My great, great aunt Nell (or maybe it was my great, great aunt Bess) purchased a turquoise 1969 Chevrolet Malibu (4-door) under the dutiful guidance of my grandfather and his brother, “Pep”. All accounts paint Nell/Bess as a complete hazard of a driver–no roadside ditch went untreaded when she was behind the wheel. The nephews were more than a bit concerned that over-application of the car’s power brakes (a novelty in pre-1970s autos according to my dad), would send Nell/Bess through the windshield as seatbelts were not commonly worn.
Nell/Bess hardly ever drove the car, but in the interest of keeping it nice, she put on aftermarket seat covers. The one for the back seat fit too loosely. To keep it taut, she weighed it down with four twenty-pound cobbles positioned under the rear window, directly behind the heads of backseat passengers. So, in addition to all of the dangers that lay ahead when she would slam the power brakes, riders should have also worried about the skull-crushing projectiles that would come from behind.
Years past and the cobbles were discovered and removed–much to our family’s amusement. Pep inherited the ’69 Malibu, who then promptly smashed the front of it on a motorcyclist. In accordance with Eaton doctrine, the car was repaired as cheaply and shittily as possible.
More years past, the car resided in an airport hanger in Salinas. Every half decade or so, when it would actually start, it transported drilling crews between job sites and motels. As my sixteenth birthday approached, my dad, tired of transporting my whiny ass around, thought the old Malibu would be a satisfactory first car for me.
On the car’s retrieval, we noticed necrotic weather stripping no longer sealing out the coastal moisture. The interior reeked of mildew, the ceiling interior hung low, and to our surprise, we discovered a cornstalk sprouting out of the backseat foam-rubber.
“Oh, this isn’t all that bad; you’ll just have to fix it up a little.”
