My second car was a 1978 Chevrolet Caprice. The same make, model and year of many a Highway Patrol cruiser. The following extras distinguished my sporty “Landau” subtype from your garden-variety bare-bones police-interceptor:
1) Two doors instead of four (which required slamming to close completely).
2) An extended rear window… for what reason is beyond me. Star-gazing perhaps?
3) Power-windows, -locks, -seats… none of which functioned under my ownership.
4) Primitive “cruise-control” regulated directly by the speedometer needle itself. Needle fluctuations translated to accelerator fluctuations.
5) An 8-track player stealthily hidden behind a stock Delco FM stereo tuner. Without it, my life could have been devoid of Styx.
6) Air-conditioning which may well have worked had I ever charged it with freon.
The vehicle’s rear-wheel drive and trusty 350 cubic inch V-8 power-plant was more than sufficient to climb river levees and spin donuts in church parking lots.
One afternoon, after a typical fall morning that we spent shooting garbage strewn about the river’s edge, I dropped my buddy off in front of his house. His neighborhood was no nonsense, comprised of truck drivers, garbage men, mechanics, rice mill and sugar-beat plant workers. Because my buddy had a knack for rolling his vehicles, I almost always drove. Consequently, his neighbors got to enjoy the oscillating whine of my engine whenever I started the finely tuned specimen in front of his house.
This particular afternoon, on switching the starter, while the engine turned its mandatory 10 revolutions prior to ignition, my buddy’s neighbor jumped out of his house, crowbar and crescent wrench in hand and screen door flailing behind him. He ran, well hobbled actually, across the the street toward my car.
”Pop the hood and shut ‘er down” he said curtly with only the business side of his mullet in view.
”I work nights. If I wake up ‘cuz of that damn belt one more time…”
He descended under the hood before I had a chance to get out of the car. Ten seconds later he emerged and slammed down the hood.
“Air-conditioning belt. I pried the pump over to tighten it. Shouldn’t make noise no more. Start ‘er up.”
Sure enough the whine was gone.
* * * Six months pass * * *
Accelerating down a freeway on-ramp on my way to class, I unexpectedly found myself rebounding off of the car’s steering column. My rear drive wheels had locked-up seemingly out of the blue. Skid marks decorated the hot ribbon of asphalt twenty feet behind me. Smoke filtered out from under the hood.
”What the fuck!?!” I thought studiously. I turned the ignition switch. No life. I put the car in neutral and slowly pushed the behemoth vehicle to the shoulder so I wouldn’t get slammed. I popped the hood and a cloud of noxious fumes found their way into my lungs–likely stripping a few years off of my life.
As the smoke cleared, the culprit became obvious: the infernal air-conditioning pump had seized. Its fused axle kept the car’s engine from turning. The neighbors “fix” months earlier had caught up with me. Tightening the AC belt via crowbar put too much stress on the AC pump’s bearings. Over time they melted.
Lucky for me, since air-conditioning was not a standard feature on the ’78 Chevy Caprice, the AC pump enjoyed its very own belt from the drive train. I found in my trunk a pair of antique tin-snips (inherited from my great-grandpa Leo) and cut through the connecting belt like butter. The engine started right up with a noticeable boost in horsepower. Nothing was lost since air-conditioning in my car had been long defunct.
I like happy endings.
