Rebel Rebel

What was it about the 1950s which remains so intriguing? I suppose there are many fascinating aspects of that fabulous decade, but for me personally, it boils down to rebellion. Rebellion was certainly a pervasive theme of the 1950s, permeating its music, art and culture, collectively culminating in the full blown revolution of the 1960s.

When I think of the 1950s, I think of switchblade knives, loud Rock 'n Roll with obscene lyrics, promiscuous girls with their names tattooed on their tight sweaters. Of course, these are just trite cliques, really, romantic caricatures. Though, somewhere out there, to be sure, was a real Jim and Judy breaking into a derelict mansion in the hills. "Life can be beautiful."

Adolescence is tough. It's part of what renders, Rebel Without a Cause such a readily compelling film. We all identify with it. Growing up in the 1980s, I certainly did. I bought a 50s-style leather jacket. I kept a Zippo and Marlboro reds in it. It was my security blanket. At night, adrift on a dark, pathetic sea of adolescent loneliness and despair, it kept me warm. I often wore it to bed, the creaking leather a sort of melodramatic  lullaby.

The 1950s was, in and of itself, a sort of uncomfortable, selfconscious adolescence. The great American adolescence. It's where we lost our collective, modern innocence as a culture. It's where we can look back pointing with an idyllic finger, saying to ourselves, 'There. That's where we fucked up.' Fucking up makes us what we are. It's the primary mechanism of adolescence. It's what makes the 50s so romantic.

Un-miraculously, I still have my jacket. The satin liner is torn and tattered just like the upholstery of my '56 Bel Air, but both are essentially stalwart. One way or another, our armor, our garments of rebellion become more elaborate and more mechanized as we get older, as time passes us by in a newer, shinier model. Using our blinker, we're supposed to yield politely over to the slow lane.

Fuck that.

"Disobedience, in the eyes of any one who has read history, is man's original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion." -- Oscar Wilde

Back To The Future

     Looking back. They tell you not to. It's sage advice, but, if we never looked back, the best novels, music and paintings would never have happened, nor, would we ever recognize them to have happened without benefit of hindsight. If we don't look back, we know not where we are. It is only by looking back that we truly see ourselves. What we are now is merely the sum total of all we once were. Where we now are, is only where we have been before.

     Until only very recently, it was an inexorable, established fact that time travels only forward, in a straight line from past, to present, to future. Modern experiments in psychology and quantum mechanics, however, suggest that time may flow in alternating currents - forward, backwards, sideways. Knowledge always has its limits, though they are endlessly expansive.

     No, my 1956 Chevy Bel-Air is not a time machine. I'm no Dr. Emmett Brown, though, I did once meet Michael J. Fox once in the distant past. There's no flux capacitor under the rakish hood. In it's current condition, I'm not sure it would safely reach 88mph without mechanical calamity. Driving it around town, however, is distinctly surreal, and vaguely disquieting, metaphysically speaking. Something peculiar occurs within the spacious, panoramic cabin.

     It occurs to me that the car is, in fact, something of a time machine after all. It has, quite literally journeyed through time, transporting its previous occupants from the heyday of Elvis Presley, through The Space Race, Camelot, Beatlemania, man on the moon, the Bicentennial, MTV. Now, out there roving the contemporary asphalt of Saint Petersburg, it's a wild anachronism so conspicuous that it may as well have exploded forth onto the road from the smoking, electromagnetic pother of one of Doc Brown's impromptu wormholes. It's a 'head-turner', as they call it.

     After the first few weeks of ownership, the wise-guy novelty finally begins to wear off, and the behind-the-wheel permagrin gives way to a more subtle smirk. A cozy familiarity sets in . I began to feel strange in other automobiles, reaching for levers and stepping on pedals that weren't there, like some 600 Block rum-dumb with double vision. I think of stupid excuses to drive it, like - it's down to seven-tenths of a tank. Time to refuel. You never know when the call may come in for an all-night clam bake, and, non-ethanol can be tricky to find. No sense taking chances with a thirsty V8 and a capricious fuel gauge.

     There is an unmistakable mystic aura about it. Perhaps it's the raw carbon monoxide. After a few whiffs, maybe you're just buzzing like the Oracle of Delphi, able to glean the future, the past, the sideways. Whatever the case, the experience of traveling in it is somehow, slightly otherworldly. There's a luxurious, je ne sais quoi which lithely surrounds you like bubbles in a bath, and, yes, time seems somehow distorted. Driving it, I find myself looking back, wondering where it was while I was learning to ride a bike, having my first kiss, moving away to college, getting married, turning 40. All the while, it was out there, somewhere; being built in Baltimore while father was 10 years old, while my grandfather was building his life again after WWII.

