Chapter 3

Ten years and Christmases later I was older, having just turned thirty-three, perhaps a bit wiser, certainly a lot richer, and still busting my ass at work since I had nothing in particular to look forward to going home to. I might still be the company's golden boy, recently promoted yet again just last week, but all of my most junior plant operators and young interns were each getting way more romance than I was. Sometimes I wasn't sure that this was a fair trade. That senior executive corner office really could wait ... especially since I had no family of my own still.

"You're going to be the youngest Process Manager in this plant!" my new boss, the Texas City Plant Manager, had said to me right away that first morning when I had reported in to him on my first day at this new job. "Maybe even the youngest one in the entire company, too ... and for a good reason, since I've been told that you're no-one's pampered nephew or son and that you've earned every promotion you've received. I'm sure you'll do us proud here at the ethylene oxide plant, because there're more places for you to go, even here. Fred Davis, my deputy Manager who has the office next door to mine plans to retire in about another four or five years, and I have every expectation that that job will become yours ... and probably then mine as well, in another five years or so after that. They'll have to haul me out of here kicking and screaming, I'm afraid, but when they do this well worn out chair should be yours ... if HQ in Charleston doesn't already have you fitted for something bigger and fancier elsewhere!"

He wasn't quite just stoking up the new guy; corporate had definitely been grooming me for future advancement since my very first promotion. Nearly right from the start I had earned the reputation of being one of the top troubleshooters and problems solvers, constantly transferring to new positions nearly every year wherever some process operation needed to be fixed. Bad engineering configurations, flaky process chemistry issues, overall low production output, management problems or just basket-case headhunting to turn around an operation or a process where nearly everything was going wrong. I'd fix the problem and move on to the next one ... usually something even worse, and with even higher corporate visibility. Becoming a Process Manager was a dream job, the improbable goal of an entire long career for the vast majority of our staff, but I was still apparently destined for much bigger and better things still with a long career path left still ahead of me.

Now, after a dozen assignments scattered all over the country, I was back again at the Texas City Plant for the first time in a decade, and it had been made clear, that at least for now, I'd be staying put for a while to grow some supervisory management experience roots. Here I'd mostly have to concern myself with relatively mundane personnel and production administrative issues, but our plant was also one of the very oldest and suffering from excess process failures and reduced production. It would be my job to initiate some upgrades to keep this old process functioning with as much uptime as possible while planning for new construction for a replacement process equipment in the near future, but for now the ethylene oxide must flow.

Right from the start, I thought my new boss and I would get along well. I could tell at a glance as I first entered his office that he loved old Detroit muscle cars too, and once our limited amount of official meet and greet business was concluded we talked vintage auto restoration for the next two hours. He collected mostly old Mustangs and his pride and joy was a 1965 Shelby that he was slowly and lovingly still restoring. I in turn told him about my beloved Mistletoe and her companions, the other two first generation model Camaros, the 1968 and 1969 models. I've been thinking about expanding my collection to the second generation too, the 1970 to 1981 models, but those aren't quite as hard (or expensive) to find and restore – and I don't have a garage large enough or the inclination to collect them all.

I'd learned quite a bit more about cars since Holly and the Hamilton brothers had restored my beloved 1967, and I was now able to do some of my own mechanical work, but serious body and interior work still needed a qualified professional. My newly acquired '69 was being a something of a problem-child and definitely needed much more experienced hands than mine. I'd found it in a barn in a small town in Louisiana across the river from New Orleans while handling a project at one of our plants nearby and so far I had only performed very minor mechanical repairs on her. Enough to get her back on the road, but not yet on the way to pristine restoration.

My first day back in my old home town, even before stopping by to visit my parents, I'd driven by Hamilton Motors, or rather where they'd used to be. The old garage was gone, bulldozed and part of a strip-mall now. An internet search for anything related to Hamilton and vintage cars came up zero. Apparently they were out of business and long gone. I mentioned as much to my new boss later that afternoon.

"Hamilton?" He pondered, "Name sounds vaguely familiar. I know that there is a tall foul-mouthed guy named Hamilton that works at the body shop at Deluxe Restorations in Webster, on NASA Parkway. That's where I get my parts from. They're expensive, and they'd rather sell you one of their restored cars at a premium than fix up one of yours, but they're convenient. There are a couple of specialty shops in Houston that other folks in the Gulf Coast Mustang Club prefer to go to instead, but I think Deluxe has the biggest selection of original parts in the area, maybe even the state. I'd try them first." That sounded reasonable. There are a lot of prima-donnas in the serious vintage car collector world, especially on the retail side of things and I was sort of used to this. Besides, I was now curious to find out if this was Holly's stepbrother, but I was too busy to head over there right away.

The company had found me a temporary place to live at an extended stay hotel but unpacking (sort of) and starting my new responsibilities kept me busy for nearly a full week until the next Saturday morning. That Friday night had been the occasion of the plant Christmas party for the local Texas City crew and I'd stayed late, getting to co-workers and their families. Tonight was the big executive party for the corporate regional office in Clear Lake, and being a Process Manager I had an automatic invitation with a pair of assigned seats at the big boys table. Nine and ten years ago I'd attended (with Holly) as something of a special invited guest, but now I truly belonged there in my own right.

Webster wasn't too far up the I-45 freeway from Texas City or my hotel in League City, so dressed casually in jeans and a favorite well-worn polo shirt, I decided that it was time to pay Deluxe a visit. 'Rudolph', my troublesome 1969 convertible (who was fire engine red and had a very shiny and banged up nose) had already been delivered by the corporate movers last week (as was my beloved baby Mistletoe and her 1968 fellow sister 'Dasher') and she was nominally drivable, so I decided to take her along to get a more accurate assessment of her numerous issues. Like my first visit to Hamilton Motor Restorations, my first impressions of this new garage weren't too terribly favorable.

Deluxe was to outward appearances extremely fancy, with a large street side glass showroom where they displayed and aggressively marketed their outrageously over-priced restored vintage cars. To the back side off of the street was the repairs department but I must have entered the wrong sales showroom door because it took me forever to rid myself of the clinging and rather oily salesman that rather persistently kept insisted that I needed to buy one of their already restored offerings ... and at a significant markup over their probable actual market value.

The salesman in the repairs was only slightly less smarmy and he hardly let me get a word in edgewise to explain exactly what I was looking for. After constant interruptions, I finally made it clear that I just wanted a few parts of my restoration project done here, and not an entire turn-key operation (with a blank check) and his ardor for my business (and my money) cooled dramatically.

Seeing a potentially more lucrative customer now walking in, he casually waved me off rather abruptly and told me to drive around to the back to get an estimate. Not a chance ... he'd already lost the chance to get my business, but as I stomped out of there I decided almost at the last moment to pull around into the service department anyway, just so I could check if one of the elusive Hamilton brothers was indeed working here. And if so, to casually ask how Holly was doing. Just curious, mind you.

Finding a wrench monkey to ask questions of wasn't too difficult. The moment I pulled up into one of the empty service bays pretty much everyone dropped what they were doing to come on over and take a look at Rudolph. Her body work was beat to hell, the rag top was quite in rags and her exhaust put out enough blue smoke to make anyone cough up a lung, but still she had something ... lovely old Detroit steel that hadn't quite given up the ghost yet.

The management might all be complete and utter assholes, but the underpaid staff knew a thing of beauty when they saw one, and her future potential. In five minutes the guys gave me a lot of rather good advice, including a few upgrade suggestions I hadn't considered. They gave me a verbal estimate that was about double what I had been anticipating and I still almost instantly agreed, so eager was the crew to put their loving hands upon my new baby, but I resisted. The mechanics here might do acceptable work but I didn't want the asshole owners to profit by me. I did now remember to ask about the old Hamilton Motors, and if any of the family were now working here.

"The Hamilton brothers?" One younger guy barely out of high school immediately piped up, "Yeah, I think that's them, that is there are two guys by that last name working over at the body shop, down the street around the corner to the back. Or out in the parts yard, not sure which. Management doesn't like the departments to mix much so we only see each other coming or going, or if someone's running a part, but I think that's them. The tall one, Luke said to me once that he used to have a garage of his own." Yep, that sounded like these were the right brothers!

Thanking the crew, I drove around to the body shop but found that neither of the brothers was working today. Both were part-time apparently, working weekday afternoons only.

