By Scott Longman
The sphere growled at me.
It was as tall as it was wide, about 5 feet both, and the worst form of redneck trailer trash you’ve ever laid eyes on. He had an alternate sphere, supposedly his daughter. Between the looks, the dress, the attitude, and a really bad shared bottle of discount hair color that I dubbed “Section 8 Bronze,” they were indistinguishable. And I couldn’t begin to believe that this exchange was happening.
What Sphere Senior said was, “It would be a shame if something happened to your car if you don’t get it out of here.”
Sphere Junior contributed all three chins with a vigorous nod.
There is, of course, a backstory:
He was only nineteen years old, and skating broke, because most of what he earned went to pay for school.
And this car arrived. It was a 1970 Plymouth Road Runner convertible, the absolute dream of mankind. It was a continued disaster, which is why it had a minuscule price tag. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the car was already well beyond recovery: it was deeply rusted through every last body panel and, more importantly, the structural subframes and rocker panels as well. The 383 V-8 smoked and burned so much oil that it needed a quart every forty miles.
I didn’t want it to get worse, and having totally unrequited visions of an eventual restoration, I wanted to put it in a garage.
A dodgy relative had somehow met Sphere Senior, who was terribly typical of his social circles. The Spheres lived in a taxpayer-supported mess, where they ran a horrid kitsch trade that they sold at flea markets.
But they had an empty garage on the property.
A member of my family made a deal that I would do certain construction jobs that his slum lord wouldn’t do, and in return I got a roof over the top of my car.
So I did it. I punched in there after class for months, doing what I said I was going to do, and I did solid work. After I called off the whole deal, the Spheres showed up at the front door one day and gave me an ultimatum: That car is out of here tonight, or else. I later found out through a decent neighbor that they had found someone who would pay them cash for the same garage space and of course they had already taken my job.
Enter a ’68 Dodge Monaco wreck. I was the sixth owner of this parts car, and no one in the chain had ever transferred the title. I bought the car because of its engine. Although this engine was not a power plant, it ran well and would stick in the ‘Runner’. I scored the entire Monaco car, including its functional engine, for $50.
I met a guy with a chain drop and a big oak tree. Engine off Make sure.
But that left the rest of the car.
I had to go.
Epiphany: The Spheres had a garage without a car. He had a car without a garage. Karma.
And so the plan was formed.
I needed a tow vehicle and a chase vehicle. We used tow straps to secure the front of the Monaco to the rear hitch of an International Harvester Scout, which had plenty of torque. Then we had the chase car close by, with the lights on because there was no power in Monaco.
One dark night in October, one block from Sphere Central, we staged. So the chase car became the lead car, and the IH Scout got behind me, pushing me up to speed. I bounced the curb two houses ahead of The Spheres, hit the brakes as I pulled into their grass space, then plowed down their wooden front steps. I got out and rounded the corner, where the chase car was waiting.
I’ll never know what The Spheres’ reaction was.
But here’s what I expect:
They looked outside and thought, “Oh, some drunks came onto our porch.”
And one or more of them went out to inspect.
Well, he had calculatedly left the key in the ignition, with a giant orange key fob attached, so they couldn’t miss it.
My hope? They went to start it up, to put it on the street, but they found that it wouldn’t break. So they went to give it a drum jump.
Not only was there no battery. There was not engine.