     It's like suddenly, unexpectedly finding something very important to you which you had lost a long time ago and had given up all hope of ever finding again. It's like finding, all at once, everything you have ever lost. There it all is, in one, great big box. In the end, it's just a material thing. And yet, it's so much more. A relic of the pinnacle of American industry, manufacturing and design. An iconic artifact. Yes - a time machine.      

    

    

Yvonne

    

     Orange County Party Girl is dead. Face up in the rain. Eyes vacuous. A flash of lightning. This disappointment was inevitable. Her sweater begins to sop up raindrops. She could have been so many things, but dead is how all of them ended, and after all, she had killed herself long ago, and many times since. Her dreams and hopes had been shadows in the fog, retreating from approach, almost theatrically. Curtain. Lights. Applause.

     Her first real kiss - kiss of death. A handsome young boy from another town. Different. She was instantly drawn to him. He was younger. Too young, but she didn't care. Cared more. She kissed him. Deeply. Passionately. Under moonlight, in the cold stillness of night, setting him ablaze.

 

     He had never kissed a girl, nor had even ever thought to. Dirty magazines don't teach that tedious stuff. But his mouth, his tongue, his hands. God. She had transformed him from an awkward, aimless boy into a man in a fleeting moment, with all the suddenness of a passing car on Newport Boulevard.    

 

     She felt the metamorphosis, the storm of passion breaching the upper atmosphere of him, welling, billowing, darkening. It surprised and frightened her. Was this her power or his? Both. And neither. She retrieved his hand from between her legs and restored it to her breast, his wild, reckless kisses undeterred. She could feel herself beginning to love him. She could already feel her heart breaking. The sadness began to seep in and rise like tepid water.

 

      She turned her face away from his, abandoning him to the abyss of desire. She felt him tumbling into it, and this too broke her heart, inevitable as it was. There was a certain feminine pride, of course. They sat alone together in the long, wet grass. She shivered. He pealed off his vintage Army jacket and draped it around her as he had seen done in movies.

 

     The next day, he scarcely left her company, following her even to the bathroom to watch her apply her makeup as she readied herself to leave. His complete captivation mesmerized her, the way he stared at her so intently, fascinated by every mundane gesture. It made her uneasy, yet she relished his attention.

 

     When she returned again a few weeks later from Garden Grove, it was only to discover he had moved away back east. The 'For Sale'  sign impaled in his front lawn may as well have been impaled in her heart. In time, and not without difficulty, she managed to find his new address. She wrote to him on lined paper, carefully, neatly, eloquently detailing her sadness in pink pen. Folding it all up in an envelope with a matchbook sized portrait of herself, she posted it, and eagerly awaited a reply which never came.     

" Ha ha ha! Here we go! "

     On March 7, 2015 I purchased a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air in Orlando, Florida from a shifty old Cuban man for $10,000. Up to this point, I had never been a 'car guy.' I knew little about cars. Way back in High School, I had some fleeting fascination with the 1950's that I can't quite explain, and which, as I recall, involved a vague fantasy of owning an iconic, turquoise '57 Chevy. I settled for a leather greaser jacket, with which I was content for the next 25 years. Then, I turned 40-something.

 

     It so happened that my friend, Scott was in the area. Scott had been a 'car guy' his whole life. He agreed to meet me to kick the proverbial tries. I surely needed professional help if I was going to take this blind leap into the automotive abyss. My brother, Erich, being very mechanically inclined, also agreed to join us. Between Erich and Scott, I felt reasonably sure I wouldn't get screwed. As an added precaution, I watched some Youtube videos on vintage car buying tips to try and educate myself as best I could.  

 

     "Don't let them start the engine until I get there," Scott insisted, "and be sure to feel the engine block to make sure it's not warm. You want it to be cold before you fire it up, so you can see what sort of smoke it's blowing out the ass." Clearly, I had lots to learn. My father, who had been an auto mechanic in the early 1960's tried to talk me out of this. There being no chance of that, he urged me to at least have a mechanic first inspect any car I planned to make an offer on. That sounds like entirely reasonable advice, in theory, but it's not entirely practicable. Inspections require time and money, let alone a trustworthy mechanic specializing in vintage cars, and, last but not least, the unlikely consent of the owner. Scott was the next best thing.   

 

     The first thing we noticed when cover came off, was that the door glass in both of the front doors was busted - an easy fix I wasn't concerned about. I walked around the car at a distance, stooping down on one knee at each corner, peering down the length of the body. It appeared to have a good, regular form. No irregularities or obvious signs of accidents. The bumpers were sagging, and the body lines of the door jambs, hood and trunk were far from tidy, but all in all the appearance of the car was impressive. It also looked to be almost entirely original. The newish, two-tone paint job was sloppy in places, but passable.

 

     I asked the old man some basic questions. What did he know about the history? Why was he selling it? Does it have a clear title? Had it been in any accidents? He was cagey and impatient, and didn't seem very knowledgeable. What answers he did offer were conflicting. He was absolutely certain it hadn't been in any accidents, but previous to this assertion, had admitted to only owning the car a short time, and not knowing anything about the history. I wasn't getting a good vibe from the guy at all, and yet, the car itself seemed to be telling a pretty compelling story the more we looked at it.

