Meanderings: Old Cars
Every once in a while, upon finding out I like old cars, someone will say “My dad had a ’67 Stingray.” And I always respond with enthusiasm, because a 1967 Stingray is an objectively beautiful achievement in automotive design. And it’s fast and probably great fun to drive. But that’s not the kind of old car I like. I couldn’t fit my guitar and amp, or a bicycle, or a Christmas tree in one of those. I like the boxier, long and wide sedans of the early ’60s — especially Fords, and also Mercurys, which are like Fords just with a little more schmaltzy trim disguised as sophistication. Generally, each Ford has its equivalent Mercury model, since they had the same parent company. The Ford Falcon is the Mercury Comet; the Ford Fairlane is the Mercury Meteor, and so on. Many of the mechanical parts are interchangeable, so knowledge of companion models and of major design shifts is useful when you are strolling through your local junkyard. I haven’t done that for years now, but I sure used to. Almost every weekend I would be out scavenging for parts. I took a girlfriend with me out to a scary remote junkyard to try to find seatbelts for my ’64 Fairlane 500 sedan. We were met by a weatherbeaten, inbred-looking hulk of a human who silently drove us in a wrecker through endless plains of mud to find a short row of mangled Ford and Mercury corpses. I took a chrome-plated cigarette lighter from a ’65 Mercury that had obviously been in a major fire. Nearly everything was burned into a black crisp except for the still-shiny lighter sticking out of the dash. It was tough to imagine someone living through such a fire. The seatbelts definitely didn't survive. Looking back on it, I think that day was the highlight of our relationship. We got pasta at a nice restaurant on the way back, our hands still covered in car grease. It doesn't come off with regular soap; you have to use the orange-smelling pumice kind of soap. I always find it amazing that I've never had an old car while Sasha and I have been together. Those cars — my ‘64 Fairlane and the ‘69 Fairlane before it — defined me. Neither was restored, and both cars had major issues that I never really fixed (poor brakes, major body roll, a constantly-failing generator). I didn't have any money, so my choice was to get an ugly but reliable POS car (POS means “piece of shit”) or find some great deal out in the country on an old car with a high vibe factor but low collectability factor. Before Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace, rural people would park cars at the top of their driveways with cardboard signs on the windshields: “555-1941 Ask for Gene.” Often, these cars would have varying levels of abandoned, amateur attempts at restoration or hot-rodding. What you really want is a “survivor” car: one that has somehow passed the years mostly intact. The ‘64 Ford that was my daily driver came from the old man at the Firestone station. He wanted $850, and I offered him $800 because the windshield was cracked. He was totally oblivious to the idea that it might be a “cool” car. He just said he had recently driven it to the outer banks and back, and it ran like a top. (As it turned out, “recently” meant about 15 years prior.) It was all original, down to the spare tire. When I first sat in the driver’s seat, I felt complete. At least once a day, someone would comment or smile at a red light, or tell me about their old car that they loved. Or offer suggestions: “You should put some rims on that.” One time, at a Huddle House in Winston-Salem, a retired highway patrolman came to my table and told me his first car when he joined the patrol was a ‘64 Ford. He was totally overcome with nostalgia. I actually let him drive it around while I ate hashbrowns with ham and cheese, watching him go back and forth on the highway with his arm hanging out the window like a gleeful teenager. Another time, a school buddy’s dad wanted to borrow it to take his wife for a ride (backseat make-out strongly implied). She declined and it was awkward. When I moved to New York City, I sold it to a father and son who planned to totally restore it. Their commitment to the car was important to me. It was really hard to let it go.
I inherited my taste in old cars from my dad, and as I get older, I try to unpack the psychology of my obsession. I think he likes boxy ’60s cars and funky station wagons just to be contrary. He doesn’t want to like Mustangs and Corvettes or even old trucks because everyone else does. I think I like them because I’m nostalgic. Not for the 1960s, but for the early 1990s, when our family car was an absurd 1965 Ford Falcon wagon with an aftermarket four-speed crudely cut into in the floor, and big homemade speaker cabinets that rolled around in the back. Someone had spray-painted the entire interior, including seats, with black Krylon. It had no air-conditioning and the interior smelled like exhaust and vinyl. There was a bumper sticker for WTQR, the local FM country station that played my dad’s band on occasion. Dad would drive and we would talk about the things we would do to the car that we never did, like paint it. I loved that car.
I'm not nostalgic for times I didn’t live in, but as a history buff and lover of art and culture, it's complicated. Driving my 1964 Fairlane while listening to the Famous Flames might give the impression that I would also comb up my hair with Brylcreem, don bowling shirts, and toss off period catchphrases. But that’s not me — I would just as often spend a week with Lauryn Hill or Jelly Roll Morton in my tape deck. I could argue that “things were better-made back then” — you can bet that no 2020 Ford will be on the road in 2070 — but my old cars were always breaking down, so the argument becomes kind of hollow. What really pulls me to certain cars and music is a “human” element. Would Johnny Cash have survived in an autotune world? I mean, he sings SHARP, but it’s a such a vibe! It makes you listen to the words! And the tempo on some of those classic tracks really speeds up, but in a glorious, inevitable way. And the sounds: mysterious and indefinable. What is that echo they had back then? It has ghosts in it, and chicken grease. The cars from the ’60s feel human too. The connection between the steering wheel and the tires feels more immediate, like Fred Flintstone’s feet on the Bedrock road. And they look human, too — with big, kind headlight eyes and pleasant smiles molded into their grilles and bumpers. The fonts and trim for each model have a sweetness to them, and a whiff of space-age possibility. New cars feel cold and disposable by comparison. And the smell is all wrong. I’ll trade “new car smell” for hot vinyl any day.
One thing I find fascinating about old cars is the versatility within each model’s framework. For instance, a 1965 Falcon could be had as a simple and spartan base model, an upscale “Futura” sedan or coupe, a sporty “Sprint” convertible with bucket seats, a “Ranchero” pickup (which looked identical in the front but had a truck bed), or a roomy “Squire” family station wagon with imitation wood trim and a thrifty, if underpowered, six-cylinder engine. They also made a “sedan delivery” for commercial use. And this flexibility led to some interesting variants, like a stripped-down 2-door wagon with a high-performance eight-cylinder engine (shared with the Mustang, in true Ford fashion). And that’s what we had. It didn’t even come with carpet — just rubber mats that looked like elephant skin by the time we got them. When I buy an old car again, I want to find a 1963 Falcon or Comet. They are small compared to other old cars, but very roomy by today’s standards, and they have a cheerful look about them. And I could fit a Christmas tree or a big amp in the trunk. I recently ran across a cute little ’63 Falcon in Sydney, Australia, of all places. I caught a whiff of that old car funk and it hit me like the smell of an old lover’s shampoo. I was right back there.