firearms for protection. Daddy had been working with a construction crew on a job on Stewart Avenue not far from Nalley Chevrolet. He had been eyeing the used cars on their lot as he drove to and from the jobsite every day.
On this memorable day, this writer, his little sister, and his parents piled into the family car - a dinosaur-like 1969 Chevy Impala - turned the car's heater on high, and headed for south Atlanta to look for cars. On the way, both his mama and daddy tried to prepare their son for reality. He did not have enough money to buy a new car. It would have to be a, "good, used one." To him, it did not matter. As long as the car looked good, had a great stereo, and could reach speeds that would rival a Lockheed L-1011 during takeoff, they could have gotten him a rickshaw and it wouldn't have mattered.
A final word of caution from this writer's father involved the car buying game. "When we get there, son," Daddy said, "let ME do the talking." Dickering with car salesmen is not for the faint of heart. These predators come out of every nook and cranny when a prospective customer hits the dealership lot - like vultures swarming around a dead carcass.
When the old '69 Impala rolled onto the lot, the men (this writer and his father) got out, but the women stayed in. The warmth coming from that old car's powerful heater was just too much to leave on this icy, windy day.
It didn't take long. From his cubby hole of an office - the building was identified by giant, plastic letters which spelled out, "Used Cars" - came our brave salesman. Buzzy Johnson was his name. He was a pudgy fellow, with a mustache, and an afro hairdo that was as large as a hornet's nest. Even though it was barely three degrees above zero, Buzzy had a broad, holiday smile on his face. He smelled blood - or money - or both. Buzzy loudly declared, "Merry Christmas! How can I help you gentlemen?" Before this writer could utter one single syllable in reply, Daddy sternly advised, "we're not really interested in buying anything today, we're just looking!" Buzzy had evidently heard these words before. "Far out!" he replied. He immediately backed off, told us to look to our hearts content, offered his business card, and scampered back to the warmth of the "Used Car" building. Happily alone, we hitched up our jackets and began strolling through the lot.
It didn't take long. Memory does not serve as to which one of us saw her first. No matter. In an instant - it was love! She was a 1972 Chevrolet Nova. Deep, copper brown, with a black vinyl roof. There was a thin racing stripe down each side, and "rally wheels" on her tires. Just above the front side "running lights," was a metallic appointment of bold numbers - "350." Daddy took one look at that set of numbers, which was the designation of the 8-cylinder engine size & corresponding horsepower, and said, "I bet this thing would outrun the Angel Gabriel." That was all this writer needed to hear! Buzzy was watching like a sentry from his office window.
Opening the driver's side door, we were immediately hit with that, "new car smell." New car smell is more potent than an arena full of marijuana smoke during a Ted Nugent concert. Car manufacturers somehow figure a way to engineer that smell into every new automobile. It is powerfully infectious. More difficult to resist than barbecue over an open it. But, it lasts just long enough for the buyer to sign on the dotted line - or to make a few trips to Taco Bell for grilled, stuffed burritos. With the latter, one powerfully pleasant smell is replaced with another distinct and equally powerful, but not quite so pleasant, one.
Her black interior was perfect. The slim-line steering wheel fit perfectly into this teenager's hands. She had sleek, woodgrain door trim, a decent stereo, and one final deal-forging feature - bench seats, front and back. Young men normally did not consider bench seats as sporty and hip. But, this writer - wise for his young years - saw it from a different angle. Bench seats, to him, signaled chicks - sliding over, sitting close, with easy access to female body parts, and plenty of room during late-night, submarine races. Yes sir! Buzzy had him a sale!
After some crafty dickering, interrupted by a few fatherly rebukes, "be quiet, now, and let me handle this!" - Daddy looked Buzzy dead in the eye and said, "all you have done since we walked in here is jerk us around...I told you what I would pay you for this car, but you keep trying to jack the price up...Tell you what, Buzzy, it's obvious to me that you really don't want to sell this car...So, we'll just go look somewhere else...Come on, son." The feelings that coursed through this young teenager's heart at that moment were indescribable. To have been mangled by the claws of a giant, vicious, blood-thirsty grizzly bear would have been an experience of far less trauma.
