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It was the summer of 1990. I had been living with my Uncle Tom and Aunt Jerri (yes, Tom & Jerri) and working for my uncle at his plumbing company in Beaufort, SC. His son, who is two years my junior, owned a 1967 Pontiac Firebird. Being the virile 20 and 18-year-olds that we were, my cousin and I drove this vehicular masterpiece to nearby Myrtle Beach to cruise down the main strip. Oh, what a wondrous time it was for me. The sloshing of the waves, the hint of salt in the air...the GIRLS....It was glorious. We spent the weekend there...and oh what a weekend it was...
I can't forget how many heads turned as they saw (or heard) the Firebird approach. It touched so many lives. And I simply knew that one day, the car would be mine. Two summers later, I bought the car off my uncle for $200. It had sat unloved in a field for nearly two years --shortly after our episode on the beach--, rusting away. Re-living the vision I had of Myrtle Beach, I bought several gallons of Bondo, some carburetor cleaner, and went to work.
For three years, the car was mine. And as much trouble as I had with it, being the classic car that it is, I loved every piece of that Firebird, from the holes in the floorboards, to the flakes of Volkswagen Yellow paint. And then, inexplicably, I sold it. I felt I needed the money, and gave it away for $900. Now, I am without a proper phallic symbol.
Other vehicles in my life: My truck.
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