The '38 Chevy
Hot Rod
by Don Drewniak
Art, a friend
dating back to seventh grade, lived with his
parents on the second floor of a three decker
located four blocks on the Mount Hope Bay side of
South Main Street in Fall River, Massachusetts. I
joined him once every week or two during the
summer of 1959 to play a few games at a poolroom
located in a ramshackle building on Columbia
Street.
Art and I left
the poolroom about 9:30 on a cloud covered,
summer night following my sophomore year in high
school. We headed toward my car which was parked
in front of his house. I planned to head home to
get some sleep before my next ten hours of work
at Schwartz Lumber and Hardware.
As we
approached his house, we picked up the sound of
what had to be a high powered car engine. Into
view emerged a dark colored, late 30s Chevy coupe.
The body was
stock except for short lake pipes that protruded
from behind the bottom of the front fenders.
There was no doubt in my mind that the engine was
a 50s V8. The right side tires were resting three
feet from the curb on a sidewalk. No one was in
sight. We stared at the car in silence for two or
three minutes. The street remained empty.
"Let's
take a ride," said Art.
"That's
robbery."
"Nah, we
re going to borrow it. Do I look like a thief?"
I stared at
him for a moment and said, "Well, now that I
think about it, you do look a lot like Dick
Turpin."
"Who?"
"An
English highwayman who was hanged for horse theft."
Art was too
wound up to hear anything more about Turpin.
"Listen,
it belongs to the guy across the street. He s
probably passed out drunk on the floor of his
bedroom. He s let me use it a few times. He won t
care. Plus, we ll park it on the street as soon
as we come back and lock it. Then I ll put the
key in his mailbox. We ll be saving it from being
stolen."
I knew that
was bullshit, but somewhere in the recesses of my
brain was a voice that said, What the hell, do it.
"Okay,
once around the block." That was bullshit on
my part.
Art climbed in
behind the wheel, while I rode shotgun. As I
suspected, he headed for Route 24 which connected
Fall River and Boston. My stomach was churning.
"We'll
see what it can do in the quarter and then bring
it back."
"Okay,"
was all I managed to say.
He drove
slowly and carefully out to 24 before pulling up
to a sliver of white paint that marked the
starting line of a not-so-secret makeshift
quarter mile drag strip. Art revved the engine
and off we went. There was no question that the
Chevy could bury my '51 Mercury which housed a
1957 Olds-powered V-8 engine.
To his credit,
he quickly brought the car back to the speed
limit as soon as we passed the quarter mile mark
and slowed appreciably turning onto an exit ramp.
The headlights
died out halfway around the circular ramp. With
no moon reflecting light from the sun, no stars
and no street lights, we were momentarily blinded.
"Take
your foot off the gas," I screamed as I
opened the passenger door and poked my head out
trying to see if we were still on pavement. I
managed to spot grass. As he came close to
rolling to a stop, I yelled, "Pull a little
to the right. Get us off the ramp before we get
rear ended."
I checked the
back of the car. The taillights were on. As our
eyes adjusted, we could clearly see lights from
the city.
"I think
we can see enough to get off the ramp and then
take back streets to your place," I said as
I considered walking away from what I believed to
be a nightmare with visions of being arrested for
car theft.
"Good
idea."
We crossed
North Main Street near the Fall River Public
Library and made it to within two blocks of his
house when he pulled into a parking space.
"All bums
out," he laughed as he placed the key under
the front seat. The one percent chance he knew
the owner was now zero.
I half
expected to see a police car or two near his
house. There were no police and no other people
to be seen.
"Pool
next Wednesday?" he asked.
"Yah."
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