RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,285
(an 'auto-biography?')
Let's go back to that Jaguar:
it was quite British in all its
attributes. Lucas electrics, and
that mostly meant 'haphazard'
and yellow (lights, etc.). The
'recommended' oil change
process was 16 quartz, to be
changed every 1,000 miles. I
had to double check all that
be sure they didn't mean litres
and all that, but the equivalencies
were listed too, and that was
American capacities. OK, so
far. I kept to all that as best
I could. The trouble was in
getting 1,000 trouble-free
miles to reach the needed oil
changing. (Ha!) Something
was always going wrong, and,
from a glance at the vehicle
you'd never expect that. It
looked weirdly smart. The
left rear 'fender skirt' (driver's
side), had a tendency to drop
down, or off. I finally came
up with a means of wiring it
into place. The two fog lamps
were also quite troublesome,
but only at NJ Inspection. They
violated some dumb rule about
(I forget), NOT coming on
independent of the headlamps,
or by BEING ABLE to be
switched on independently.
Some chicken-shit law that
the torpid jerks in the Rahway
inspection station bagged me
on. I finally just gave up and
went to the older, crummier
Perth Amboy station, when it
was there (gone about 1973
when they blasted a new road
through there (Rt. 440 or such).
Oddly, those guys cared little
about anything and were quite
liberal in what they passed or
allowed or ignored. (My case,
they ignored).
-
I found that the trouble with
check-list people, the authority
turfdom types who regale
themselves with images of
cheap and false power over
others, is that they do so both
cavalierly and randomly too,
based on subjective qualities.
Outside, of course, of just taking
the 15 dollars (then) offered as
a bribe to look the other way.
Today, that same bribe probably
costs 500, for starters.
-
The car was a huge in-line six
cylinder, with three Weber dashpot
carburetors. They needed tending
and they too had each a small oil
oil reservoir of their own. The
brakes were paltry (vacuum-assist
was an excuse for power-breaking
that hardly was effective). Push
button starter, walnut-burled
dashboard and interior wood, two
pull-down 'executive' writing
tables in the rear, each with its
own lamp. It was somehow called,
as well, an 'Executive-Limo). It
was fierce and strong, but huge
and heavy as well. It had, inside,
a massive radio system. AM, not
FM, as I recall then. BUT, the
bonus was that it had a short-wave
frequency too. We'd get Radio
Havana up often, on drive nights.
We could listen to all the evil
tales of 'America' to the north. The
riots in Newark and Jersey City,
I remember, were reported on and
portrayed with glee and as an
apocalyptical rendering and the
downfall of the USA. It was of a
serious intent, this reporting, but
way over the top. And, for us foul
Americans driving around, quite
funny as well.
-
I used to get it 'repaired' either at
Fox's Garage - though Freddie
then all of a sudden claimed no
knowledge of British cars - or
a place called Bristol Motors,
out on Rt. 22, which specialized
in British vehicles, and Jaguars
and sports cars, etc. They were
also very good at taking money.
I spent inordinate amounts of
scarce payroll dollars dribbling
that car through it needs. Just
having them touch a screwdriver,
back then, was an instant 99 bucks.
-
What cared I for anything? I was
a nutcase, running between places,
NYC, Avenel, Jersey Shore, work,
up and down to Philly and Newark
and Trenton, for work. I'd occasionally
see one of these cars parked and
abandoned off-side of peoples' yards
or junkyards, and I'd stop to salvage
what I could Not much. Everything
was huge and heavy. It got so that
I began stopping at green lights
knowing that they'd turn red soon
enough - that's how poor the
brakes were. I was probably a
maniac, and quite suicidal, in
automotive terms.
-
My father and my Uncle Ray
took to calling it my 'Bonnie
and Clyde' car, which it didn't
really resemble at all. I guess,
in their minds maybe, WE did,
not so much the car. I did sell
it, eventually, to some local
Woodbridge High School girl
of money, who deliriously
wanted it. I was worn out by
the car and the budget outlay,
and ready to move on to the
next (a 1962 Wolfsburg-badge
Volkswagen). I tried explaining
to this girl why it was she really
shouldn't own this car, all the
needs it had, etc., etc. BUT,
she insisted, and we made
the deal. Something like maybe
850 dollars, I forget. Her problem,
not mine. The deal got done.
Three days later her father is
at my front door saying he'd
sue me for selling his daughter
a death-trap. Can you believe it?
He was on a rant, and all I could
do was tell him how I'd told here
everything, explained the car, went
over all the details, and SHE, not
I, had willingly bought the car.
See ya!
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