A kid around eighteen or nineteen nervously looked for a place to park that wouldn't require backing out his 1962 Mercury Comet had blown its reverse gear on the way to the show. The hood was missing, and the windshield was cracked. But it was his first car, and he had put in the motor himself. I caught him looking at the Comet as if it were a pinup girl, and I knew. The disease had hit him early. He was a "car guy."
I'm a car girl by marriage. At car shows, I look for fat cars with bulbous lines, whitewall tires, and running boards. I fancy cars with "faces." When I was a child, black Buicks reminded me of Louis Armstrong, and anything with a red leather interior was Marilyn Monroe. I am always looking for one that reminds me of heartthrob George Clooney. When I find it, I'm buying it.
The Rolling Sculpture car show returns downtown on Friday, July 11.
[Originally published in July, 2003.]