The Southerner Journal

NORTH LITTLE ROCK (July 4) - Today I bring to you a tale of caution in honor of Independence Day. If you read no further than this paragraph, heed the call to not drink and drive.

I must admit the idea for this first came from talking with my dad, who called one evening while I was in Monticello to ask if I knew about some cars for which he had registration receipts but no memory of owning them. The following tale nearly had him busting his seams.

One other quick note: since I’m starting from scratch, I’ve decided to skip the following tales:

• my first ride – the “wonder horse” — and the springs my legs would try to miss
• the Big Wheels, tricycles and Fred Flintstone’s fast feet
• the first wreck I had as a 5-year-old passenger in an AMC Gremlin just prior to my parents’ divorce
• my tricked out two-tone first bicycle and the fleet of bicycles I ran into the ground during my childhood
• the semi-aversion to motorcycles due to a cousin’s death
• the wreck that totaled the Driver’s Education car I was driving, though no fault of mine.

Not that it’s not relevant – indeed, it could be seen as foreshadowing, especially my dad’s comment at the time that I was hell on bicycles. He could just have easily said hell on transportation and not been far off. If you choose, look at pictures of some of that in the picture albums.

And yet, I think this tale of twisted metal best begins with my first automobile. I only plan to discuss the cars and trucks I’ve owned, except when an outside reference is necessary to provide perspective. Of course, this precludes the tales of my dad’s stolen truck and the fateful day I was a passenger in a fatal accident. But those are tales for another day for those of you who haven’t heard them.

WARNING: This may take a while to read, so prepare. I promise a few chuckles along the way, if nothing else than at the bone-headed things I did as a “young adult.”

1976 Toyota Corolla

I bought my first car from Papa, my grandfather, for $1,000. He had purchased it off the showroom floor and kept it in great condition by using a Toyota mechanic during the time he owned it. It didn’t necessarily stay that way.

At 16, I wanted my own ride. I started working at Bonanza the week after my birthday to save up the money. When I got it, I didn’t care that people couldn’t determine if it was red or burnt orange. I didn’t care that I had to put the stereo in the glove box and satellite speakers in the back window. It was mine, though at the time that wasn’t such a good thing.

Don’t get me wrong. It got great gas mileage and helped me go “parking” with a few girls. But I drove it like a race car, which was pretty tough on a 10-year-old 4-cylinder. I practiced my defensive driving skills when coming around a wet street corner on slick tires that spun me into a 360. I drove my sister and her friends to school. It got me from point A to point B.

I owned my first wreck in that car from turning left in front of a turning delivery truck. I never saw the lady passing him until I met her at the pass. It tore it up a little, but I found the money to get it fixed and pleaded “no contest” at court, which earned me probation.

The last days of the “Ope-mobile” happened during winter, when I hit a patch of ice before sliding over a curb and a stop sign. I broke the A-frame and decided it was time to trade it.

1974 Chevy C-10 pickup

I found my first truck in Gravel Ridge and even kept the spokes on the wheel since I didn’t have enough money for mag wheels. It burned oil so I kept a box behind the driver’s seat that was replenished every few months. Larry Pogue and I rigged up CB radios in my truck and his 454 SD Trans Am so we could talk around town. I even installed a loud-speaker under the hood to yell at people while cruising Geyer Springs.

I had no business at 19 driving the automatic 350 hp short block with a 4-barrel carburetor and glass packs growling underneath. Not only could you hear me coming a mile away, but I was known to turn people ashen with the way I drove. One female friend used to complain that I’d take corners to make her slide across the seat. Luckily, I didn’t have an accident on the interstate while traveling at high speeds.

Unfortunately, I had an accident in a parking lot at a party. I was backing up when a group of drunken teens walked behind the truck. I hit the breaks but nothing happened. To keep from hitting them, I backed over the front end of a Camaro and the back end of a Trans Am (not Pogues). Shaken, I talked with the owners of the cars, both of whom had been warned not to come to this party. So they “set up” an accident somewhere else so their parents wouldn’t know they were there.

Rather than test my luck with the truck, I sold it and looked for a replacement.

1972 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia

Dad found this Volkswagen and wanted me to look at it. I wasn’t thrilled at first – the primer paint barely hid the rust around the headlights. But $600 was the right price. For an extra $200, I had it painted Corvette canary yellow. Then I dropped a few hundred on a pull-out AM/FM/Cassette deck to go along with the 10″ woofers in a box we built to fit behind the back seat in front of the engine compartment.

