The first car that I ever owned was a 1953 Chevrolet convertible. Actually, I was the joint owner of this vehicle. My high school sweetheart, Fancy, had come up with half the purchase price and the car was in both our names. Although I did occasionally drive during my senior year of high school I didn't actually have a driver's license until just before I graduated. This was due to the fact that I had just turned 16 as my senior year ended. As you might imagine it was pure hell having my mom drive me on dates through most of the 12th grade. It was during the summer after graduation that Fancy and I came into possession of a primer red 1953 Chevrolet. This car had a straight six and a stick shift. Three on the tree. And a ragtop. And I mean rag. Out of necessity, one of the first improvements we made was to replace the convertible top, so that it might be possible to tool around town and stay dry.

The only accessories this car had were the radio and heater. Fortunately, both of them worked, and we were very happy to be cruising Woodward avenue in our primer red convertible. During our senior year of high school my girlfriend had somewhat of a racy reputation. She carried this reputation with her right onto Woodward where it was her pleasure to race any other car on the road. She didn’t win many of these speed duels, but she tried awfully hard. And that is how we came to need a new transmission after about three weeks of ownership. Fortunately, she was employed part-time at a local gas station, and we were able to have a junk yard transmission installed at a very reasonable price. However, this did not lessen the sting, when less than two weeks later I arrived at her house to find the car nowhere in evidence.

"Hi, Fancy. Ah, where's the car?" She was sitting on the top step of her front porch smoking a cigarette. It was just after dinner, towards the end of June or early July, and about the time we usually got in the car for our evening cruise out Woodward. I had walked the six blocks over to her house. She was wearing her blond hair loose and lightly curled just past her shoulders, the way I liked it. Although her mother frowned on any makeup, she had put on just a touch of eyeliner and a bit of lipstick. I thought she was the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. And in fact she would become the runner-up in the Miss Michigan Universe contest later this same summer. I had been thoroughly smitten by this young lady since the previous fall, when on a brisk Friday evening, while staying by candlelight at my folk's cottage, she snatched away my virginity . With the help of a bit of Haig and Haig pinch.

She was sitting on the top step and let a shy smile creep onto her face. She braced her shoulders a bit and turned towards me. She was wearing a short black miniskirt that she knew I favored, and parted her knees slightly, giving me an eye level view.

"Well, honey, I had to have it towed."

"Towed? Towed where? Towed why?" I was still at the bottom step, in more ways than one. She leaned down towards me a bit as if to whisper a reply, which caused her light summer top to blouse open a bit, forcing my eyes and attention to that valley.

"I'm up here honey, now be a good boy and look at me, while I talk to you. I had to have it towed back to the gas station again because the transmission went out."

"The transmission went out?"

"Gol, honey, you sound like a parrot. I went for a little ride after work and it made a funny noise when I shifted into second. And after that it wouldn't go anymore." She did love to bang second gear.

That was the second of three transmissions we eventually put into that 1953 Chevrolet convertible. And one rebuilt motor. But when we were cruising around town that summer with the top down it seemed to be worth every penny. And I'm equally sure that it was a great relief to both our parents that we were driving a vehicle of our own and not one of theirs. Her mom owned a Chevrolet Impala Super Sport only one year old. That Impala had the 409 cubic inch V-8 motor, famous in song and story. Fancy beat it to death on Woodward Avenue. Her mom couldn't understand why the rear tires would go bald in a matter of weeks. My family owned a 1961 Plymouth Valiant. The Valiant was one of that series of Plymouths to be powered by a slant six motor. The only way to get rubber in the Valiant was to put the car in reverse and then while it was slowly rolling backwards jam it into drive and floor the gas pedal. The Valiant was on its second transmission. I seem to recall that my dad even chipped in a few bucks to help get me into my own vehicle. A wise investment no doubt.

There was one other reason why both our parents were further relieved to see us driving a car of our own; when Fancy couldn't obtain the 409 and I couldn't get use of the Valiant she seemed to have a backup method to get us on Woodward. She would show up in an Austin Healy. Invariably she would announce that it belonged to her uncle. About the third time she showed up in a different Austin Healy I began to wonder; just how many vehicles did her uncle own? One evening the previous summer she had come bursting into the library where I was studying with friends.

"Gol, honey, I've been looking all over for you! Wait 'til you see what I have! Let's go cruise Woodward?"

Even though it was nighttime I could see that this British racing green Austin Healy was not the metallic blue Austin Healy we had ridden in last time.

"Fancy, whose car is this?"

"Gol! It's my uncles!"

"But, Fancy, last week your uncle had a blue one."

"Oh honey, I'm sure he won't mind if we use this one tonight." It wasn't until about an hour later as we were cruising through the Totem Pole drive-in that I noticed there was no key in the ignition of her uncle's British racing green Austin Healy.

