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I might consider this 1960ish Rambler Station wagon a classic today, but back in my day was clearly not a vehicle one cruised up and down Speedway Blvd. in on a Saturday night. I received some snickers and, occasionally, pitiless commentary, as I drove through Bob’s Big Boy parking lot filled with muscle cars tricked out designed to impress. Built for speed. The cool kids, college students, rich juveniles lined Speedway with muscle cars. Boys and girls. The police seemed to avoid the strip.
Mine a standard, three speed on the column car, got me here to there, designed to transport me to work and the University. The bright yellow wagon was hard to miss.
I learned how to drive an automobile with a Standard Transmission. I used it when needed to transport my mother to an appointment locally, as directed. I eventually blew the engine, but that’s another story when I was working at Fort Huachuca. There are different fun stories to share, perhaps in the future, for example, the Playboy Magazine under the seat predicament.
Let’s get back to the question at hand: my first car. Like all teens, I so desired to possess my automobile. I begged. I regularly brought home a vehicle a friend was attempting to sell to show my dad, always with the same result. “Return it now.”
Then there was the if you own a car you need to pay for the insurance and upkeep and make payments, unless you have the money to pay it off in cash. That would never happen.
Next door to the Stagecoach West steak house, where I worked, was Quebedeaux Buick, a car dealership. And because of the proximity, their sales agents often ate at the restaurant and since they were sales agents always trying to sell cars, even during lunch breaks, might bring a client over, buy them a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee to sweeten the deal. They knew I wanted a car. They also knew I probably could never afford one.
Then, one day, a sales representative shared he had just received a trade-in, a 1964 Chevy Malibu 283 V-8 bored out to a 301, four on the floor recently owned by a police officer in excellent condition. If bought before they detailed it, I could save money, hundreds of dollars. I forget how much I could save, and could purchase for only, again, I forget how much it cost, but he could help me get a loan.
DAD, you gotta see this! And he did. He dropped by after work, met the sales associate, checked out the vehicle, and simply noted that if I could make the payments and pay the insurance, go for it.
Can’t recall all the details but with payment book in hand, added to my parents’ insurance policy now “owned” my first car.
Waxed it up, replace the standard muffler with a Glasspack muffler to up the horsepower and enhanced the sound, a rumbly, peasant noise. Red! This begs the question, did I cruise Speedway Blvd., absolutely. Often with Rick and Sparky in tow. Are there other stories to be told, unquestionably?
I could burn rubber in all four gears. To “lay rubber,” to speed up so quickly that the tires don't get traction with the ground and spin freely, smoking. Rough on the treads. Not all that great on the clutch. Cruise late into the night, grab some tacos at Andy’s, then homeward bound sleeping in late, until time to go to work. Repeat. But now I was driving my car.
Like most automobiles I owned, mostly, I wished I still owned. I wish I had taken better care of them. They are now classics. Wish I still had my 1969 Ford Mustang Fastback. The Mercury Monterey with the slanted back power window, Strawberry Red.
Aw, memories.
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