While stationed at Fort Benning I owned a metallic brown metal flake 1968 Buick Wildcat. In my younger years, I was quite partial to big block Buick automobiles. In fact, my very first car was a Buick Electra 225. My Buick Wildcat was a special car though. You might even say that it had magical qualities or properties. I certainly believe it did. Allow me to explain. I previously posted about my car getting “lost” after returning from Columbus, Georgia one evening. The thing was I didn’t remember driving back to Fort Benning or parking my car in my commander’s parking spot. Yet, my car magically wound up right where it needed to be sort of. I say sort of because parking in your commander’s parking spot is not right where anything of yours needs to be for your continued good health and well-being. But that Buick Wildcat did seem to have a mind and a personality of its own. Here’s another hint. By the way it’s not about the car. I’ve made it no secret that I liked to go to Nichols Alley. I know that there are more than three bars that I visited in Columbus, Georgia. However, I can only remember the names of three of those bars. That should tell you something about how often I frequented those bars. I did not even have to think about the names of the first two bars because Nichols Alley was my favorite bar hands-down. It was my favorite for a number of reasons but primarily because it had the least expensive alcohol. It’s all about priorities and cash preservation. The second bar was of course Someplace Else because that is where I met Chains. If you have read a few of my posts, you should know who Chains is. The third bar I have not talked about yet. The name of that bar was the Deep Purple Lounge, which was an underground gay bar. When I first learned of that bar, I had no idea that it was a gay bar. I heard the name and I thought deep purple, and then I thought of the band “Deep Purple,” and so I thought it’s gotta be a rock ‘n roll bar. So, I checked it out. Guess what? I was wrong. But when I went into the place, I saw a few soldiers that I recognized. I decided to hang around and get a feel for the place. Nobody hassled me, and nobody judged me. I was able to drink in peace and talk with the people without being judged or without judging. In short, I was able to relax, unwind, and have fun. One of my friends from Fort Benning dated a cocktail waitress that worked at the Deep Purple Lounge. But I digress. I was talking about my magical Buick. More specifically, it wasn’t so much that the car was magical but that the radio in the car was magical. That radio was nothing fancy. Well, that’s not entirely true. You see that radio had a built-in FM tuner. Most radios back then didn’t have FM tuners. No. You had to buy those as aftermarket upgrades to all but the most expensive, top-of-the-line cars like Cadillacs. In those expensive cars, AM-FM radios were usually sold as an available option. Having an FM tuner was considered essential for people that had an eclectic music taste. I mounted an eight-track tape deck in that Buick Wildcat as well. So, what do I mean about the radio being magical? It’s kind of hard to explain really. Sit back and relax with a nice soothing beverage and let me see if I can make some sense of this. Any given night when I would trip on down to Nichols Alley and drink until I was three sheets to the wind, that is when the radio became especially magical. Back then, we didn’t have GPS. There was no such thing. We had paper maps. That was GPS. If you didn’t know how to read a map, you would get lost, plain, and simple. No two ways about it. And there were no cell phones, so you couldn’t just Google your way out of it. Nope. That wasn’t happening either. Seat pants navigation, that’s how you got there. Unless of course, your car had a magic radio. I know a lot of you are still trying to wrap your heads around that phrase ‘three sheets to the wind.’ Thanks to Google, I don’t have to try to explain that to you. You can go ahead and Google what it means if you haven’t done so already. No, the car radio didn’t work similarly to a GPS. Not even close. It was more like that little voice in your head only it was much louder. And it always seemed to know exactly the right moment to interrupt and get your attention. And it wouldn’t be one of those, “We interrupt the normal broadcast program to bring you this special alert!” No. It would definitely not be one of those. In my case it was always my name. That’s right. The radio in my car knew my name. The first time I heard it, I thought I was hearing things. But after I heard it a few times, I knew it was a magical radio. That damn radio knew my name. How in the hell did it know my name? I didn’t teach it my name. And car radios didn’t have computer chips back then. Hell, there were no such things as computers back then at least not for the average person. So, how in the hell did that radio know my name? I have never figured it out. And that wasn’t the only car I’ve ever owned with a radio that knew my name. But once I started listening to those magical radios, I have never stopped listening. The first time I heard that magical radio call my name, I was driving back to Fort Benning from Nichols Alley. It had been a long night of drinking. I cannot tell you exactly what happened, but I can tell you what happened next. I suspect the reason I can’t tell you what happened is that I may have dozed off at the wheel. I say may have because I don’t know. What I do know is I can’t remember shit. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I was driving south on Highway 27 out of Columbus and then… Nothing. Suddenly, the radio started shouting, “Wright! Wright! Wright!” I answered, “Who in the hell is calling me?” “Wake your tired ass up, Wright.” “Who in the hell is talking to me? There is nobody here.” “Wake up and pay attention to the damn road now! Wake the hell up, Wright!” Then I got my bearings. I thought, “Holy shit!” I had to pull it together really quickly. My car was in the ditch and sliding sideways at a high rate of speed. I was surprised that I didn’t lose control and roll over and flip the vehicle. I took my foot off the gas and decelerated and gradually eased back up onto the shoulder of the road. Then, I stopped. I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. I stood there for at least 10 minutes visibly shaking. I was scared shitless. My radio had saved my ass. That was only the first time, but it was not to be the last time that magical radio would save my ass. That radio knew my name, and it talked to me when it needed to. That is the only way I could avert what certainly could have been a tragic exercise in futility.
*Disclaimer – I as the author and this blog do not condone drinking and driving. While the story above does relate a story of my personal experiences that involved drinking and driving, this is being related for entertainment purposes and not as an approval of driving while intoxicated. Please do not drink and drive. Not just for your own safety but also for the safety of those around you and your loved ones. When you drink be safe and have a form of designated driver, either one that comes out with you or a surrogate like Uber or a taxi.
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