A Car named Jed
It was an ugly car alright.
A funky blue-painted station wagon that was given to me by my Dad’s third wife.
Since she hated my guts, I think Pauline gave it to me as a mean-spirited joke. Making a big deal about it like she was doing me a big favor by handing it over pro bono. The truth of the matter was she had tried to sell it previously before forking over the car keys but had become frustrated because no one had wanted to buy the damn thing.
Naturally, I received “her gift” with an uneasy suspicion thinking that she had either cut the brake lines or planted a small car bomb in its engine before donating it to me.
The car’s paint job was shot. I think its original color was white, but with its cheap Earl Scheib, ninety-nine dollar paint job its blue color was already faded and peeling by the time I received it.
The torn vinyl car seats were downright embarrassing and I ended up putting a blanket over them to cover the tears up. If I accelerated too fast or stopped suddenly a bunch of cushion stuffing would invariably spill out onto the floor.
Oh, did I mention the car whistled too? Yep, it was one for Ripley’s alright. The damn thing whistled whenever I put the car in reverse.
My friends didn’t believe me when I told them my car whistled.
“Cars don’t whistle,” they said.
“Oh, yeah? Get in and check it out.”
Once they got in and I started to back it up. The stupid car would make its stupid whistling sound that sounded like a boiling tea kettle on the stove.
“What the fuck is that noise?” people would ask.
“My car just does that…I don’t know what is causing it or what it means,” I said.
“Jesus, dude…that’s freakin’ weird.”
‘I know, right.”
“The car isn’t going to blow up or do anything else weird?” asked my passenger looking slightly terrified.
“Hasn’t blown up yet. And it drives okay.”
“Have you put oil or water in it? Maybe that might fix it…”
“Done what?” I said.
“Do your basic car maintenance. Check the oil level and add water to the radiator if it needs it.”
“I’m supposed to do that?”
“Hahahahahahaha! Yeah. No wonder your car sounds funny.”
“Look, I just put gas in the damn thing and drive. All that other ” technical” stuff I leave up to the mechanic,” I said.
“I think I’ll take the bus. Let’s meet up later.”
“Oh for Pete’s sake. The car is fine. Now, where do you wanna go?”
“I ain’t going anywhere in that thing. It’s downright embarrassing.”
I got used to riding solo after a while.
Besides, the annoying whistling Jed would upon occasion fart and stall out whenever I tried taking off from a stationary position too quickly. One time I got pulled over by a cop who had thought I had shot a gun out of my car window while driving down main street. Despite the embarrassing frisk and search – which revealed nothing, I may add, I did earn some street cred when I was spotted by some of my friends getting dragged screaming out of my car and being briefly handcuffed by the local fuzz.
I called the car “Jed” because it was old and crusty like Jed Clampett, one of the main characters on Beverly Hillbillies which was a popular sitcom on TV back in the day.
As a young teenager, I would have preferred to have driven a cool Shelby Mustang or a bitchin’ GTO. The kind of car I could have named “Poon Hunter” or “Fuckinstein” but those kinda cars cost big bucks and I came from a cash-strapped family.
Heck, I barely had enough dough to buy gas which was pretty cheap back then in 1973. That is until the Gas Companies figured out they could charge us more by declaring we had an oil crisis. Suddenly we had gas lines, fuel rationing, and the price of filling your tank quadrupled.
So for better or for worse, I was stuck with a car named Jed.
The car got me to where I wanted to go uh…most of the time. You never could tell if the heap was going to start or not. Some days Jed ran okay but there were others where he sat there refusing to start like a pile of unresponsive scrap metal. It only took me one dead battery episode in a sketchy part of East San Jose to realize that carrying a set of jumper cables was a must, that is if I wanted to live to see my next birthday.
*
One lazy Spring afternoon after class at good ol’ Farmstead High I was heading home when I saw Allison Oldaker walking to her afternoon job at Bumbleberries Pie Shop.
Allison was notorious in our school for being what guys called “loose” back then – which roughly translated she was willing to make the two-backed beast with anyone who wore tight jeans and drove a nice car. The truth of the matter was she was a foxy blonde and most of her reputation was pure bullshit composed by frustrated teenage boys who had nothing better to do than concoct wild tales about chicks they wanted to nail but were invariably turned down in the process.
Being a rather “frustrated teen” myself I thought I’d offer Allison a ride to work. Hoping that Jed would be on good behavior and that she wouldn’t be turned off by his crappy interior and his funky disposition.
Since she was walking or should I say strutting down on the opposite side of the street I had to race ahead before hanging a U-turn at the intersection half a mile up the road.
I made the light okay and headed back towards her. As I got closer my body temperature began to rise as I took in her goddess-like form. She was wearing hot pants that showed off her long tan legs and a red tube top that revealed a considerable amount of exposed flesh. I was practically panting with unrequited desire as I narrowed the distance between me and her.
The closer I got, tantalizing carnal fantasies began to pile one on top of the other through my fevered brain. Maybe she’d like me? Maybe she’d be impressed with my gentlemanly offer of giving her a lift to work? Maybe she’d reward me with a little Rock n’ Roll Hootchie Koo in Jed’s backseat before clocking into work as a way of saying THANK YOU, STUD?!
I was about two blocks away from Allison when Jed let out an enormous gaseous fart and then stalled.
Despite having no power, I slumped down in my seat, lowrider style, as I slowly coasted past her, doing my best impression of appearing cool. I made sure to give her a jaunty wave as I did so, but like the ‘Girl from Ipanema,’ she pointedly ignored me and kept walking without bothering to give me a second glance.
Eventually, the car’s forward inertia wound down and I ended up pulling off to the side of the road feeling absolutely crushed and cursing my bad luck.
*
There finally came the day that Jed refused to start despite any efforts on my part to get the car started, so I had him towed to the local garage for repair.
After a several-hour wait in the waiting area, the Garage Owner came out to talk to me.
“What’s the verdict?” I snickered nervously.
“Your car is toast, kid. She threw a rod right through the oil pan,” said the mechanic, wiping his oil-covered hands with a rag.
Much to my surprise and to the grizzled mechanics, I abruptly burst into tears and grabbed his arm with a white-knuckled fist.
“Are you sure you can’t fix him? Isn’t there any way to save my car?” I gulped between sobs.
“I’m sorry son,” he said gently, removing my hand, “but cars get old like people and sometimes they break down for good…there ain’t nothing I can do…
except maybe give you the number to the wrecking yard.”
Feeling sorry for me, the old-timer gave me a coke (on the house) and a seat in his cluttered office while I called my Mom to pick me up at the Garage.
As I was waiting for my ride, he kindly offered me twenty-five bucks to use Jed for parts at his shop.
“Buy a Chevy, next time, young man,” he said with a wink as he handed me the cash for the car.
My mom sensing my despair, took me to McDonald’s for burgers and fries before heading home as a treat.
“You’ll get another car, honey. It may take awhile but it’ll all work out,” she said, patting my hand.
But I didn’t want another car.
I wanted Jed. That funky, noisy, unreliable, godawful piece of shit that broke my heart on a daily basis.
And damned if I knew why.
But I did.