As Mike Bird demonstrates in the left-hand picture, the Ghia’s gas cap was located next to the front windshield. The trunk sat in front of the car while the engine sat in the back. With the suspension put on a Porsche, this car sat low to the ground. (Note: Pogue’s Trans Am sits to the right of the Ghia and represents the last enjoyable attempt to rebuild an engine.) I drove that standard-shift like a crazy man. More than a few passengers yelled at me not to take the corners so fast. But I was young, dumb and bullet-proof, or so I thought.

In a song I wrote called “Obsessions,” I describe the effect of owning the Ghia as “Made me conspicuous, Hey! Look at Me!” I met Tanya while driving it, plus a few other females who thought it looked cute and I looked cute in it. I loved that car. Of course, I didn’t love the fact that the “forced-air” heating meant I’d have to drive for 10 minutes before the heater kicked in … but this wasn’t Ohio. I could freeze on occasion and learned to bundle up.

I turned 21 and started bartending at Mexico Chiquito’s, where I’d been waiting tables while going to school. After awhile there, I went out to Twist & Shout/My Generation (near where Market Street Cinema currently sits) for a fellow bartender’s 30^th birthday. We drank a lot of margaritas, so many that I had no business driving. But did I mention I was bulletproof?

I left and started driving up the road towards Rodney Parham. I should’ve stopped after running over the island dividing the lanes and the sign suggesting I keep right. Instead, I pulled out onto Rodney Parham. I never saw the Blazer/Bronco/Whatever that ran completely over the front of my car, then turned around and drove off.

I got out and looked at the front and thought, “Man, that looks bad.” I got back into the car and noticed all of the panel instruments and my stereo in the front seat. I lit a cigarette and waited for the police. By the time they arrived, I’d gone in shock – they literally had to lift me from the front seat.

Fortunately (depending on your point of view) I wasn’t charged for DUI since I was the victim of a hit-and-run. Fortunately they didn’t find the half-empty half-gallon of Cuervo Gold behind the front seat. Fortunately my sister picked me up from the police station and took me home. Unfortunately, my dad came home the next morning and I had consequences to deal with. Luckily, nobody died from the wreck or the aftermath.

1984 Buick Regal

For a good month, I had to bum rides from friends to get back and forth to school. Then Dr. Richard Jordan sold me this 6-cylander automatic Buick Regal for $1,000. I tinted the windows, installed a stereo and went looking to replace the faded, torn upholstery. I bought the entire interior of a totaled Regal, then installed the plush dark blue interior in my gray car.

Tanya and I broke up while I owned it. I don’t think it was the fire coming out of the hood when it broke down on the way to Jacksonville, but I’m sure that didn’t increase her confidence in my automobile competency. I started dating someone else and moved to Scott, Ark., to live with Joe Mathews in his grandfather’s old house in front of the Arkansas River surrounded by cow pasture.

I worked for the Highway Department to build up some money, which was a lot easier since rent was free and electricity was $9 a month, i.e. enough to keep the fans running to blow the mosquitoes away while trying to sleep. I’d let Joe drive the car on occasion, but one week while I was working around the state, he needed the car so he broke the ignition and started using a screwdriver to start it. Though I was a little upset, I figured there was no since worrying about it.

We drove dirt roads to get back to the house. When it rained, they turned into mud swamps. On one such occasion, we had a party at the house and saw some folks coming the wrong way. I jumped in the car and gunned it to get there fast and avoid getting stuck in the muck. As I turned a corner around the fence, the car started sliding in the mud, right into a cultivator. Luckily it missed the radiator, but it completely took off my passenger headlight and part of the quarter panel.

Some way we rigged a replacement and I kept driving it. I went through another engine and had to buy a totaled ‘85 Regal for its motor. We dropped the engine and put in the slant-six in a barn owned by Joe’s dad. After three days in the oil and dirt, I swore I’d never work on a vehicle again. It wouldn’t matter for this one though.

Joe and I worked at BJ’s Honky Tonk. One Sunday night after closing down at 2 a.m., the whole crew went to Night Life on Asher and University. A few hours and many tequila shots later, I tried driving home. I should’ve known better, but still hadn’t grown up by the age of 23.

I took Interstate 630 back to North Little Rock. Somewhere in the curve where I-630 merges onto I-30 North, I fell asleep. I quickly awoke to the sound of metal as my driver’s side wheels went up the retaining wall that keeps anything from dropping on the 9^th Street off-ramp. Somehow I pulled it down, blowing both left-hand tires in the process. I’d broken the A-frame, but didn’t know it.

