Ch 2: The Car

The Car

This is one of the few stories I know, and vividly remember my father telling me.  The car was a 1967 Camaro Super Sport, the same car he purchased new when he received his first assignment after Air Force basic training.  I could tell from the way he talked about it, that he had always regretted selling it. 

It was the early 90’s and I must have been 10 or 11 years old when he took a week of vacation, to set out for California. 

“Where are you going Dad?”  I asked as he laid on the swivel wheeled creeper in the garage under the truck, socket set and rags sitting next to him.

“California” he replied

“Will you bring me something from California?” I asked.

“Sure will son, can you hand me the oil filter wrench?”  From my place, sitting cross legged on the cool concrete floor next to the truck I reached over and grabbed the GM oil filter socket, picking up the 3/8 socket wrench, clicking the filter attachment into place before handing the assembly to my father. 

“Thank you Eddie” He said as he took the wrench from my hands, I continued to sit there, intently watching what he was doing.   By then I was already fairly familiar with the process of changing the oil in the truck and ran through the steps in my head to remember what came next, first you back the truck out of the garage so that the only the hood is inside, next the oil stained 2x8’s are placed directly in front of the front wheels, drive the truck up on the 2 foot long boards, then slide the blue ramps in place, adjust the ramps so they sit in front of the wheels[1].  The truck is driven up on the ramps, which I marveled at how my father knew when to stop and not drive off (something years later I would do in the same garage with the family sedan when doing my first solo oil change).  The creeper is retrieved from the hooks against the back wall of the garage, along with the socket set, oil filter wrench, oil pan, rags and ¾” box wrench. 

Back In Colorado

The map still in front of me I sit, not really knowing what to do next.  I had made great time on my drive, following the route through South Dakota (because Nebraska is boring as shit), making the stops my father made[1], but now I didn’t know what to do.  I had four days before I needed to be in California to pick up the car.  I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the handwritten note, and stare at the phone number.  Nothing in my past and admittedly unsuccessful experiences with women prepared me for the forwardness of the waitress.  I was skeptical.  I reached for the phone with my other hand, my eyes still locked on the note.  Just before picking the phone up I suddenly dropped the note on the table and walked to the bathroom. 

To brush my teeth. 

***

The trucks turbo charged 6.2L diesel engine chugged along as it sits running idle, before maneuver the manual transmission into reverse, engage the parking brake and turn the ignition key to off, releasing the clutch.  I had eventually got up the nerve to call Amy, but now in the silence of this early winter, Wednesday evening I begin to hesitate again.  I left the trailer parked at the hotel, hitch lock in place, and double checking the two new $40.00 a piece padlocks purchased for the trip ensure they were indeed still locked.  Pulling a trailer had taken some getting used to, especially since my previous ride had been a two door Saturn something-or-another.  I almost let my mind divulge into obsessing over remembering the car’s model number (the name was so generic it escapes me in this moment) but instead quickly get out of the car, locking the driver’s side door, walking around the back of the truck, checking the three rear tool boxes (one spanning the rear bed near the rear window, and two sitting along the bed rail on either side) and finally confirming the passenger door is locked[2] before heading to the small hole-the-wall pub bar Amy suggested we meet up at.  I had mixed feelings about meeting at a bar, but in this small town the options were limited to the diner she worked at, a handful of bars and the expensive supper club on the edge of town, at least I didn’t have to worry about her being in High School now. 

The place was generically named “Steve’s Sports Bar” in neon letters, the sign hanging over the entrance lazily swung in the breeze.  Deep breath.  The bar sits snuggly between an antique store and “Ski-Tastic!”(Which I can only assume sells ski equipment).  I push open the door and stand there a moment.  The bar runs perpendicular to the door frame along the right side of the roughly 25 foot wide building, a husky man in his late 40’s with aviator style glasses, wearing a Chicago Cubs hat mans the bar, who finishes up filling a large frosted mug before taking a swig and looking towards the door.  “Hey man, your letting the cold air in.”  I snap out of my daze long enough to take two steps inside, rescanning the small establishment.  The place is empty except for the bartender (who I think of as Steve in my head, but later find out is named Jeramiah), and an gray bearded man in a leather vest, sitting at the end of the bar, leather biker wallet (the kind with snaps and long chain clipped to his belt) sticking out his back pocket, nursing a whisky and coke while scraping away at a stack of scratch cards with a Kennedy half dollar.[3]  Various sports games play on the four tv’s I count, I contemplate leaving but instead strip off my worn, flannel lined work coat, draping it over the barstool four down from Gray-Beard-The-Biker, the 9 beer taps directly to my right (the selection exceeded my expectation of the big three American light beers[4]).  The bartender sets his mug down, wiping his hands on a bar towel and asks “What’ll be?”.  I am frozen by the decision, carefully analyzing the names of the tap beers before me.  The man could sense my indecisiveness and kindly comes to my rescue. 

“Where ya from?”

“Wisconsin” I reply, eyes still locked on the beer taps.  He followed this up with “What ya drink there?”  I shifted my focus to the man, “Usually something from a brewery called New Glarus..”  “Yeah?” he responded, slightly more enthusiastic then before.  He went on to ask me a few questions, before stating “Give this a try, it’s on me” as he grabs a frosty mug out of the built in cooler and pours me a beer. 

The beer was good, and before long I had Jeramiah’s life story (the role reversal with the bartender spinning his story and me listening), who did own the bar and was originally from Chicago, which until the phone behind the bar rang, made me forget why I was there.  “…and that’s how I ended up in Colorado.”  Jeramiah gave a short laugh as he turned and leaned towards the phone, holding up the pointer finger of his left hand, giving the “1 minute” sign as he picked up the phone.  Glancing down at my watch I notice it’s been 20 minutes since I arrived.  Jeramiah glances over at me, pauses for a moment before turn back saying “yep, he’s still here”. 

I panic.  In haste I down last quarter of my mug and as I am about stand up to exit, Jerimiah hangs up the phone.  “Edwin?, yeah Amy says she’s running late.  Can I get you another?”  I nod to the mug and give a noncommittal “sure” before easing back into the bar stool.

Five minutes later Amy enters, looking slightly disheveled, and begins apologizing as she removes her scarf, hat and coat.  “The babysitter was late.”  She waves to Jeramiah and without a word he pulls out a frosty mug and pours a draft from one of the middle taps.  I don’t notice which one specifically, I’m still over analyzing the words she just said.