Volume 1 number 5, May 1999 Bar Car I use the term “bar car” for any familiar vehicle parked in front of the Golden Eagle. With a little practice, you can easily predict who is inside by first checking what’s parked outside. When a bar car arrives, the conversations inside continue without interruption and the patrons make room for a friend. Every so often an unfamiliar vehicle will pull up. All eyes follow in rapt anticipation. If the driver is known, everyone wonders when they got the car. Did they get a better job? If the driver is unknown, the regulars prepare themselves for having a total stranger sit down next to them. Perhaps they’re good-looking, or maybe they will say something weird like, “I haven’t seen another human being for seven months.” There are bar cars people use to get from point A to point Bar. They are not very fancy, clean, or even in good working condition. They are simply how the habitual patrons get to the saloon. And then there are bar cars to be proud of. The difference will be difficult to understand if you are of the opinion that cars are just cars, but I get no pleasure from driving around in basically the same car as everyone else. I believe it is good to be different and to try to live a little. Besides, what would you rather be seen getting out of, your same old rusty piece of junk that belches smoke and cannot pass an IM test, or a righteously clean, straight, classic vehicle you wish you had had for your high school prom? My obsession for the ultimate vehicle began nearly a year ago. It was late June and I was driving past Justa-Store, when I saw a white 1963 Cadillac Limousine for sale. It was a really big, beautiful car with gigantic tail fins. I thought it would be cool to drive that thing in the Fourth of July Parade. I called the number and asked, “How much for the car?” The voice on the other end of the line barked out, “$5,000 firm.” A quick mental calculation of my finances determined that I didn’t have that kind of cash. I asked, “Can I rent it for the day?” The answer was an undignified kind-of-a-snort followed by the dial tone. It didn’t matter that my first journey into the classic car market ended so suddenly. I caught the bug anyway. I swore right then and there that I would someday own a proper bar car. I wasn’t going to show up in my piddly Toyota 4-Runner anymore. Oh no. I was going to drive up in something that would turn some heads. Yes! I was amazed at how fast reality settled in. For the entire summer and most of last winter I scoured the classifieds for some ray of hope. Most of the cars that I could afford were just high-priced junk. I don’t own a shop, tools, or possess the know-how to restore a car, so I just had to wait. Sooner or later I would eventually find the right car for the right price. I even fantasized about a vacation down south for the sole purpose of finding one. Suddenly one day, I saw it sitting on a consignment lot off of Airport Way. While driving home from the Mary Siah Recreational Center with my four-year-old son Oliver, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a big, black vehicle. It was covered with grimy snow that had been accumulating all winter long. How could I have missed it before? Oliver and I pulled into the lot to check out the car. “Big and black” turned out to be a 1978 Lincoln Continental without any dents, sporting a fairly new paint job and looking like a giant coffin with windows and wheels. It fit all my requirements. Almost everything worked, the price was right, and a test drive down Second Avenue caught the attention of several pedestrians. Perhaps they thought the Grim Reaper had arrived? It didn’t matter that there was no place to park it at home (it’s over nineteen feet long), or that it gets single-digit gas mileage. I just had to have that car. I paid for it, got it cleaned up real nice, and started home. My face was a grin from ear to ear. Just past Cripple Creek Automotive, it ran out of gas. Oops! Oliver asked what was wrong. I answered, “Oh nothing, I just thought it was about time you learned how to hitchhike, son.” See you and your bar car at the saloon. | ||
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