It’s about 4:30 a.m., nobody around.

I decided since no one (self included) was hurt, I’d get out of the area. I drove down to the 6^th Street on-ramp and went the wrong way up it to a gas station that overlooks the interstate. I parked in front of the pumps, got out, walked to the pay phones, called my girlfriend, puked and passed out.

She got there about the same time as the Little Rock police. They searched the car but couldn’t find any keys (thanks to the screwdriver ignition). Since I wasn’t in the car, they couldn’t prove I drove the car. They told her they were just happy I didn’t try driving home. They were going to let me go home with her.

But I was still drunk and wouldn’t have it. I told them to call my dad to let him know I was OK. When Leroy clocked in at 6 a.m., the dispatcher said, “Corporal Sitton, we’ve got one of your boys down here.” Needless to say, he wasn’t in a good mood when he arrived. Treating me like the drunk I was, he slammed my head into the top of the car before throwing me into the seat. As we drove back over the Arkansas River, he asked me something and I responded with a wise crack. His quick backhand resulted in my bloody nose, which caused additional problems once I got home and let mom know.

At the time, I just thought they should be grateful I wasn’t hurt and hadn’t hurt anybody. I know I was grateful. But now, having a soon-to-be 16-year-old stepson who’s about to drive, I don’t understand why he just didn’t kill me. But I finally learned: Tequila and driving don’t mix.

1977 Toyota Corolla

So I had to look for another car, again. Much to my chagrin, about the only thing I could find in my price range was a 4-cylander standard 1977 Corolla owned by a bartender I worked with at Smitty’s Billiards, Bar & Grille. The best thing about this primer-gray reflection of my first car was a plastic alligator that sat on the dash – I kid you not.

But I wasn’t going to ask for help to buy something else, nor were my parents in the mood to be asked. I don’t even remember putting a stereo in it, which was the first thing I’d do when buying a vehicle. I didn’t have it long, though this time it wasn’t my fault.

One morning I was running late for school. By this time, I’d moved back to North Little Rock and lived near the intersection of John F. Kennedy and McCain boulevards. I jumped in the car, pulled out, took a left at the stop light and maybe got five blocks away from the apartment.

I saw her out of the corner of my eye, an old, old lady in a 1976 Chevy Nova, sitting on the other side of the road ready to pull out though a LOT of traffic was coming in the two lanes on her side. I tried to speed up. She gunned it, just getting in front of the cars bearing down on her. I almost made it in front of her, but she T-boned me. The force of impact broke my back axle, so the tires were askew when I finally got out of the car. I walked over to her window and apologized for not being able to get out of the way.

As I walked away, I thought, “At least it’s not my fault this time.”

1980 Dodge Omni

Papaw, my grandfather on the Sitton side, found an Omni in Harrison for $300. I didn’t have hardly any money so I was happy to be able to find some transportation.

I had it two weeks before the engine blew.

1986 Toyota Cressida

Though I wasn’t still dating the girl previously alluded to in the Regal narrative, we were still friends with benefits. She was working at a BINGO hall in Levy on Camp Robinson Road and they had been giving away cars. She suggested I come down and play. I’d actually played once before, but lost and wasn’t excited about blowing money I didn’t have. But after some persistent pestering, I was convinced to go.

We went down to the old Wal-Mart building. As I walked in, I noticed the number board and rows of tables filled with people with paint pens and bingo cards. I played a game or two for cash, but didn’t win anything. Next up was the coverall for the car. According to the rules, the card had to be covered within 58 numbers. Someone told me coveralls usually don’t happen until the early-to-mid 60s, so I only forked over $1 for my card while people around me were playing five and six cards at a time.

Imagine my surprise at calling “BINGO!” at 56 numbers.

I got up dazed and walked over to the dark burgundy/brown Toyota Cressida with power seats, automatic transmission, cassette stereo … and a sun roof. An elderly woman walked up to me while I circled the car.

“How old are you son?” she asked.

“Twenty-five,” I replied, knowing that you had to be 21 to win.

“Well I hope you notice the crack in the windshield,” she said before storming off.

Though startled at her reaction, I was too tickled to care. It’s the only major thing I’ve ever won, and God knows I needed it at that time. My whole attitude towards life improved and I decided it was time to explore.

