Chick-magnet

Jim’s new car.

Every Wednesday night I eat out at a restaurant with a guy like me who lost his wife.
I met him about a year ago at a church-sponsored grief-share we were attending at that time.
He was distraught, so I thought I could help him. I too was distraught right after my wife died.
The restaurant is just east of Canandaigua, so I pulled into its parking-lot after my long half-hour trip.
Jim’s truck was not there, but the white SS Camaro pictured above was.
So I pulled in behind the Camaro, and glanced at it as I headed toward the restaurant entrance.
I figured Jim was not there yet, but he was sitting at our usual table.
“Where’s your truck?” I asked.
He pointed at the Camaro.
“You bought that thing?” I said. I shook his hand.
Jim and I are both car-guys.
“What motor?” I asked.
“6.2 liters, the Corvette motor,” he said.
A lady who eats with us, who lost her husband, walked in, so Jim waved.
“So where’s your truck?” she asked.
I hadn’t sat down yet, so I pointed outside to the Camaro.
“Oh, a pretty white Camaro,” she said.
“Not just any Camaro,” I said. “An SS.”
“I don’t know all that letter stuff,” she meekly commented.
“Actually, it’s not new,” Jim said.”It’s 2010.
But the guy who owned it before me never drove it in Winter. He stored it, like I will do. It’s a used car, but it only had 9,000 miles.”
Jim is age-70, slightly older than me. (I’m also age-70.)
I could say something about old geezers like us buying cars deserving youngsters can’t afford.
“You only live once,” the lady said.
“I’ve thought about doing that,” I said.
“I now have a two-car garage with only one car in it. When my wife was alive we had two cars.
If I had had any idea what was gonna happen, I would have made an offer.”
Right after my previous hairdresser’s wife died, he bought the car of his dreams, a red C-2 Corvette Sting-Ray, ’67, 327 four-on-the-floor, four-barrel carb, no fuel-injection.
Extremely desirable.
He had to sell his ‘Vette after he remarried.

My old hairdresser’s ‘Vette (the actual car).

Fuel-injection Corvettes are more collectible, but the old GM fuel-injection can be a hairball.
I want to drive the sucker, not repair it.
And the average mechanic is intimidated.
The reason I didn’t make an offer was because I had two cars. I had no idea where I’d store it.
With my wife gone, I’ve been thinking about a Porsche (“poor-SHA”) Boxter, the mid-engine sportscar Porsche sells.

The second-generation Boxter.

“So where do you put your dog?” the lady asked.
“That’s one consideration holding me back,” I thought.
“Beyond that,” I said; “that’s 60, 70, 80, 90,000 dollars for a mere toy.”
“I’ve been thinking of getting another convertible,” the lady said.
“Yeah, but how sensible is that,” I asked; “when you’re more inclined to close the windows and turn on the air-conditioning.
A top-down convertible will muss your hair,” I added.
“Plus if the sun is out, you bake!” the lady said.
“The speedometer on that thing goes to 185 mph,” Jim crowed.
“Where ya gonna do that?” I screamed. “And at that speed the car flies, and then flips.”
“When ya gonna take me for a ride?” his daughter asked. She eats with us occasionally.
“What is it with these old guys?” the lady asked. “Their wife dies and they buy a sportscar.
You should name your car,” the lady added. “You could name it Shirley after your late wife.”
“I bet she’s spinning in her grave,” Jim guffawed.
“It’s a chick-magnet,” our waitress declared.
“I been thinkin’ about it the past three months,” Jim said.
“I was gonna buy a new one, fire-engine red.”
“That would also be a cop-magnet,” I said.
Nevertheless, I’m glad he bought it. Maybe I should be more serious about that Boxter.
“I bet he doesn’t have his seatbelt on,” his daughter said, as he motored serenely out of the parking-lot.

• “SS” is the Chevy Super-Sport model, not Hitler’s Secret-Service. Usually it’s a high-performance motor and handling-package.
• RE: “C-2......” —Corvettes go by a letter iteration. The first ‘Vettes ’54 through ’62 are C-1, ‘63 through ’67 is C-2, ’68 through ’83 are C-3 (basically a restyling of the C-2); and from ’84 on are C-4 through C-7. All are more-or-less the same chassis — much better than the C-3 — with major restylings, relocation of the transmission in the rear of the car, and handling upgrades. To me the most attractive is the C-6, although the new C-7s handle extremely well, even better than the C-6 —The letter iterations were promulgated by Corvette enthusiasts.
• RE: “327 four-on-the-floor......” —327 cubic-inch SmallBlock V8, four-speed manual transmission with a floor-shifter. —The Chevrolet SmallBlock V8 was available with fuel-injection from 1957 on, as an option. By 1967 fuel-injection was still available, but somewhat developed. It cost megabucks, but was usually more powerful and more responsive. —Current Corvettes are fuel-injected, but mainly to meet emission-requirements. Pretty much everything is now. Carburetion is sloppy. (“Carbs.”)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost nine, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)