Credit fathers with impeccable wisdom, though. No sooner had we gotten back into that old '69 Impala, that Buzzy came bouncing out of the used car office. He proudly announced that, after considerable arm-twisting, the sales manager had decided to accept daddy's offer. Heaven still marvels at the volume of the shouts that came from the lungs of a certain teenage boy, leaping up and down in the Nalley Chevrolet used car lot on Stewart Avenue back in 1972.
$2,500 it was. Tax, tag and title included. The car had been owned by a professor at the University of Georgia. There was only 1,800 miles on the odometer. She was almost new. And now, thanks to daddy, she was all mine! What a thrilling ride home it was!
Over the next six years, that car was home to this young man. As a rock guitarist in a working band, she was the limo that took him to countless gigs. She also pulled double duty as the pleasure chariot for a bevy of eligible young ladies. The bench seat did exactly what it was designed to do. Which, in most cases, was a heavenly experience. With the small exception of one Sunday evening in the Fall of 1975 at a small-town gas station.
She was a tall, shapely brunette, with the most kissable lips this writer has ever known. She loved to cuddle on the front seat of that old Nova - no matter if it was parked in a dark cemetery, or tooling wide open down I-285 at 70 mph.
350 engines were loaded with horsepower, which translated into some pretty memorable speeds. It also meant that stops at gas stations were as frequent as bathroom visits for young female passengers. Good thing that regular gas was only about .48 cents a gallon in the 1970's.
One Sunday evening, following a day of church and fun stuff, this writer was driving home the kissing machine seated next to him. They pulled into a gas station for a fill-up. Self-service stations were in their infancy in those days. All but gone were the days when an attendant came asking if you wanted to, "fill 'er-up", while cleaning the windshield and offering to check under the hood.
Following a rather passionate kiss - designed to hold him until he got the gas pumped - this writer pulled the nozzle from the high-test pump, inserted it into the gas port on the driver's side, and waited for the man inside the station to clear the pump. In 1975, there was no "pay-at-the-pump." You pumped your fuel, and then went inside to pay.
There was a long line of customers inside the station. Motorists were filling up for the drive to work on Monday. After an unusually long wait for the pump to clear, this writer hurried inside to pay in advance, and get the man behind the cash register to clear it. The fatal error of this innocent act was in leaving the gas pump nozzle still inserted in the gas port on the driver's side of the car.
She stood it for as long as she could. After checking her hair in the rear view mirror more than once, freshening her lipstick, playing with the 8-track tape player, and looking around at the other businesses on that highway, the young female passenger in the '72 Nova made a decision. One that seemed very rational and courteous. She would reposition herself under the slim-line steering wheel, crank up the car, and pull around to the front door of the station to retrieve her chauffeur and kissing partner. The fatal error of this innocent act was her failure to realize that no gas had yet been pumped.
Sliding over to the driver's side, she cranked up that powerful engine, raced it a few times, dropped the gear shift down to "D" and gave it the gas. The Nova shot forward, but quickly lurched to a stop. The gas pump nozzle/hose was now stretched to the max. Unaware of this, she thought to herself, "This thing needs some help." So, she gunned it!
It is not a good thing - while standing in line to pay for gas - to hear the cashier loudly declare, "look at that crazy girl...she has pulled the gas pump slap off the island...and now, she's dragging it all over the parking lot!" Sure enough. The patrons looked incredulously out those large glass windows at the spectacle unfolding before them. Joining them was this writer, now wide-eyed with horror - as he witnessed surreal image. There she was - a tall, young brunette, with juicy, kissable lips, in the driver's seat, behind the wheel of deep, copper brown, 1972 Chevrolet Nova, with a 350 engine - dragging a gas pump by its nozzle, around the parking lot of a service station, in full view of a growing crowd of duly amused onlookers, pressing their faces against the glass windows of that service station.
Buzzy would have gotten quite a kick out of it. So would Daddy. Unfortunately, the wife still doesn't see the humor in it - at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment