Captainkirk's Duster project

Chapter 19
“Lady In Red”


My dreams of building the Javelin had been whisked away like a leaf in a windstorm, and I was still scavenging about for a decent Chevy motor to build for the Nova; preferably a Rat motor. Jill was willing to let the car go, for a price, and I had about 600 bucks in the bank earmarked for this purpose; but not without a decent motor! No way was I gonna drive that lethargic, wheezing pig the way it was, so the search continued. Back in those days, there was no internet, no eBay, or any of your modern conveniences; no, if you wanted a motor, it was dig through the want ads, word-of-mouth, or go to the boneyards. The boneyards wanted too much for anything that resembled a performance motor; 454, 427, 396, or 327's. I probably could'’ve picked up a used 350, but I didn'’t want one. Hell, everybody had a 350. I didn'’t like being like everyone else. So I kept searching….
Until that day in October. Senior year. I would spend my study halls in the library, reading. (They would give you a Library Pass for this kinda thing; I guess they figured you'’d be studying. Me, I was reading fiction or Hot Rod magazine). So, I walked into the library this fine October day, and there sat Superman. No, not the dude in his underwear and a cape, but this guy we called Superman. (His name sorta sounded somewhat like Superman-someone hung the tag on him and it stuck). Anyway, there sat Superman at one of the tables, so I sat down and struck up a conversation (quietly; this was a library, man, and “Andy” the librarian would throw you out if you disturbed him from reading his ever-present newspaper). Superman was the once-neighbor of David (my sister Jill’'s then-boyfriend), yes, that'’s Pet Cemetery David, and that'’s how I knew him; from David. Superman had shown up at David’'s house that past summer driving what was, to him, a new car; a 1972 Plymouth Duster, 340, 3 speed floor shift, Tor-Red, with black stripes and call-out numbers, and little pissed-off looking tornados on the rear quarters and by the tail lights. I was not much of a Mopar fan at that point in time (still searching for a Rat motor for the Nova); in fact, I knew next to nothing about “brand-X” and didn'’t care to. I did go for a ride down the street with him though. He turned around in a guy'’s driveway, then trounced on the gas and left two huge black stripes shrouded in acrid clouds of rubber-smoke. I remember being fairly impressed. Maybe this Mopar stuff was something to be respected after all…. We got back to David’'s and performed the Sacred-Open-The-Hood ritual. I remember this huge orange air cleaner with a decal shouting 340 FOUR BARREL! Afterwards, he left, and I don'’t remember seeing him the rest of the summer…….
Until that day in the library. Seems Superman had a little “car trouble” that summer. Accidents. Tickets. Court. Lawyers. And he was looking to get rid of his little red toy to help get him out of trouble. So, he asked me (quietly, so Andy The Librarian wouldn'’t look up from his paper and blow a gasket) if I knew anybody looking for a car. Cheap. $500.00 would do. I told him I’'d ask around and get back to him.
I think I actually did ask three or four people if they were interested. And then it dawned on me…..Duh! Maybe I should check it out for myself…...
I ran into Superman in the library later that week. I arranged to meet him at this truck repair shop, where the tow truck had brought it after his last little, er…..."”incident"”.
And so I did.
The car wasn'’t as bad as I had pictured it in my mind, from the description he'’d provided. Yeah, the grille was cracked a little, the front fenders a bit dented on the sides; should pop out fairly easy. The left rear quarter had a huge dent in it; something about rolling on it’s side in a ditch, and swerving to miss a dog...…yeah, OK. Maybe swerving to grab a Red Dog. Anyway, he popped the hood, and there was that big orange cylinder shouting 340 FOUR BARREL! at me again. It had headers…. I hadn'’t noticed it last summer. He fired it up. Hmmm. Sounded pretty good. I opened the door and crawled in. Comfy. I wrapped my right fist around the shifter knob and worked the linkage. This car had a smell…; vinyl, rubber, and gear oil. And something else I couldn'’t put my finger on. It was somehow …alluring. Low miles, too. Less than 20K and the car was only 3 years old, give or take a couple months…. I peered at the odometer…, and then she spoke. Softly, almost inperceptably….” Well, Hello again….”
Hello Kitty! You talkin'’ to me?
She was. I’'d never heard a l’i'l red minx speak before, but when you hear one, well, you know it.
Well, that was pretty much that. She'’d taken Superman for a wild ride, and now she had her claws in me. And was not about to let go. Meow!
Well, for those of you who’'ve been following this from the beginning, you know how this part ends up. And if you don'’t, go back and refresh your memory…. It'’s a long, emotional story. But, as Jim Croce once said in a song …, ”But let'’s forget all that”…...

……...and so Mr. Peabody said, “"Come along Sherman, we'’ll leave the ‘'70’s behind us for good, and use the Wayback Machine to fast forward us to 1981, where we left off".”

And so we arrived. Primered car, cold weather, new baby and a new career coupled with a demanding job. With little or nothing left over after payday. I managed to keep The Duke licensed and insured, but with all the window trim off and wearing primer, I didn'’t drive it. Oh, sure, I'’d back it up in the driveway and let the motor warm up to temp, but that was about it. I’'d lost the momentum; the wind was down and the sails lay slack against the mast. Oh sure, something would fire me up, and I'’d feel that sea breeze stirring, but something always seemed to interfere.
Then I got my new job. It was a job I'’d been hoping and praying to get hired on to for months; writing letters, making phone calls, trying to grease the wheels. And that January, I succeeded! The job was about an hour and a half away, so we found a house to rent near my new job, and began packing. This meant packing The Duke, as well. Actually, The Duke was one of the last things to go. I shoved all the trim parts in the trunk, gassed it up, and hit the road. I made it without incident, enjoying the thrill of the open road once more. I let the horses run free, as the roads were dry that day. I pulled in the driveway and nestled it into it’s new 2 ½ car stable, and cut the ignition. There was a lot of unpacking to do, and I started my new job on Monday!


Sadly, that was the last time The Duke ever tasted the thrill of the open road. One thing leads to another; money was still very tight, work was demanding, as were family issues. I still had my paint, and I kept thinking and talking about painting this car; getting it back on the road again. But it just never happened. Dave and Jerry had sold their cars long since. Howard still had his Goat, but sadly, it got rattier and more run down every time I saw it. It was really depressing. The old gang drifted further apart, the wedges of family, debt, work, and obligation driving us further apart every month and the memories of wicked musclecars and Glory Days fading like the distant memories of summer as you hunker down against the chill of a bitter cold winter. I made a pact with myself, then and there- I would never sell this car. I would let it rot away under a tarp, into tiny orange hills of iron oxide before I'’d sell it. Now even Howard was talking about getting rid of the Goat. Not me, I vowed! When we would get together occasionally, invariably the talk would drift, sometimes rather awkwardly, to cars and Glory Days, and someone would ask if I still had the Duster. Still, I would tell them, and always. And their eyes would go glassy; their gaze would go somewhere distant-far off to a time long ago, when they had their early youth, and the world by the tail. And again I would silently vow; not this one. If I let it go, I'’ll be like those guys; staring off into the distant past, reminiscing and wishing they’d have managed to hold on just a little bit longer, a little tighter. You could see it in their faces, their eyes. You could hear it in their voices. And then the talk would shift, and it would all be swept under the rug, hidden from view, too painful to dwell upon.
The years passed, and I would go out dutifully on the weekends and fire up The Duke, back it out of the garage, and occasionally even spin it around the block, though the license plates had long since expired. But these little jaunts got further and further apart, and pretty soon I was having to charge the battery on Friday night, just so I could get it started on Saturday. And in the winter, it would sit for months at a time, waiting for the first warm spring day to stir my blood. I remember the last day vividly. July, 1986. I fired up The Duke and he swaggered out of the garage, both guns swinging low and daring any cowpoke to draw. I ran it that day until I'’m sure the neighbors were quite pissed off. The air cleaner was off, the hood open, and I was checking the timing (just because), goosing the throttle and listening to that hungry dragon snarl, the Holley gulping down huge gulps of air with it’s characteristic Whoosh! It sounded good; it sounded mean! When I finally pulled it back into the garage, I sat there for just a minute before I switched off the key, taking in the vibes and the thunder and exhaust smell and watching that hood shake the rhumba. Simply wicked! I was, for some reason unknown, reluctant to shut it down that day. It was almost as if it were a premonition, a harbinger of things to come. And when I finally reluctantly thumbed the key off, that soulful, angry little motor gave a shudder and a sigh, and I swear…....what sounded eerily like a death rattle.