---

            They towed me to a huge salvage yard on the outskirts of Oildale and parked me in a line with other Fords. I was one of the lucky ones, got stored under a metal shed roof, so the sun didn’t rot my interior so quickly, and I avoided rusting out.

           From my spot near the perimeter fence, I watched traffic on the highway. As the years passed, the cars changed. All those beautiful fins and sharp edges disappeared, replaced by round-cornered, lumbering boxes with banks of taillights. They weren’t ugly…just, well, bland. And the few sexy European jobs were replaced by hordes of Japanese cars.

            But what really surprised me were those cockroach-shaped Volkswagens. They were real gutless wonders and didn’t even have a proper radiator. But I guess the college kids liked them, especially the boxy little buses, because they were everywhere, some with peace symbols and crazy stuff painted all over. Later when they’d dump one at our yard, mangled from some accident, us domestics would make fun.

            “Hey hippie, where’s your flower power now?”

            “Suck my tail pipe, hippie.”

            “Make love, not rust.”

            But picking on VWs didn’t make me feel better. We were all headed for the crusher at some moment in time, to be squeezed into a cube of jagged metal, then thrown into a hearth to become one again with the great Metallic Universe. I guess I’d become existential in my old age, thinking long thoughts about the essence of machines and our tenuous link to that rational order desired by humans.

            I parked at that salvage yard for twenty-five years, saw some of my kind parted out, a few lucky ones purchased, but most just disappeared. Newer wrecks took their place, ones with catalytic converters, disc brakes, and square headlights. They made me feel like a country hick, although I knew I’d outlast any of those tin and plastic boxes.

            The Valley was socked in with fog the day Joe and his teenage son, Raymond, came by. They made their way down the line, inspecting each of my neighbors until reaching me. I could barely make them out through my streaked windshield.

            “Come on, Pop. Let’s go look for a Mustang, or maybe a Camaro.”

            “Ya restore one of them and what da ya got? Nothing ya don’t see every day of the week.”

            “But these old clunkers are…”

            “You got to look past what they are now, Ray. They can become something totally cool if you set your mind to it.”

            “Yeah, yeah, and I spend every minute I got working on it.”

            “No, son. We’ll spend every minute…it’s either that or have your mother hound us with chores.”

            The father forced my hood open, the first time in more than a decade.

            “Will ya look at that? A sweet little 239 flathead, easy to work on. It’ll have plenty of power when we’re done with it.”

            “But that body, Pop. What are we gonna do with – ”

            “Hey, think like an artist, kid. We can do anything the cutting torch will let us.”

            I winced when I heard that but knew these humans were my last chance at salvation. I hoped my doors hadn’t rusted shut and that the field mice had abandoned their nests in my rear seat cushions. I wasn’t even sure my wheels turned; tall weeds had tickled the insides of my fenders for years. But Joe’s pickup pulled a flatbed trailer down the line and with nudges from the yard crew and their decrepit tow truck, I was rolled up onto it. At least my windows were intact and I could maintain some dignity. We tore out of the yard and down the highway, heading west. The speed made me dizzy. I felt air flow through rusted holes in my floorboards. We rolled toward the sunset and pulled up in front of a sprawling ranch house. I was carefully stowed in a huge garage.

            Joe’s wife came out to see me. “What in God’s name did you buy? I won’t have this heap cluttering up my…”

            “Hold on, Joyce,” Joe said, grinning. “Ray and I will have it runnin’ in no time. It’s got an automatic, so even you can drive it.”

            With a groan, Joyce threw up her hands and ducked back inside the house.

            “Don’t worry son, this little Ford is gonna be one sweet ride when we’re done.”

            “Yeah, Pop, sure.”

            Ray didn’t look convinced. I had my own doubts. But I was in a dry clean space, my first garage in thirty-eight years of existence. In the weeks and months that followed I was slowly dismantled, stripped down to my frame, my parts spread out over the concrete floor. When they loosened my motor from its mounts, I slipped into darkness.

***
 

            When I came to, I had a newly primed frame and an engine I didn’t recognize; everything had been painted or coated in chrome. My body sat next to me on blocks. Every day, Joe and Ray worked on it, cutting, grinding, filling, sanding.

            By the summer of the second year of my rebirth, they were ready to take me for a spin. My new ruby-colored paint job put my original to shame. A hole had been cut in my hood to accommodate a huge four-barrel carburetor and air scoop, and my rear fenders had been cut and flared to handle the fattest tires I’d ever worn. But inside, I was the same old me. Even my cracked radio knobs had been replaced with original look-alikes.

            The last thing Joe installed was foam dice around my rear-view mirror. Everybody piled in, and we tore out…and I mean really moved. It was like I’d never breathed before that moment. My voice had also changed, from what I remembered as a low murmured thumping to a steady growl. I searched the road for other muscle cars to take on, to test my newfound virility. Ray clicked on the radio and a caterwauling boomed from speakers hidden in my doors, definitely not the country music Fred used to play. We headed south on a shimmering white highway called Interstate 5. At the base of the Grapevine Grade, Joe turned around and pulled over.

            “Okay son, it’s all yours.”

            “What…I mean, what are you doing?”

            “This is your graduation present.”

            I thought Ray would faint.

            “Good God, Pop, I mean, I was wondering how I was gonna get around at college. But, my God, this…this is fantastic!”

            I had a good feeling about Ray. He was meticulous, never rushed, never took unnecessary risks. But that summer on the asphalt roads east of town, we did some serious speed trials. I never felt so good.

            In September, Ray and his folks crammed my back seat and trunk with every possible thing a young man might use at the university. Joe and Joyce gave us a tearful farewell. Ray pointed me south toward the Grapevine and the Pacific Coast beyond. I hardly recognized Ventura and almost had a vapor lock as we passed Rincon Point. The oil piers were gone, but the surfers were still there, slicing across the waves on miniature surfboards. And by God, some woodies were parked along the highway, waiting for their wet masters to return.

            Ray was singing to himself, tapping out a rhythm on my steering wheel. It reminded me of Arty and those first years with Alleta and the kids.

            At the University in Goleta, we pulled into a parking lot in back of some pink boxy apartments. I had never been near a college before. Having all those girls and guys around me made me appreciate my newness. But Ray was a quiet studious kid who hardly took me out, except to cruise Santa Barbara’s State Street on weekends. It was there I discovered I was a real “babe magnet.” We’d pull up to a stoplight and kids at the sidewalk coffee shops and cabarets would stroll over and admire my paintjob and classic interior.

           


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