Big Pink - 3

March 15, 2010

Although the driveway exited onto a side street with basically very little traffic, I still pulled out with deep trepidation while looking both ways; just to make sure an unexpected train with 80 or more attachments to its three or four diesel locomotives or one of those huge overloaded two trailer lumber trucks wasn’t coming right at us.

No way would they be able to stop in time. I looked both ways twice more. There was also no chance in hell that I’d remember the forward or reverse double clutch method after applying this movement only once. Regardless, mmy worries were quickly diminished when good ‘ol Big Pink’s engine stopped and drifted into the middle of the road.

Unfortunately, the inexperienced tank driver hadn’t given enough of gas to keep the slow momentum going. I hummed and prayed once more while twisting the ignition to the on position, smiling with embarrassment. Big Pink purred very nicely. After looking forward the big little engine was shifted into first gear. We were off with a slow roll. Her engine pulled with as much gas as was supplied.

Needless to say the slower than a slug movement was not even close to the rabbit like energies of something attuned to a newer Cabriolet convertible. Big Pink chugged along with diligence and determination to reach the next corner. Looking both ways, in the rear view mirror as well as forward to make sure no moving vehicle was in years of coming within eyesight, Big Pink was double clutched; we moved on.

She handled like one would think a big thing like that would handle. Power steering? Fuhgeddaboudit. One also was reminded to give plenty of time before coming to a stop, especially when little children, pregnant moms or even humans that looked like seniors with or without those walking bars were waiting on corners; white canes too.

The rest of the ride from corner to corner, street to street, one turn after the next and back to the driveway was almost uneventful. Except for a few stop and starts of the engine due to the driver’s inexperience with double clutching was concerned, the trip was a slow won.

Enough knowledge and drive time was accumulated between Dick and me to decide to ask the next group of questions. Those were, legal registration, price and how many miles per gallon did Mr. Owner know that Big Pink would achieve. All the answers were given except for the miles per gallon question. “Depends on how you drive,” was that answer. Fair enough I said; surmising that it wouldn’t be surprising if one to ten was the correct answer. We’d carry more cash.

In any case the legal papers were brought out, the price was $300.00. I thought just two of the tires without wheels or air was worth that much. I paid the man while watching if he had a sly smile or not. I figured he was getting rid of Big Pink for some reason but that one I didn’t care to know. He opened both hands without smiling like a man who would be twirling both ends of a big black and long handlebar mustache in a two handed thumb and forefingers pinch.

Dick followed Big Pink and its driver back to our house in Ross. Unfortunately the next step was to pull up and park Big Pink on our little tree lined street. I say unfortunate because everyone on that short street of old inherited and newly minted money had circular driveways. Most with tall hedges so as not to be able to view insides.

There was what the neighbor next door, a woman at the time on the local town council called a ‘driveway in the back.’ It was only long enough to park something like a VW Beetle. Big Pink was about a mile longer than those save on gas imports and too wide to navigate trees.

Dick and I estimated that she’d stick out like a bigger pink thumb about three quarters of the way across that street back there. We had a dilapidated garage that could park a baby buggy without its handle. It was built around the time every household inventor was trying to figure out how to put little combustible engines on their bicycles.

Besides all that the thing was stuffed with everything imaginable left before we rented the place. The owner’s dad even used it for a local get together place for all his buddies to enjoy the latest tub of beer brewed especially for that week’s occasion. Proof of this was further established when noticing all the pathways around the grounds were lined with upside down empty brown glass beer bottles. Some broken

Another deciding factor of our unavailable driveway is that our Norwood neighbors newer cars we were sure would have a hard time circumnavigating Big Pink’s back bumper. The only solution of course was to park Big Pink right in front of the property thereby making her the only vehicle visible on the mostly empty and quaintly quiet street.

That I did. Dicks Jag was then relegated to the driveway in the back. Something which he didn’t do most times because of the danger it would be to follow the path to the house in the dark; even with a beware of bottles sign which without moonlight would not be seen anyway. Understandable of course so now two vehicles were in view.

Needless to say when pulling into our street with no sidewalks on either side, I parked Big Pink as close to our six foot hedges as possible. Our house was on the right; at least two feet were needed to exit and enter whenever those times arose. A rose would not have been given to mme when the woman on the town council visited the next day. Without question she had the same question the day before.

“Why can’t you park this thing in your back driveway?” she repeated. Well Mrs. O, I guess if you have a long enough measuring tool or a torch, maybe you could show us how to fit this lovely vehicle in the space allotted without plugging up that dead end street inhabitants; is how I can best explain mmy most civil response. Big Pink blushed.

The whole time living in the Ross house, the better part of almost ten years, Mr. and Mrs. O didn’t care to know anyone existed next door to them. Mr. O never gave a smile or a kind greeting at any time; even while pushing his rusty, greasy lawnmower when I yelled a good day.

A few years after moving in, I did manage many games of basketball in their back yard after being welcomed by their son. Nine years later their daughter was mmy lawyer at a divorce hearing when I happened to be the recipient of glad tidings.

She so skillfully made it possible for mme to keep the house because of the two dogs that lived there well before a spousal arrival. After years of growls and scowls I was thankful Mr. O’s jean’s eventually came in handy for something.

To Be Continued: