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| 1930 Ford |
Time for a Dad Story, a tiny bit risque, well, not so much in this wild world of ours. . . .It's in the present tense style of Damon Runyon. The part of the story about how he used to drive Model A's down south I can tell you is true. Dad told me. As for the rest, I just don't know for sure.
Before the Summer of '42
The other day I see this guy polishing a Model A Ford, circa 1930, with loving strokes. In the parlance of used car dealers, "it is a gold piece." The finish is factory fresh. Many of this vintage have been found in cartons hidden away in barns, and still unassembled. It is the proverbial "find", a legendary car owned by an old lady who only used it once a week to go shopping.
I first hear this story about crated Model A's, and little old ladies when Ronald Potter, Continental George and Ignaz Skinder are shooting the breeze. I am a kid then.
I hanag out at Ronald's parking lot where I pick up a bob or two doing odd jobs. Continental George is a car dealer, a recent refugee from Germany. Ignaz is an itinerant car mechanic, an aspiring wrestler, and prone to check the cars on the lot to see that they are securely locked.
I develop serious doubts about Ignaz and his probity when I inadvertently hear him being reprimanded by an angry Ronald.
"If'n I see you touch another door handle again, I will tear a piece off'n your ass."
Now Ronald is big and brawny. He is know to uproot stubborn tree trunks manually. I hear he is a captain of artillery in the National Guard. I once express my admiration to Louise, his wife, and she disabuses me somewhat.
"The bum gets the heave ho from the guard when they discover a stolen motor in one of his cars."
Ronald loses a few points in my esteem. I begin to feel a little guilt about the job I do for him. You see, he sells more parking spaces than his lot will hold. Later, in the evening, he parks some of the cars on the adjacent streets. In the morning, as the lot starts to empty, I return the street-parked cars to it.
This is one of the schools of experience I attend as a teenager as I cannot abide the confinement of a regular high school. Of course, I learn many things I would like to forget, some of which I relate here.
Continental George deals in those Model A Fords. He buys them in the Bronx where they are a glut, has them driven to South Carolina by indigent teenagers, where he sells them for more than a hundred dollars each. He buys them for fifteen dollars. When he hears that I just get my driver's license, he offers me the opportunity to drive one of the Model A's to Florence, South Carolina. He introduces me to another driver who he calls "Chippy". Chippy wears shiny boots, sports an earring on one ear, and has a studded belt around his waist fastened by a large, ornate buckle. He is to lead our caravan.
George promises five bucks for the trip. He gives me three in advance and a marker for the balance. I almost do not go, however. Louise, Ronald's wife, who is very friendly to me, and beautiful besides, cautions me thusly, "Listen kid, don't get involved with those bums. It's only trouble for a few lousy bucks."
"Ronald says George is a right guy," I say lamely, thinking about the fiver, which is a large sum indeed. The year before I works seventy-two hours a week delivering orders for a fat Turk who eats raw potatoes, skin and all, and vents his irritation shouting, "bok tam bok" which is Turkish for "worse than shit."
"Ronald is as big a bum as any you can find," she says. "I lose him as soon as I save enough car far and a few extra bob for a trip back home."
I am indeed surprised. Louis is as pretty a lady as I ever see. I do not call her a "doll" as she does not seem to me a frivolous lady. While I never hear them talking together, except about whether or not the clients pay their tabs,I do not consider this unusual. Most married people do not seem overly talkative to one another. I think this is a natural consequence of the married state. Anyway, when she sees I am determined to dgo, she cautions.
"Stay away from that bum, Chippy, and get the money from that sleaze, Continental George in advance."
Now in retrospect, and as a result of my fine education in the principles of life, I feel a tinge of possible loss. Louise seems to have been protective, though less than maternal. We might become good friends, given time.
It was a long and wearisome trip. I will not dwell on its dullness.
Chippy has all the cars of the caravan sequestered properly, dismisses the other, more seasoned drivers, selects one of the tidier vehicles, looks at me, and says,
"Hop in. Its too early for bedtime. Let's head for a little fun."
I do not know what he means by "fun". I look at him for further explanation.
"You gotten laid yet?"
I do not answer. I do not yet reach the age when I surely lie if even I hadn't.
He drives on and cruises until he spots a kid. "Hop on the running board. Which way the 'ho' houses at?"
The kid directs with unerring expertise. The unpaved street is line with clone like houses, each with a porch. These are all lit except that the alternate ones have red lights. Chippy gives the kid a nickel.
I once hear Humphrey Bogart make reference to the tinny piano in an ornate parlor. He surely has to have been here. The piano is indeed tinny. A very fat woman in a gaudily silkish gown greets us effusively.
"Come on in, boys, lookin' for a date?" Then she looks at me.
"You done bring us a virgin." She then turns toward the stairs and shouts:
"Come on down, girls, we got us a virgin."
The girls amble in to see the "virgin". They come in various sizes and shapes. Several approach me as if inspecting an oddity, others tousle my hair. They all smile knowingly.
Chippy and the Madam talk price. The cost is one dollar for an ordinary visit and two for a glimpse of Paradise.
Even if I am not frightened to death, there is nothing in that room that will cause me to part with one or two of the dollars I have hidden in my shoe.
Chippy decides on his trip to Nirvana.
Continental George completes his transactions. He sells two Fords for one hundred and fifteen dollars each. He does well with the others.
I ask him on the way back how the farmers can pay for Fords as surely they go for an excess of their available funds.
"Vun dollar own and vun dollar a week for four hundred years," he explains.
I do not know what he is talking about but I decide Louise is right. He is indeed a bum.
He never does come up with the two bucks he still owes me.
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