My First Car

It was in the summer of 1957, and I had recently turned 19 years old.  One part of the universal Great American Dream, at least for young men, was to own an automobile.  With this coveted purchase one could be free to roam our great country with absolute ease.  It could be used as a tool for meeting those of the opposite sex in the same age group.  It was a status symbol announcing you had arrived among those of suitable income to afford this luxury.

With the above in mind I found a 1948 Chevy sedan that I thought would suit my purpose as a traveling sex trap that I could be proud of.  It was owned by an older gentleman somewhere out on Gulf Beach Highway west of the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida.  My belief was that anyone of an older age was more likely to be more honest than those who were younger.  Although that may not always be true it has seemed to hold up throughout my life actually.

I didn’t really believe that the dirty grey color was exactly what I wanted, but it seemed that a coat of paint could rectify that in the future so I made the huge $200 purchase on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon.  The previous owner assured me I would have no problems with the ownership of this fine automobile.  After all it was a mere nine years old and as sound as a dollar.  How unsound a dollar can sometimes be I just didn’t know.

After two or three weeks of ownership I was well satisfied with my purchase, and although I had met no females with the use of this irresistible piece of machinery, it seemed to be only a matter of time until it had to happen.  After all I had the greatest thing ever devised for the purpose.

Other than that lack things went along well.  I enjoyed my experiment as an automobile owner.  I found it was great to be able to jump in my car and make a quick run to the local White Castle, or a little further away was that place where the waitresses wore roller skates as they took and delivered your order.  It was here that I found myself on a beautiful Sunday afternoon about the third week I owned my car.  I was just finishing my hamburger and fries when I spotted Dave Smith passing by on his way back from the beach.  I hurried to back out of my parking place to catch him to chat for a while.  Maybe I’d go out to the beach if anything was going on there.

In my haste I backed up rather blindly as the small high rear window made it difficult to see in that direction.  Yes, I backed right into Steve Vigh’s nearly new 1955 Ford pink and white convertible that was passing directly behind me.  I wrecked his left front fender, but did no discernible damage to my older Chevy.  I had no insurance yet, so I felt obligated to pay for the damage to Steve’s car.  In order to raise the money to pay his repair bill I sold my Chevy back to the gentleman I bought it from.  He was an honest man after all.  I told him I would buy it again as soon as I could raise the money, but soon thereafter I received orders to a duty station in Rhode Island before I ever rounded up money enough to do so.