I had a need to teach my wife how to drive while I was stationed at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, Colorado for the Precision Measurement Equipment course (calibration technician course). So I had purchased a 1961 Rambler American to teach her how to drive. Once I bought that car, I had to begin fixing some of the problems that the car had. First, I went to a tire shop and bought four used tires with good rubber and had them mounted. Next, I checked the lights all the way around. I had to replace one headlight and all of the tail-light bulbs. That cost me about $12. Then, I started calling junkyards to try to find parts. I located an air cleaner and a gas cap. I found the air cleaner in a junkyard. The guy sold me that for $10. I picked up a new gas cap at an auto parts store. The instrument cluster for the dashboard was a problem though. I couldn’t find an instrument cluster to save my soul. Junkyards just didn’t have them. I went to an auto upholstery shop and bought some seat covers. And I went to a carpet store and bought a carpet remnant that measured 20 by 10 feet. I removed the interior seats and floor moldings, and I cut a piece of the carpet to fit the cabin floor of the Rambler. Then, I trimmed and mounted the carpet into place, and I reassembled the moldings. Next, I installed the seat covers, and then I remounted the seats in the car. I bought a jack at an estate auction for a dollar and a half. I had fixed everything but the instrument panel in the car. That was kind of worrisome and here’s why. I wasn’t really concerned about the lights or about the oil pressure gauge or the water temperature gauge or the battery. Those kinds of things are more touchy-feely. They make you feel good. But by the time they tell you there’s a problem, it’s too late. Something on the engine has already broken. If the oil pressure gauge drops, your engine is hosed. When I say the engine is hosed, I mean that puppy is hosed. We’re talking thermal nuclear meltdown, hosed. We’re talking seized bearings, thrown rods, and blown engines, hosed. That’s pretty hosed. Hell, you’ll be damn lucky if the damn engine doesn’t catch fire. Scratch the oil pressure gauge. Water temperature gauge. Here’s another touchy-feely. This one goes the other way when there’s a problem. When it goes too high, you have a problem. No shit. A big problem. Too damn hot equals no water. That equals fried engines. Usually when that happens, you see all kinds of white smoke coming out from underneath the hood. It could be the water pump went out, or a radiator hose broke, or the radiator started leaking bad, really bad, really, really bad, or the thermostat stuck, or the engine jumped timing. At any rate, you aren’t going anywhere really fast. So, scratch the water gauge as well. The lights, well, they’re only really necessary to see the dashboard at night. And if nothing on the dashboard works, why in the hell do you need to see the dashboard at night? Exactly. You don’t. If there isn’t anything to see, you sure as hell don’t need light to see it. But that gas gauge. Here’s the problem with the gas gauge. If you don’t have a working gas gauge, you can’t really guess-timate how soon you need to put more gas into your damn car. And if you haven’t had the car very long, you probably don’t have a feel for how many miles to the gallon you get. That means you don’t know the range of a tank of gas. Even if you were pretty astute and kept track of shit like that. Which of course, most people don’t. So, you’ll never know when you just might be hoofing it to a gas station in freezing ass weather to get gas. Now, I’m not saying I’m speaking from experience, but that walk could wind up being say, five or six damn miles to the last exit. Needless to say, I didn’t have that instrument cluster fixed. But there I was driving that car. Oh, I would put gas in it every now and then. But I never really kept track of how often or how much. Then, the unthinkable happened. The circus came to town. No. That wasn’t the unthinkable. Circus shows come to town all the damn time. What was unthinkable was what happened next. I bought tickets to take my wife and daughter to see the circus. The circus was set up a few miles west of Denver on Interstate 70. I drove over to where the circus was set up. While on the way, I kept getting the feeling that I should put gas in the car. I ignored the feeling and pushed on. About a mile before the exit for the circus, the car ran out of gas. It just died. Kaput. Dead in the water. It was late November, it was evening, and it was cold outside. The last exit was five or six miles back. There was no gas at the next exit where the circus was set up. And I had no clue where the next exit was beyond that. My only option was to hoof it back the five or six miles to the last exit we passed. I told my wife to lock the doors to the car after I left and not to let anybody in. I told her I would be back as soon as I could. Then, I started walking. Being an avid runner, I jogged most of the way. But it still took a long time. I had gone about four of the five or so miles when a car stopped. The driver of the car asked, “Do you need a ride?” I replied, “A ride would be great.” “Where are you headed?” “I’m headed to the next exit. There’s a gas station up there.” “Oh. Did you run out of gas?” “Yeah. About a mile before the exit for the circus.” “How did that happen?” “The gas gauge in the car doesn’t work. How does anything happen? I ran out of gas. Shit happens.” “Well, here we are. Do you need a ride back?” “Oh man. You would be a lifesaver if you gave me a ride back. Otherwise, I’d have to walk.” “Sure. No problem.” So, I rented a two-gallon gas can and purchased two gallons of gas. I told the dude at the gas station that I would bring the can back after the circus show was over. He said no problem because they were open all night. I thanked him and left. The guy in the car, put the gas in the trunk and we left. We arrived at my car a few minutes later. I thanked him for the ride and offered him money, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He told me to enjoy the show. I had originally planned to take my wife and daughter to the 6 o’clock show of the circus, but we ended up going to the 7:30 PM show. The following week, I spotted a blue Rambler almost identical to my wife’s car sitting up on blocks in an abandoned parking lot a few blocks from where we lived. I decided to go pay that car a visit. I grabbed my toolbox and walked over there one afternoon. I looked inside the car. The car had a few things I needed and wanted. I started working. The instrument cluster was pristine. I removed that first. Then, I grabbed the radio and the antenna. I didn’t know if the radio worked, but I didn’t care. I grabbed it anyway. I also grabbed some exterior trim pieces that I was missing. I put all the small parts in my toolbox, and I wrapped the instrument cluster and the radio in a towel. Then, I placed those items in a gym bag. As I was starting to leave, a couple of kids came up to me and said, “Hey Mister, what are you doing with the car?” I replied, “I’m working on it.” “We called the cops.” “What in the hell did you do that for?” “Cuz we didn’t know what you were doing?” “You could’ve asked.” Right about that time, the cops pulled up. They asked, “Excuse me. What are you doing here?” I looked at the donut peddlers and said, “Hello officer. I was working on my car there. I’m trying to get it running again.” One of the donut peddlers asked me, “What’s wrong with the car?” “It’s got a few problems. But the biggest problem is that I can’t find parts for it. So, I have to try parts from other cars that are similar and hope that they work. Some do and some don’t. The parts I tried today don’t work. I gotta take them back to the junkyard and get different ones. That’s the way it goes. But I only need to fix a few more things and then it should run.” “Well, all right then. But don’t let it sit here too long. Otherwise, we’ll have to report it as abandoned and have it towed at the owner’s expense.” “Oh yes Sir. I’m doing my best Sir.” Then the donut peddlers left. I noticed that the kids had also disappeared. Go figure. Well, I guess the donut peddlers would just have to report that Rambler was abandoned and have it towed at the owner’s expense. Life goes on. Meanwhile the kids had almost cost me severe trials and tribulations, and my parts run had almost become an exercise in futility.
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