Well, my father died when I was nine and a half years old. He learned to be a mechanic in the army during WWII. Until I was five years old, he'd come home from a local Illinois Chevy dealership in really grimy overalls. Then, he traded in the overalls for nice suits, shirts and ties as a Prudential insurance salesman.
He thought he could avoid all the maintenance problems or DIY imperatives by trading in his car for a new one every two or three years. When he passed away, he left us with a 1956 Pontiac Starfire, which had a body design that I deemed sort of stupid and shitty -- even with leather upholstery and other features.
The vehicle he had before that one was a 1955 Chevy Bel-Air. I remember sitting between my dad and my moms when he had to see a client in Clinton, Illinois in the dead of night during a blizzard. That was a good car. I remember having my legs blasted from the heater vent, which improved my opinion of the car at such an early age.
Fast forward to my college days here in Riverside, CA. I met a Vietnam veteran at the bank, struck up a conversation, and we arranged to rent a house together. He was attending the local junior college, and I was starting my grad program at UC.
Kenny was a factory-trained Chevy mechanic from New Jersey before his tour in Nam. One day, we were driving around in my '64 SS Impala, probably shopping for groceries or something, and we were getting close to the house we rented near Riverside's Fairmount Park. Just a block from our house, Kenny told me "Stop! Stop!"
There was this old rusty '55 Bel-Air on cement blocks in front of someone's house. Kenny bought it for $250 and had it towed to our back yard. I don't know how he was handling his enrolled classes, but for weeks he was working on that car. He had a brand new engine shipped from New Jersey, along with his girlfriend -- Joan.
Before long, he'd replaced the interior with black-satin button-tuck. I think there was a Hurst (?) transmission and fancy shift lever. He'd put a Holley carburetor on the engine, given the car a set of chrome wheels. he should've finished the paint job. He was driving it around with dark gray primer. This was So-Cal, so the rust he removed was not easily going to come back for water soaking through the primer.
That thing was a helluva ride. There was a street in northeast Riverside -- almost half way to San Bernardino -- running through the orange groves named Palmyrita Drive. Almost like a scene from "Rebel Without a Cause", it was popular for street drag racing among the local teens and car freaks. And Kenny was always taking that Bel Air out to Palmyrita Drive at night.
I don't know -- I guess he finished his two years at RCC. Otherwise, he was an emotionally-disturbed guy. I saw him throw a 15mm wrench at Joan one day when she distracted him from working on his car.
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