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Chapter
3
Ticket
to freedom
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I was purchased by a man who lacked both the emotion and
the enthusiasm you would normally associate with someone
buying a car. Immediately
we headed south, arriving in Memphis late the same
evening. As
we turned into a long driveway, we encountered a
foreboding iron gate.
"Hi, Billy," the guard said.
"The boss has been waiting for you to get
here with the car."
Soon a shadowy figure emerged from the home --
actually a twenty-three-room mansion.
He walked slowly toward me, and I knew him
instantly.
As
Elvis slid behind my steering wheel he spoke.
"Thanks, Billy.
This is just the car I need to be able to slip
away in. Everyone is watching for a Cadillac and no one is going to
look twice at a Chevy."
And so for the first time Elvis and I drove out
of Graceland Mansion and into the night together.
As we did so Elvis patted my dash and whispered,
"You're my ticket to a little bit of freedom, my
friend. I'm
going to enjoy our time together."
Me too
Life was fabulous -- better than anything I had ever
imagined in my wildest hula-hoop fantasies.
Parked among a fleet of Cadillacs, I was the envy
of all. Everyone knew I was the boss' favorite because I provided him the
anonymity he craved.
I was kept spotless and was always on-call.
Slipping out of Graceland into the night was
exhilarating for both of us.
More than once someone in a passing car would
recognize Elvis, and more than once he stomped my
accelerator pedal to the floor.
As my dual four-barrels kicked in, we would leave
yet another gawking fan in the dust.
After one such "escape" he mused,
"Man, you've got more pick-up and maneuverability
than any of my Cadillacs.
And my friend, you're a heck of a lot more fun to
drive!"
The years passed blissfully by.
However in 1969 Elvis began performing regularly
in Las Vegas and was rarely at Graceland.
There were no good-byes.
One day I was unceremoniously driven to a Memphis
used car lot to be sold back into the real world.
I had given Elvis the gift of anonymity.
Now however, I was suddenly just another very
anonymous old Chevy.
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Chapter
4
August 16, 1977
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I
was prepared for the worst after my pampered existence
at Graceland, but a pleasant surprise lay ahead.
My new owner was an Air Force Colonel named
Chris, who served as a Military Aide at the White House.
His family car was a 1969 Chrysler Town and
Country station wagon -- a gas-guzzling behemoth that
weighed almost two and a quarter tons!
Even at age twelve, however, I was still showroom
sharp and continued to draw my share of admiring
glances. Chris
really enjoyed my quick response and loved to floor the
gas at intersections. Life
was great -- and interesting too.
Late
one evening in July of 1971 Chris and I headed for the
White House -- something we had never done before at
night. As
we pulled into the back service entrance a man emerged
from the shadows and quickly slid into my front
passenger seat. "Thank
you for the ride, Colonel", the man said.
His deep voice and German accent were
unmistakable. It
was Dr. Henry Kissinger.
And our assignment was to transport him to
Andrews Air Force Base "incognito".
Both Chris and I sensed something monumental was
happening. "You
have a very sharp car here, Colonel.
I always liked the clean styling of this model of
Chevrolet. Well,
anyway, wish me luck."
Dr. Kissinger then hurried to board his waiting
plane. As
we and the world would later learn, he was off on his
groundbreaking trip to China for a secret meeting with
Premier Zhou Enlai.
Our "lift" was actually the first leg
of his historic mission to open Chinese relations.
The
years passed pleasantly and life was good.
Then one day Chris got orders to an overseas
military assignment.
The mood was solemn as he drove me for the last
time. The
only upbeat thing was that my radio was playing one
Elvis song after another without any commercial
interruption -- unusual, but I was enjoying the music.
Then a very somber deejay interrupted to announce
that Elvis Presley was dead.
It was August 16, 1977, and I had lost two
beloved owners in one day.
I was now twenty years old, and this was
unquestionably the saddest day of my life.
