Chapter 3

“Umh...”

“Wanna see it?”

“Umh...”

“Right out back,” he gestured towards a door behind the auctioneer’s podium. The podium is tall so the auctioneer and his helpers can see the whole crowd and ... hopefully ... not miss a bid.

Snap decision time... “Umh ... sure.”

1967 123 Sport. The drivers front fender was flat, the headlight was shattered and the headlight bucket was torn ... and the lower fender brace was missing. A gust of wind shook the wreck of a fender...

Mr. Parker sort of opened the drivers door ... sort of ... he leaned a knee and pushed the floppy fender in ... the door opened with a groan but not a catch. He checked the shifter ... neutral ... pulled the E brake handle. He turned the key.

Well ... shit ... it started. Immediately. No grind and pump ... right now. A minute and the idle kicked in. More shit.

I needed a car ... a red volvo would be nice ... and I really wanted a two door ... I, however, would have prefered a 1988 ... a new ... showroom clean ... a 240 twodoor.

He popped the hood. I looked.

Shit shit shit.

I was looking at an eleven year old 1967 123GT, a Model 130 with high-compression B18B engine (from the sporty P180o), an M41 four speed gearbox with overdrive, fully reclining heated seats, an alternator, fender mounted mirrors, special steering wheel, dash with a shelf and tachometer, and gauges ... not idiot lights. And not one electrical piece was Lucas.

The twin carbs were SU ... NOT Zenith.

“Hundred bucks,” he said.

“What?” I know it sounded like I was scoffing ... I was trying to breath.

“Ok ... Fifty.”

He had a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant in his hand.

“I’ll be back Monday for the junk ... I need to arrange a pickup,”

and I was driving towards the gate.

I didn’t know a damn thing about whole grain brewing, but Volvos? ... I had owned a 1964 544 Sport, a 1965 125 wagon and a 1968 140 four door. The wife drove and we had kids. Yes! I bought it.

The fender was hanging on by two bolts ... I unbolted both, laid the fender on the grass and did some five pound hammer body work. In the morning I went to the paint department at the new Walmart and bought a spraycan of primer and one of red. I visited the auto parts section and bought a pair of 12 volt headlights.

The hammer body work wasn’t awful and the red paint was a reasonable match.

In his backyard the neighbor had an eyesore of a rusted out 1950’s chevrolet. I traded a sixer of my beers for the headlight bucket and trim ring. They fit and I’d have to say the stainless one on the Volvo was better than the chevrolets.

Monday, James and I took his pickup to pick up my ‘brew sculpture.’

With lust in his heart, James asked, “Does it work?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“We’ll find out,” he said.