    

     Scott wrapped a refrigerator magnet inside a bandana and began running it all along the body. If it lost contact in any place, he explained, it would indicate a body patch job. One could expect to encounter some Bondo, but the less the better. It passed the test pretty well, but for a few places along the rocker panels. He crawled under the car with a flashlight checking for rust, examining the body mounts and bushings as best he could. Most were too caked with 60 years of crust to fully inspect. Next, he popped the trunk and pulled up the rubber mat, thumping down hard on the bare metal floor with his fist. He nodded with approval, then moved on to the floor pan of the passenger cabin, pulling up the carpet where he could. There was surprisingly little rust on the car.

 

      Finally, we moved on to the engine. The old man raised the hood. The old springs were tired and would only hold it up half way. We peered down at the original 265 V8. The bright orange paint on the block was new and somewhat sloppy. Everything looked original but the shiny new air cleaner crowning the top of the 2 barrel Rochester. The radiator, generator, relay box, valve covers, intake manifold, ignition coil, distributor, ballast resistor - everything all appeared to be original. Only the horns seemed to be missing. Scott put his hand on the block. It was cold. He walked around to the back of the car and asked the old man to fire it up. It rumbled to life as a few puffs of black smoke coughed from the old, pitted chrome tailpipe.

 

     "Looks pretty normal for a car this age," Scott reassured me.    

 

     I told the old man I wanted to test drive it. He refused, insisting we might get into an accident. Incredulous, I told him I wasn't going to make an offer on a car I couldn't test drive. Still he refused. Suddenly we seemed to be at an impasse. I was frustrated as hell, having driven all morning to come see the car. Reluctantly, I told him that I would be willing to let him drive the car, having us ride as passengers. At very least, he had to demonstrate that the car was operable. This being acceptable to him, I had Scott sit in the front. Hopefully, he might be able to sense any telltale signs of major mechanical problems. It was the best we could do. Erich and I sat in the back.

 

     "Okay, Grandpa! Where we going?" Scott laughingly provoked. The old, curmudgeon was clearly annoyed, though the insult was well deserved. It was also a cleaver ruse which I much admired. The guy was clearly full of shit, and Scott was calling him out on it. I remembered that this is why I had asked him to come.   

 

     It had a not unpleasant 'old car smell' that would come to be familiar. The condition of the upholstery and sedan seating was pretty rough, but not surprisingly terrible considering its age. It appeared to be all original, though the old vinyl, which was the color of mint chocolate chip ice cream, had been sloppily touched-up with spray paint. There were rips and cracks. Brittle foam herniated from busted seams. Kick panels were pealing from their mounts like the jackets of old library books. The inside of the chrome-plated ash tray was rusted like something recovered off the Titanic. The yellowed plastic of the dome light above us on the water-stained headliner appeared as fragile as the caramelized crust of a crème brûlée.

 

     The car squeaked and rattled, jerking onto the road like some old, wooden roller coaster in some decrepit amusement park. Scott laughed hilariously as the un-mounted corner of the front seat came up off the floor - "Ha ha ha! Here we go!" 

 

     The old man wrestled with the 'three-on-the-tree' lever, struggling to find the gears. It was clear he hadn't driven the car that much and had forgotten the antiquated 'H' pattern. Scott remarked that the clutch pedal seemed to be grabbing somewhat high. The man insisted it was a brand new clutch.

     "Ha ha ha! Oooo-kay, Old Man!" Scott chuckled sarcastically. The guy was getting really pissed, and I was suddenly feeling a little squeamish. I was going to have to talk money with this guy in a few minutes. I wasn't sure it was such a good idea to piss him off. Scott was having a ball pushing his buttons, which seemed about as mushy as the old brakes.

 

     After a short spin around the block and back, Scott was confident that the car was pretty solid. Erich concurred. We sequestered ourselves into a huddle and started mumbling it over.
     "You can't really get too hurt on this deal," Scott assured me. The old man was eager to get the deal done. Among several other makes and models, he had a huge garage full of '57's in various stages of restoration. His wife had been after him to sell some off. The profits from this '56 would subsidize his other projects.

     I figured he picked the car up for around $5,000 and probably had another $1,500 in it worth of paint, parts and half-assed repairs.. He clearly had experience flipping cars. That at least encouraged me that he knew what to buy, and what not to buy. He was asking $13,000. The average value of a '56  Bel-Air being $12,500, I offered him $10,000. He readily accepted. Then, the son of a bitch said he wanted it in cash. Inevitably, and at great pain, I was able to talk him into accepting a check. I wasn't going to drive all the way back to Orlando with cash. I threated to renege. Six days later, the car was delivered to me on a flatbed. I named it, Yvonne.