“What we need to do,” announces Rooster Croft on the first day of the third week of school in our 11th-grade year, “is to put all of our money together and buy an old jalopy and fix it up, and then take turns using it on weekends.”

“Yeah,” says Turk Mudge.  “We could get a really cool car that all the girls would want to ride in.”

“Unlike your mom’s old Studebaker, you mean?” I say.

“Exactly!” he says. “And, unlike your mom’s Corvair and the White Whale.”

The White Whale was Rooster’s dad’s big white Oldsmobile 98 that had a chrome bumper the size of the gates that were supposed to hold Lyle Pratt’s dad’s cows in the fields, if only Lyle would remember to close them after milking.

We left the Hot Bog joint, where we were drinking RC Colas and walked to Morelli’s used car lot.  (The owner of the Hot Bog joint got a deal on the sign over his little restaurant because “hot dog” was misspelled beneath the glorious neon image of the wiener on the bun with the stripe of bright red catsup and bright yellow mustard on the bun.  We drank RC Colas because they were the first company to sell 16 oz. bottles of pop for the same price that other companies sold 12 oz. bottles.)

We looked over all the cars in the front row of the lot, paying particular attention to the prices written on the windows with white shoe polish.

“How much money you guys got saved up?” says Turk.

“Not counting what’s in my college fund—and my folks won’t let me touch that---I’ve got $101, and that includes my Christmas Club account,” I say.

“I’ve got $133,” says Rooster, “and that’s because my aunt sent me money for my birthday present and I opened my card and slid it out before my mom saw the money and made me put it in MY college account.”

“I’ve got about $90,” says Turk,  so that means we’ve got a little over $300.  We’d better move to the back row.”

We walk to the back row of the used car lot, where the cars are all dusty and some of the tires are flat. 

“Here’s one,” says Rooster, pointing at an old Desoto that is listing to one side like a sailboat beating upwind in a squall.

“Nice color,” says Turk.  “What would you call that color, Jim?”

“Burnt umber,” I say.  “Or just plain rust.”

“Yeah, but it’s only 240 bucks!” says Rooster. “We could fix it up!”

“Tires are bald,” says Turk, “and, we’d need to fill it up with gas.  So, we’d have to put about 50 dollars in it right off the bat, which would be all the money we have, which wouldn’t leave much left to do stuff like paint it and put in new upholstery and buy a pair of fuzzy dice for the mirror and put flames on the fender skirts.”

About that time, Mr. Morelli appears. 

“Can I help you boys?” he says.

“This car run?” says Rooster.

“No, there’s no engine in that car.  That’s why it’s so cheap,” he says. “But, if you want to buy it, I can knock off another $50, and I’ll sell you a used engine for $120 and a battery for $15, and four recap tires for ten bucks each.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon driving around in Turk’s mom’s Studebaker. In fact, we spent most of that year driving around in Turk’s mom’s Studebaker.

                                   Jim Whitehouse
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