Chuck Brouillette and I decided to meet his brother, Chad, in Telluride, Colo., to camp and possibly find jobs. We took the back seat out of the Cressida and packed in everything we needed. On top of everything we placed a circular pad where we’d sleep while taking turns driving the 26 hours from Bunkie, La., where we’d visited Chuck’s uncle Marshall. The windows featured tempera-painted scenes that provided sun blocks when sleeping and examples to show shop owners who’d let me paint their store-front windows.

The only thing bad to happen with that car was putting a hole in the gas tank while driving up a mountainside. Gas In town cost $3.45, which seemed astronomical to someone used to paying $1.79 in Arkansas. I’d just filled up and watched a trail of gasoline follow us back to camp. I parked on a slope to keep the rest from emptying. The next morning I hitched a ride into town to pick up an epoxy that turned as hard as steel when applied. I got back to camp, patched the hole and never had a problem with it again. Using Telluride as a base, trips included:

• Las Vegas to see the Grateful Dead, but it was so hot that water in my bottle burned my tongue after walking around for a few minutes. I left and headed for the Utah border; as I crossed the state line a temperature sign said 117 degrees, and it was about 7 p.m.
• the Grand Canyon, getting in about sunset and missing the tolls. I parked where boaters parked their massive yachts. I slept in the back seat, got up in the morning and walked the Canyon’s south rim.
• Denver to meet my parents who were attending a Shrine convention. From there, I drove north through Wyoming to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park into Montana then west through Idaho to meet a friend in Seattle. I spent a week then returned by way of Arches National Park in Utah.

I don’t know how many miles I put on that car that summer, but I easily got my $1 worth.

I probably should have kept the car since I won it, but the trip convinced me that I needed something that could haul things around. The trip also convinced me to return to school, which took my money at a priority higher than that of a new truck. I’d made up my mind; I needed a truck.

1992 Toyota Extended Cab Pickup

Papaw found a truck with 75,000 miles in Harrison for $1,200. At first I was nonplussed due to the dirt caked in the floor and the broken seats from the big man who’d previously driven it. But money only goes so far and I was ready for a truck.

Couldn’t find pickup seats, so I bought car seats for $50 from a salvage yard and installed them. Installed a stereo and cleaned up the inside so it was passable. I drove back and forth to Knoxville in that truck for the first few years of working on my doctorate. Never scratched it, though I did get a ticket for speeding on the way back to Arkansas one night.

I knew I was in trouble when I saw the light next to the driver’s window throw a beam across the interstate to focus on my white truck going downhill fast after passing a line of cars. But you can’t outrun a CB radio, so I pulled over as he swung into the median only to face a line of motorists. I waited.

After a few minutes, he pulled up behind me, then walked up to the passenger’s window. All of my windows were open, which I sometimes did to keep awake on an eight-hour drive.

“You had this thing wound up pretty good, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

“No, sir.”

He proceeded to tell me, then let me know that the only reason he wasn’t writing a reckless driving ticket was the fact that I’d pulled over and didn’t make him chase me. That was the best $150 speeding ticket I ever paid.

The only blemish on the pickup came on a trip home one weekend. A businessman hit my front quarter panel just before we reached the I-630 onramp, almost directly across from the area of my wreck 10 years previous. He didn’t want to wait for the police to arrive. I sincerely thought he meant his spiel until I tried to contact him later that afternoon at the number he provided. It and the house number he’d provided were a lie. I decided karma may be repaying me for past wrongs.

The truck finally died one summer before I drove back to Knoxville after more than 250,000 miles. As far as longevity, it’s the best purchase I’ve made to date.

1996 Dodge Dakota Sport

Mom and Dad knew I didn’t have the money for a truck while working on my doctorate. I’d gone through two degrees without owing anyone a dime, but this final step caused me to take out student loans just to focus of finishing the task I’d encountered.

They surprised me with the green truck with 75,000 miles, tinted windows and a Razorback antenna head. I added a big orange T for Tennessee on my back window since I was attending. I bought my first CD player for this truck and two Kenwood 6×9s for the back. I got a toolbox for the bed. I really, really liked this truck, which was more comfortable than the Toyota (though probably my fault for not finding Toyota seats).

