The Immortal
’48 Plymouth'
by Don Drewniak
We journey
back in time to a freezing winter night in 1961
during my senior year in high school. I had just
pulled into the parking lot of Fall River’s
one-and-only Sambo’s when I spotted Carl
Robinson (featured in the previously published Boh
Beer and Officer Bob) and a few other guys
standing next to a ’48 Plymouth that looked
like it had been on a front line during the
Korean War.
“What’s
this?” I asked.
“Want to
come?” asked Carl. “We’re going to
kill it.”
“What?”
“It’s
a trade-in. The engine’s shot. It’s low
on oil. We’ll open it up and kill it.”
“Then
what?”
He pointed to
some guy I didn’t know from Adam. “He’s
gonna follow us. We’ll pull the temps (dealer's
license plates) and leave it.”
“There’s
snow everywhere. How are you going to open it up?”
“Drive it
in first.”
I couldn't
argue with that.
Six of us
hopped into the clunker and headed across the
bridge on Route 6 separating Fall River from the
town of Westport. Carl pulled off onto a side
road covered with a thin coating of snow and some
ice. There were snow banks on both sides. True to
his word, he put the Plymouth into first and
gunned it. The engine was knocking, but defying
death.
On we went.
After two miles, Carl turned the car around. The
Shadow was nowhere to be seen. With the lights on
Route 6 in sight, the car went into a skid.
Seconds later, the left side of the clunker was
resting at a 50-degree angle on a snow bank. It
took several minutes to evacuate the two-door car
and quite a bit longer to get over the shock.
Other than scrambled brains, there were no
injuries.
The Shadow was
still invisible. Carl snapped off the temps (dealer's
plates) and said, “Guess we have to walk.”
Five pissed
off voices echoed through the cold air.
“Wait a
minute, guys. Let me try something.”
Three of us
boosted Carl up to the sky-facing passenger door.
He opened it and promptly slid down the seat
until he hit the inside of the driver’s door.
“I’m going to try to start it.”
Brain
damage.
The clunker
that wouldn’t die started up.
What the…?
“Hey,
flip it over,” yelled Carl, “we can
drive back.”
The five of us
looked at one another. One by one, we walked away
toward the bridge.
“Hey,
wait!”
Three weeks
later, Rubber Tyler pulled into Sambo’s
driving the immortal ’48 Plymouth.
Note: Rubber
Tyler will be featured in the fortcoming St.
Patrick's Day Massacre.
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