I was feeling pretty good, it was a nice and warm, sunny Friday, I had cash in my pocket and the ’63 MGB I was driving was purring along I-70 in Kansas when I hit a section of highway that would make a laundry washboard look and feel like a smooth slab of steel. I was doing about 70 mph when it happened. I figure that the rapid up and down motion caused the rear leaf springs to fail because one moment the ass end of the little car was in the air and the next the whole ass end of the car was dragging on the interstate and then the rear wheels blew from the force of the body rubbing on them. I managed to steer to the side of the highway and sat there for a minute or two thinking that this was really fucking weird, then I smelled gasoline. I unassed myself from the car real quick pulling the dry chemical fire extinguisher from the back storage area with me as I went. I scurried to the back of the car and saw a thick trail of gas leading back onto the roadway. Christ I thought, all I need is for some asshole to come along and flick out a cigarette butt and poof no more Scott and no more MGB. I pulled the pin on the fire extinguisher and covered the gas trail from the roadway in and then sprayed as much of the dry chemical powder under the car as I could or rather until I ran out of the shit.
So there I was sitting on the side of the road completely broke down and not a pay phone in sight. It wasn’t long before a State Trooper showed up and after looking at my paperwork said that while he couldn’t give me a ride he would tell the wrecker service in the next town to come and get me. He asked me a bunch of questions about myself like how long I had been out, where I had served, and where I was heading. It wasn’t the 3rd degree, but it got real close to it. After about 20 minutes I saw a tow truck heading in the opposite direction and watched as he drove on past to a turnaround about a half mile away. Five minutes later he was pulling up to the back of my car.
He introduced himself as Jack Savage of Jack’s Towing, Auto Repair, and Salvage in Paxico, KS.
“Hell of a mess you got there Scott” said Jack after he had looked the situation over for a bit. He got in and turned his truck around so that his hook was at the back of my car. He then threw a couple of chains around the rear axle and started lifting the ass end of the car in the air. As he did so the drive shaft hit the ground with a loud “thunk” and Jake reached under and pulled it free of the transmission. He got out a series of straps and lashed the steering wheel so that the front tires faced directly forward and said “Let’s go.” I climbed in the cab and when a break in the traffic happened he pulled a fast u-turn and we were off. It was only 4 miles to his exit and it wasn’t long before we were sitting in his office having a cold beer.
“Well now” said Jake, “let’s see what the damage is and we can take it from there” He had spotted my car over a lift when he brought it into his yard and now he hit the hydraulic levers to raise it up in the air. The muffler was gone from the headers back, well not exactly gone as it had been squashed pretty flat when the body fell on it. It was the muffler that had punched a hole in the gas tank and Jake whistled when he saw that. “Scott” he said “you have to be one lucky son of a bitch that your car didn’t go up in flames.” I already knew that the tires were gone, but when I looked at the rims I could see they were badly damaged as well. The leaf springs were simply gone, the drive shaft and u-joint were damaged, and I didn’t know whether the transmission had taken a hit or not. The car was a wreck and we both knew it.
Back in Jake’s office, drinking another cold beer, we went over the list with Jake telling me that I would be lucky if parts could be found in Kansas City. More likely he said it was going to be either Chicago or New York and was the car worth that much to me. We drank a couple more beers and he said he would call around and let me know what he had found. There wasn’t a hotel or motel around, but I was used to camping out so that wasn’t a problem. Jake offered me his couch as he said he was going over to his girlfriends in the next town over and wouldn’t be back until morning. I said thanks and asked him if there was a place I could pitch my tent and he pointed down his yard and said that all the way at the end there was a nice shady spot and pond the local kids sometimes used for swimming and making out, but he doubted anyone would be there tonight to hassle me. I thanked him and grabbing my pack and throwing it over my shoulders I picked up my ice chest, to which I added the six pack Jake had given me, and turned to start trudging when Jake called out “Here” and tossed me the keys to a vintage 1943 Dodge WC-62 1 1/2-ton 6×6. “I trust you not to run off with it.”
“Thanks Jake” I said as I tossed my gear in back. The truck fired right off and sure didn’t sound like the stock 218 CID engine. I quickly figured the shift pattern and away I went in search of a little peace and quiet. I spent an uneventful night and the next morning got up early and headed back up to Jake’s office. Jake had been in the office for nearly an hour by the time I arrived and after I had poured a cup of coffee and sat down he tossed me a yellow legal pad. On it, neatly listed, was every part I needed for the MGB to put it right and out to the side the cost to replace. The total came to just under $1,800 and I sat there for a minute soaking it in.
“Look Scott, I know this is a hard decision to make, but in all honesty it would cost more to fix your car than it’s worth” said Jake.
“I know that,” I replied, “but they are the only set of wheels I have and I have nowhere else to go.”
“What about your family” Jake asked me.
I explained that I was an orphan and my car and the gear in it were the sum total of my worldly possessions. I felt a twinge of sadness go through me as I said that, but nothing showed on my face.
Jake said he would sell me the Dodge truck I had driven the previous night for an even $1,000 and take my MGB figuring that he could get maybe another $750 to $1000 for it in parts. The truck, he said, was one that his dad had bought surplus with the idea of making a wrecker out of it, but couldn’t find the right engine. “Then” he said, “the son the biggest farmer in the area and a real prick, you know quarterback of the high school football team and “stud” about town, had rolled the pretty and shiny 1967 Dodge RamCharger 4×4, with its special ordered Mopar 440 engine, his daddy had brought him for graduation.” This is a prick who less than six months before he finished high school and just after football season was mysteriously classified 4-F by the draft board.
Now I have a great deal of respect for those who were legitimately against the war (and still do) and refused to fight for moral or religious reasons and even those that fled to Canada to avoid having to serve because they were acting out of strong personal convictions, but I cannot stand a punk that has daddy find him a cushy slot in the Guard or claims 4-F status under false pretenses. It just really pisses me off.