A year before I finished school, I took a job at Muskingum College in Ohio for money while I tried to focus in and complete the dissertation. On a trip back from Knoxville, I encountered a bad snowstorm. By the time I turned east from Columbus, it was nearly impossible to distinguish the lines for lanes. Just outside of Zanesville before I reached New Concord, I ran off into a snow drift in the middle of the interstate when I lost control on the snow. For the first time in my life, I finally owned a cell phone after resisting joining the revolution for nearly nine years. I used it to call the police who came out and gave me a tow out of the median and a ticket for driving too fast for conditions.

I kept the truck for a few more years, including moves back to Tennessee and back home to Arkansas. I met Tanya again while driving it. It about gave up the ghost after moving me to Monticello. I liked it, but it fell an easy 1,000 miles short of the Toyota standard.

1999 GMC Sonoma

I went to a dealership for the first time to buy a car from my brother Chuck, who set me up in a GMC Sonoma extended cab. For the first time in my life, I had a car payment. I didn’t necessarily want payments, but I didn’t have any cash to purchase anything after spending money to move. Unfortunately, my credit was great.

I put a CD player into it, took off the rails and put in the toolbox off the Dodge. The mag wheels the previous owner put on it didn’t line up great, so I had to get original rims on it to run better.

I owned it maybe six months, during which time Tanya and I got engaged. We planned to take Trevor to the Arkansas-Illinois basketball game at Alltel Arena. He sat sideways behind Tanya’s seat. Traffic slowed as we started to cross the I-30 bridge to North Little Rock. I looked in the mirror in time to see a lady behind us say “Oh shit!” just before she plowed into the bed of my pickup.

The impact pushed my truck under a 4X4 Dodge Ram. While the other two cars seemed scratched, the radiator landed in my truck’s engine block, the tailgate and bed bowed, and Tanya, Trevor and I bent but didn’t break. The insurance company totaled the truck, but the woman who hit me disappeared – apparently, she hadn’t paid insurance in a few months. So I didn’t get a settlement for my truck but I did not have to make payments since it was totaled.

I prayed for no more wrecks, got married two weeks later and looked for a family car.

2004 Chevy Impala

Just before New Year’s, my brother Chuck found me a gold Impala at his new job running El Dorado’s Teague dealership. I drove down to pick it up and fell in love with the look and the power of the engine. When I stopped at a Sonic for a coke, the carhop felt compelled to tell me she liked the car.

It was big enough for a trip to North Carolina with plenty of room. It could run like a scalded dog. I loved it. Owned it a year and a half, then gas shot above $2 a gallon and never came back. Considering I make a 100-mile commute one-way, I couldn’t afford it plain and simple. Though I hated giving up the closest thing I’ve ever had to a muscle car, I needed something economical.

2006 Toyota Prius

After a lot of thought, I bit the bullet and decided to shoot for long-term benefits. I knew I was going “upside-down” by trading the Impala, but I couldn’t figure out how we could make it if gas kept rising. (It hit $4 for regular unleaded here the other day.) So I went really upside-down and bought a car “brand new,” which is probably not the best idea since new cars lose their value the moment you drive them off the lot.

I’d originally wanted a hybrid when I bought the Impala, but Chuck said I’d have to put my name on a year-long-waiting list since the hybrids stayed on the lot less than a week at best. But when I called him in mid-April 2006, he just happened to have one on the lot.

I’ve written about it for the Arkansas Free Press. I love it. We’ve already taken it coast-to-coast, i.e. to the Oregon coast down through the Redwoods and back, to North Carolina and back, and to Orlando and back a few times.

But it makes me smile every time we can drive a full tank of gas at more than 50 miles per gallon. Of course, that takes laying off the gas and driving 55-58 on the highway. By getting instant feedback, I’ve even got more than 60 miles per gallon on a day-trip to Crossett and back to Little Rock. It’s translated into the driving habits I use while driving Tanya’s pickup, which I seldom take over 70 anymore. Considering my driving history, it’s probably a good thing I slow down.

At last count, I’ve owned 12 vehicles in over 23 years of driving. Though not intentional, that’s averaging a car almost every two years, skewed from the one year where I owned three or four, can’t remember which. In 39 years of living I’ve been involved in 11 wrecks, four of which were my fault.

Thank God for seatbelts.

If you refuse to wear one, perhaps someday I’ll tell the tale of the deadly wreck, in which I was only a passenger. But tonight Tanya chides me for spending so long writing about old stuff. I tell her I’ve already made sure the statute of limitations has run out. She smirks and returns to her book

This entry was posted on Friday, July 4th, 2008 at 11:43 am and is filed under Arkansas Traveler. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.