Hey, It's a Guy Thing

By David Bates

A collection of short stories that celebrate men and manhood. These stories are not just for men but also for those who love them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bates
• Release date: Oct 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452338309

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Hey, It’s a Guy Thing

David A. Bates

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010.David A. Bates

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A Boy and His Car

Everyone has a first car story, particularly those of us who came of age in the Car Era as I did. As teenage boys in the Midwest in the 1960’s, my friends and I had deeply ingrained senses of priorities. Owning an automobile was easily Number One on our list. A car of one’s own made it much easier to achieve the teenage boys’ second priority, i.e., attracting the attention of teenage girls.

I bought my first car during my senior year in high school. It was a 1955 Ford my father found for me in his cousin’s field in Southern Michigan. The asking price was $50.00, a bargain no matter how you sliced it. I know where you can get a car, my father told me one morning. A nice one, too. Get your boots on so we can go take a look at it.

Where is it? I inquired. Up to its doors in a swamp?

Nah. It’s in my cousin’s pasture. His cattle have been grazing there, so at least the weeds won’t be too thick. We need the boots so we don’t mess up our shoes, if you get my drift.

I did indeed get his drift. My father maintained a well deserved reputation as an experienced car scavenger. He was not the type of person to limit his search merely to automobile dealers. Any parcel of property larger than three acres was, to my father, prime car hunting territory.

We drove to said pasture to take a gander at the car. How can a car that’s been sitting in a field for two years possibly run? My ever-curious mind demanded to know. I mean, that can’t be good for it, can it?

Do you want a car or don’t you?

Of course I did, and he knew it.

Alright, then. Don’t be so picky. It’s not like you’ve got money or anything. I should have suspected something was slightly amiss, but my unbridled glee at impending vehicular freedom overrode any nagging doubts I might have harbored.

We arrived at the farm and, without fanfare, drove right on out into the rolling meadow. Then I saw the car. It was dirty and dented and more than a little rusty, but to me it was the most beautiful thing ever created.

There’s one, little thing I probably should tell you, my father said. You’re going to have to drop another engine into her. The one it has is pretty well shot. But that’s not a problem. I know a junkyard where we can pick one up for fifty bucks or so. We’ll just get your cousins and uncles together and we can have you on the road in one weekend. To my father and his family, auto repairing was tantamount to a religion. They were renowned in ten counties for their particular brand of Sunday afternoon automotive engineering. My uncle’s back yard in those days was a veritable cathedral of engine hoists and spare parts. This thing was rapidly turning into a serious family project.

To my disbelief, the engine started after a bit of assistance from my father’s car and a set of jumper cables. It became immediately apparent why the engine needed replaced. Blue smoke billowed from the vehicle’s aft, sending the curious cattle scurrying for cover. The trip back to my uncle’s house required two dollars worth of gas and an equal quantity of motor oil.

My father, true to his word, obtained an engine. The car proved to be a handyman’s dream, or nightmare depending on one’s perspective. It did in fact require the better part of a weekend to make the swap, but once the job was completed, I was actually able to drive the thing. As with many do-it-yourself projects, however, this one was not without its share of minor maladjustments.

I discovered not long afterward that we hadn’t realigned the hood quite properly. As I was roaring down one of our world famous Michigan dirt roads at 60+ mph, said hood gave in to the forces of physics, came unlatched and flew open, crashing into the roof and completely covering the windshield in the process. Needless to say, this seriously narrowed my field of vision. Fortunately, I had heeded another of my father’s highway survival tips and never left home without an assortment of hand tools. A quick pit stop along the side of the road to remove the hood and stow it in my trunk and I returned to the world of happy motoring.

Now, however, I was faced with a new set of problems. I soon discovered that one very important function of an automobile hood is to prevent motor oil from spraying onto the windshield. The car boasted a set of wipers, to be sure, but its hiatus in the field had forever altered the operating character of the electrical system. The windshield wipers and the radio worked, but never at the same time. Those times when I was able to hear a forecast of rain while motoring bode major problems regarding navigational ability. To a teenager, a working radio is of primary importance in any vehicle, so using the wipers to clear away the oil was simply out of the question.

My second problem became horribly apparent when I shopped for a replacement hood. Body parts for 1955 Fords were not found in every supermarket, so I was relegated to a visit to the local boneyard. I was now faced with the prospect of driving an off white car which boasted a blue hood, certainly a color scheme no teenager would envy. The only thing possibly worse than owning no car at all was owning one that clashed.

Still another minor oversight of the great engine swap was revealed one Saturday afternoon when I attempted to cross a busy intersection one block from my home. I released the clutch, only to have my ears assaulted by the cacophony of the drive shaft bludgeoning the undercarriage and road surface. It seems my father, in his haste to get me on the road, forgot to bolt the drive shaft down properly. The shaft twisted loose and dropped to the ground, resulting not only in awakening the entire neighborhood, but in my having to push the car back to my house in full view of the local girls. By this time, I was beginning to wish I’d kept my bicycle.

Of all the memories I cherish of this car, probably my fondest was of the day my friend Greg and I were cruising along another of our world famous Michigan dirt roads not long after a hard rain. You know, Greg said offhandedly, these back roads sometimes get washed out when it rains. You just might want to slow it down a touch.

Not to worry, I responded in complete confidence. I’ve got everything under control. This baby handles like a sports car.

Greg shot me one of those You gotta be kidding me looks. He stared uneasily at the landscape hurtling past him at a far greater speed than I’m sure he wanted. Still think you ought to slow down. We’re gonna crash, he kept muttering.

We rounded a curve