"Fancy, there's no key in this thing."

"Oh. Umm. Well yes. He forgot to give it to me."

"Well then, how did you start it?"

"Gol, it's easy. You just touch some wires together under the dash and it starts."

"Fancy, we'd better have a little talk." She drove us out Woodward Avenue and then out M 59 to an old monastery called St. Hugos of the Lake. St. Hugos of the Lake was pretty much the lovers Lane in those days. I was giving some thought as to how to phrase the questions in my mind when I felt Fancy's warm hand on my leg. Turning in my small bucket seat to face her I felt Fancy's warm lips on mine. I forgot what I was going to ask. I forgot to think about the headlights coming up the small road behind us. I forgot that I was probably sitting in a stolen Austin Healy as two Birmingham policemen approached the car. The Austin Healy disappeared behind a tow truck, after the officers confiscated Fancy's jumper wires. Fancy disappeared in the backseat of the police cruiser on her way to jail. I was allowed to call my daddy. Since Fancy's mom was at work my dad bailed her out. Fancy had to do a little bit of probation for the grand theft auto. Having our own car was a good idea all the way around.

Except for the cost of maintenance on the drive train, which was threatening to become prohibitive. Towards the end of the summer our '53 was on its third transmission and second clutch. Which were now in better shape, apparently, than the engine. Because the next time Fancy banged second it was the motor that gave, not the transmission. It threw a rod right through the block, losing the oil and seizing the engine. A situation that I was to duplicate a year later. BIG OLDS. We could usually scrape up the money for a transmission, at about $100 a pop. And the labor would be deducted from Fancy's paycheck over a period of weeks. But a used or rebuilt motor was going to run three or four hundred. A small fortune to two teenagers. However, Fancy had a solution.

"I know how we can get the money for a new motor!"

"Sell your uncle's Austin Healy?"

"Gol, I'm serious."

"Okay, Fancy, where are we going to find $300?"

"Well, I know that Frank keeps $500 in the till overnight." Frank was her boss at the gas station.

"Fancy, I don't know what you're thinking and if I did know I wouldn't like it."

"Gol. Just listen. I know where the spare key is to the front door of the gas station. All I need to do is slip it into my purse when no one is looking. Then we can go back late at night, let ourselves in and make it look like a robbery. You know, kind of wreck the door and the cash register and put the key back."

"Fancy, you remember being in jail? You said you hated it. I'm fairly sure that I would hate it too. I don't think this is such a hot idea."

"Come here a minute, honey, and I'll explain it to you."

Two days later Fancy robbed the gas station. I was supposed to go with her. When she called me at two in the morning, as planned, I chickened out.

"Fancy, I've been thinking, this isn't such a good idea. We'll get the money some other way."

"Gol. I can't believe you, this is going to be so easy! I'm going, even if you're not."

"No, Fancy, listen...(click)"

When she called again an hour later from her house saying that she had the money I suddenly became much braver.

"I'll be right there."

I slipped into my jeans and beat feet the six blocks to Fancy's house. As she quietly let me in the front door, careful not to wake her mother, I could sense her euphoria. She was still high from breaking and entering.

"Gol, honey, wait till you see!" She had $500 in small bills spread out on the floor in the back parlor, in the glow from the TV set. It was more money than either of us had ever seen before in one place in our entire lives. On our hands and knees we played with the bills, throwing money in the air and letting it rain down on us. It was wildly exciting. It was erotic. Our clothes rained down on us. Some of the money got damp. We bought a small block V-8.

All the employees of the gas station were going to have to take a lie detector test. Fancy told her boss that the thought of taking a lie detector test made her so nervous that she felt like throwing up. Then she puked on him. Fancy didn't have to take a lie detector test with the rest of the employees. However, just to be safe, Frank fired her. We decided that was okay since we needed to find a different mechanic to install our new motor anyway.

The difference in the performance of our '53 was marked and noticeable. Fancy actually won a few races. We now had a 'sleeper', a car that looked stock and slow but was deceptively fast. We made plans to have it painted. Fancy made plans for us to get married. My dad made plans for me to see a psychiatrist. He seemed to feel that 16 was a bit too young for marriage and reminded me of my career path and plans to attend Wayne state University in the fall. I finally had to admit that he was probably right. Fancy did not take rejection very well, but she did take the '53 Chevy. Another pattern was established that I was to see repeated later in life. Lose the woman, lose the car.

Not surprisingly, I always had a fondness for Austin Healy's and a few years later finally bought one of my own, a 1967 and a half Austin Healy 3000. British racing green. Remind me to tell you what happened to that car, sometime. 3000 MK III