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Chapter
5
Proverbs, Frankfurters and Tools
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After
two great decades my worst fears were becoming reality. Chris had sold me to a Bible salesman whose route traversed
the state of Rhode Island.
He was a nice enough fellow, although I think he
had me confused with a truck.
My rear end always felt as if it was going to
scrape the pavement due to the fact my trunk and back
seat were continually weighed down with untold boxes of
The Good Book. I shouldn't complain, however.
My next owner, a man from Kentucky, ran a chain
of fast food outlets with a menu featuring primarily hot
dogs. I was
constantly hauling carton upon carton of wieners.
They weren't quite as heavy as the Bibles, but
they could be messy.
Alas, it wasn't until I was sold to a heavy
equipment mechanic in Mississippi that I really learned
the meaning of messy.
Tools. Lots
and lots of greasy, grimy, dirty tools.
What was left of my once fine upholstery was
stained and torn beyond redemption without even an
"I'm sorry".
It was proverbs in Providence, frankfurters in
Frankfort, and tools in Tupelo!
Life was no longer a joy --
it was now a constant struggle to simply endure.
My body was badly scarred with scratches, dings
and rust. I
knew I was now only a barely recognizable shell of the
beauty I had once been.
I often thought of the good times at Graceland
and the intriguing years with Chris at the White House.
And then there was my first owner, Huey, the
two-faced hula-hooper (or was it hula-pooper?) who had
so unceremoniously dumped me. A brief moment of pleasure in my otherwise dull existence
came when one of my confused owners (one of the many who
confused me with a truck) loaded me full of -- you
guessed it -- hula-hoops! This particular fellow happened to be an avid flea market
seller. "I
only paid a dime apiece but I can't give these &#!%*
things away," he cursed as we headed for the dump.
Carrying that load of hula-hoops to their eternal
rest was one time I didn't mind at all being used for a
truck. My
momentary pleasure was enhanced even more as I conjured
up a vision of Huey now penniless and perhaps living
homeless (maybe living in an old truck!) near a dump
just like this one.
It would be such sweet justice for "my old
pal"!
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Chapter
6
The Scalpel
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As the decade of the nineties dawned it appeared as
though my life had come to an end.
My transmission had given out and I was abandoned
on the spot -- in a dense patch of forest in northern
California. Occasionally
scavengers would stop and take some part off of me that
they needed. One
even went so far as to unbolt and steal my front fender!
Soon however I was covered with vines and
foliage, protected and barely visible to passersby's.
Life seemed without hope and I found myself
drifting through the seasons in a near-comatose state.
"I can make at least
three pieces out of this," a somewhat gruff voice
said. Awakening
from my slumber I found myself being pulled from the
snarled growth that fought relentlessly to keep me
ensnared. I
didn't understand the "three pieces" comment,
but I was clearly on my way back to civilization.
At that moment the chance to resume my life again
was all that mattered.
A butcher -- the guy was a butcher!
I soon learned he planned to dissect me and make
three pieces of trendy furniture out of me!
His first project would be to turn my trunk area
into a couch that would feature my tail-fin fenders as
the two armrest ends.
How gross! I
had heard that with the fifties nostalgia craze making
couches and other "hip" furniture out of old
cars was in vogue, and that '57 Chevies were the most
desirable of all. Please. Take me to the junkyard -- run me through a car crusher even
-- but leave me in one piece!
Oh to be back in the forest and to feel the grip
of those protective clinging vines "lovingly"
holding me safe once again.
Luckily fate intervened.
As the day of my "surgery" grew near a
young man who had seen me parked along side the
butcher's shop asked to buy me.
"Well", the butcher said, "since
I've got two other fifty-sevens in better shape than
this one, I guess I can let you have it.
Besides, it's missing a fender I need to make a
small cocktail bar with.”
I didn't know where the young man was taking me,
but I could have cared less.
I had escaped my date with the scalpel.
