Indian Summer
“Me? I haven’t progressed since adolescence. I still listen to doo-wop music and roll around under old Chevys on the weekends.”
In 1961, I was attending the local junior college and kept myself in Smithys and teardrop knobs for my 1949 Chevrolet by working nights as a gas station pump jockey, and now and then as a gopher at an auction house. The auction owner accrued his inventory by cleaning out garages and then auctioning off his finds once a month in a big barn.