I didn't have any reason to linger, but with the back rolling shutter doors of the rear of the building open to the parts yard due to the warm unseasonable weather (high temps in the mid-70's today), I could see quite a few lovely old vintage cars in various stages of rust and disrepair that were calling out to me to come visit them. Temptation thy name is Detroit steel! The supervisor just shrugged when I asked if I could take a wander around out back and I scampered away into the yard, which was filled with fascinated and interesting old cars that just made my checkbook itch! I was lucky to even be able to spend 20% of my salary and my savings and investment account balances were rising to frightening levels.

I found several cars right away worthy of immediate restoration but I hadn't looked around for more than a minute before I saw something else that completely got my undivided attention and interest from that moment on. I'd have recognized that backside anywhere, especially in the tight grungy oil smeared jeans that she was wearing. I'd enjoyed that particular view often in the past, and hadn't forgotten its pleasures in the slightest.

"Hello, Holly." I stated, very calmly and matter of factly. She was face down into the engine block of an early 1960's Plymouth tugging at something with a wrench. I thought for a minute that she wouldn't even bother to turn to face me, but after a moment she did and promptly dropped her wrench with surprise. Shock, dismay and then almost a look of fear ran through her face and for a moment I thought she was going to bolt off in the opposite direction but her nerves held. Her eyes remained nervously fixed upon me and her fingers began to clinch into a pair of white knuckled fists before slowly releasing themselves loose. My arrival was apparently a very sudden shock and I wasn't entirely sure that it was a happy one.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Holly, I'm sure this was a bit of a sudden surprise. I was just in the area ... again, and needed to visit here anyway. I'll go ahead and go now ... sorry again that I bothered you." I took the first step backwards and was starting to turn to walk away ... and probably rather briskly, when she found her nerve and called out, stopping me in my tracks.

"No wait! Shit! Sorry that I panicked on you and froze up like a frightened deer. It was a bit of shock seeing you again Mike. I never hoped ... thought, that you'd try to ever look me up again ... after our goodbye, that is."

There, now I could see it ... that was the other look on her face that I hadn't been able to quite identify until now. It was hope ... and now the way that her eyes continued to stare at me I could feel regret and longing, both in near equal quantities. I needed to look away for a moment myself, to blink and get my own thoughts under control. She'd been gone from my life for about a decade now but I'd never forgotten her. For me, she had always been the one that had somehow gotten away from me. All of the old feelings were now returning and now it was my turn to consider turning away while I could.

I still wanted her, now as much as ever ... and wasn't sure at all if I could handle her rejection a second and more final time. It would just hurt too much to face all of that once more and if I left now maybe things wouldn't progress to where I might become infatuated once more, yearning for something that I could never have.

All of this must have been apparent in my face as I looked at her, preparing once again to leave, muttering some vague 'sorry, must run!' or other feeble excuse.

"Please stay! In fact, I'd love it if we could just go somewhere together and talk, it's almost my lunch and no one here really gives a fuck about when I come and go anyway. Please? Can you stay?" Her plea was nearly a begging tone and there was no way that I could have possibly said no.

"Sure ... I'd like that." I replied as she walked up to me. We didn't kiss, or hug or even hold hands, but we walked together side by side out to my car. Clocking out at the time clock, she gave me wistful look and then caught sight of my current companion Rudolph.

"Dear Mother of God! How badly did you crash up poor Mistletoe and why did you repaint her?" The cross expression on her face hinted that perhaps she was now having second thoughts about having a luncheon chat with me.

"Oh no!" I hastened to assure her, "Mistletoe is as lovely as ever and parked at my hotel. She's doing fine ... this is a 1969 model that I just recently picked up. She'll need a complete engine rebuild, full body and interior work, but I'd like to do as much of it myself as possible.

"Oh." It was a rather generic exclamation, loaded with numerous potential possible meanings all up and down the scale from, "Uck, what a waste of time and money' to 'I can't wait to get my hands and wrench on her'. I opened Rudolph's passenger door for her (from the inside handle, since the outside handle and lock didn't work, nor the window, or much of anything else either) and we drove to the local Dolly's Diner in relative silence. I could see Holly's eyes roaming all over the interior, giving her the professional assessment, leaving no faults undiscovered and admitted to me with a bit of a smile that perhaps the poor abused hunk of steel might yet have a happier future ahead of her.