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Chapter
7
A Second Chance
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"My name is David," the kindly but firm young
voice said. "I
haven't got any money to spend improving your looks, but
I know where I can get a transmission and I'll make you
run again. I
spend every spare moment at the beach surfing, so it
would be pointless to fix up your body.
It'd just rust out in the salt air anyway."
However David did make me whole again with a used
replacement fender.
"One of these days I'll paint it to match
the rest of you," he said.
Back
in 1957 I had been "it" -- the total
embodiment of chrome and glitter in the Age of Pizzazz.
My sharp good looks had been all-important to me.
How vain I had been!
Now none of that mattered anymore.
Beneath my wrinkled and rusted skin I was alive
and healthy -- and more importantly, I was wanted and
appreciated once again.
Not since my hula-hoop days had I worn a roof
rack -- however this time it was being used to strap on
surfboards. David
asked only that I carry him from beach to beach and wait
patiently. Alas, I had been blessed with a
second chance at life.
I wonder -- could those thousands of Bibles I
"faithfully" carried all across Rhode Island
have had anything to do with my good fortune?
My new home was the prestigious oceanside community of
La Jolla, California.
I'm sure some saw me as an eyesore but I could
have cared less. David
and I spent every possible moment at the beach.
From Oceanside to Carlsbad to Encinitas to
Cardiff to Solana to Del Mar and on down to Pacific,
Mission and Ocean Beach -- David and I were an
inseparable pair. Surfboards
strapped on, I faithfully carried him up and down the
San Diego coastline. Wherever
the waves were breaking, that's where we were.
Often we traveled I-5, and I still had what it
took. David
loved to stomp my gas pedal and leave yet another modern
four-cylinder wonder as if it were standing still.
Life was good and I wanted for nothing.
The golden California sun warmed my rough and
weathered skin and I felt a sense of calm and inner
well-being. My
four-barrels inhaled the salty Pacific air deeply and
the exhilaration was profound.
Could life get any better?
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Chapter
8
Eight
Hundred Dollars
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"Eight hundred dollars is a lot of money,
pal, but you are definitely worth it."
What was David talking about?
Eight hundred dollars?
David's next sentence answered the question.
"It's going to cost $800 to ship you to
Maui, but how could I surf Paradise without you?"
For the first time in forty years a tear fell
from my eye. Every
cruiser's dream is Maui -- blue skies, gentle trade
winds, golden sand beaches, palm trees -- and always an
easy laid-back life style.
Boy, those Bibles were definitely working
overtime!
David and I have settled in among the hundreds of other
young people who comprise Maui's North Shore surfing
community. Living
in the lush tropical area known as Haiku we are only
minutes from the best beaches on the planet.
When David isn't working at his job in a
surfboard shop, it is guaranteed we can be found at the
beach. In
addition to longboard surfing we can often be found
windsurfing at Hookipa Beach or perhaps kitesurfing at
Kanaha Beach. As
I wait patiently along the shore I still draw my share
of admiring glances.
There are a few who find my badly weathered looks
pathetic. But
most recognize my appearance embodies the character that
is the essence of a true cruiser.
Every moment is precious, but the most wonderful time of
all is around sunset when David slips on my favorite CD.
"Dreams come true in Blue Hawaii" --
and as my beloved Elvis croons I close my eyes and taste
the Heaven those Bibles spoke of.
There are a lot of immaculately restored '57
Chevies still around. Their chrome glistens and their open, airy, and vivid
colorful interiors are spotless.
These polished classics have become symbols of a
romanticized era, the Fifties. Well, the Fifties was a
great decade. Spawning
a revolution in car styling and performance, it also
gave birth
to rock and roll. But
the truth is I would far rather be who I am and where I
am today. For
me happiness is being alive and a vital part of an
exciting new century.
Surrounded by young people and the invigorating
surfing scene, Maui is my Shangri-La. Dreams really do come true in Blue Hawaii.
--
The End --
(Copyright
1999-2008)
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