Steven Hunley
12-28-2011, 02:05 AM
http://youtu.be/KXFMnfQVINM
Deuce Coupe
by Steven Hunley
I grew up, really grew up, in the fifties. I lived on Arizona Street just about a block off of University Avenue in North Park, a neighborhood in San Diego. My dad’s Shell station was on the corner.
Next door was a family, the Brights. Their garage was tiny, as most were in that neighborhood, built about 1915. Their back gate was next to our back gate.
They had two sons, Lee and Jackie. The boys were into cars. Lee had a forty-nine Mercury.
Jackie was only a few years older than me so we played. I’d often see him working on a car, his Levis smeared with grease, his white tee-shirt smudged where he kept a pack of Camels stashed in the rolled-up sleeve. His hair slicked-back with Brillcream, his cuffed Levis, and his black motorcycle boots.
They would always be working on their cars and eventually Jackie got a thirty-two Ford, chopped it so it would have a low profile, souped it up so it would run fast, painted it yellow with scarlet flames on the side just for the Hell of it. The first time I saw American Graffiti I was reminded of Jackie and his car.
He worked on it constantly and lived his life under the hood or on the street.
I never saw him race it but I imagine he did, out by Otay mountain, or in San Ysidro where the cops were few and far between. The family moved away a year or so later.
I did see the car perform one day however. It was years later, and my father had bought me my first car. I had to pay him back the sixty dollars for the 49 Chevy and I did, by pumping gas at his station, fixing flats, doing lube jobs, changing oil. Many tires still had tubes “back in the day” as my son now puts it. Back in pre-history, way back in ancient times.
Jackie came in my dad’s station for gas. I hadn’t seen the car or him for some time. I said hello, pumped gas, checked the tires. As he was leaving he pulled out on University Avenue. We were a half a block from Texas Street, and it was uphill. Just as he entered the street, a car came over the hill. It didn’t see him.
Even if it had, it would have been too late, it was going much too fast to stop.
I swear I could see what was about to happen.
But it didn’t. I forgot it was Jackie, and the car was Jackie’s car.
The deuce coupe suddenly accelerated. There were no tires screeching, no rubber burning, nothing but poetry in motion. It was as if the hand of God had flicked its finger on the back of the coupe and set it in motion, like a soundless shot.
A yellow blur, a flash, and it was over. The coupe did a vanishing act.
I imagined Jackie and his coupe could evade Death at will. There was no way it could touch him, he had become one of the Immortals.
A month later his brother Lee stopped by to tell me the bad news. While outside Joe’s Liquor on University Avenue Jackie heard a commotion. The place was being robbed. He went in to help Joe, a retired policeman, and caught a stray bullet. He staggered out to the street and collapsed within feet of his car. His young blood flowed into the gutter like rainwater.
He lived on the street and died on the street. How fitting.
To me, Jackie will always be the real John Milner. I’m glad I knew him, glad I grew up in the fifties, and glad I still like Green Onions.
My son even has a Booker T and the MGs CD. Life, death, livin' in the streets. How the wheel turns.
Let the good times roll.
©Steven Hunley 2011
Deuce Coupe
by Steven Hunley
I grew up, really grew up, in the fifties. I lived on Arizona Street just about a block off of University Avenue in North Park, a neighborhood in San Diego. My dad’s Shell station was on the corner.
Next door was a family, the Brights. Their garage was tiny, as most were in that neighborhood, built about 1915. Their back gate was next to our back gate.
They had two sons, Lee and Jackie. The boys were into cars. Lee had a forty-nine Mercury.
Jackie was only a few years older than me so we played. I’d often see him working on a car, his Levis smeared with grease, his white tee-shirt smudged where he kept a pack of Camels stashed in the rolled-up sleeve. His hair slicked-back with Brillcream, his cuffed Levis, and his black motorcycle boots.
They would always be working on their cars and eventually Jackie got a thirty-two Ford, chopped it so it would have a low profile, souped it up so it would run fast, painted it yellow with scarlet flames on the side just for the Hell of it. The first time I saw American Graffiti I was reminded of Jackie and his car.
He worked on it constantly and lived his life under the hood or on the street.
I never saw him race it but I imagine he did, out by Otay mountain, or in San Ysidro where the cops were few and far between. The family moved away a year or so later.
I did see the car perform one day however. It was years later, and my father had bought me my first car. I had to pay him back the sixty dollars for the 49 Chevy and I did, by pumping gas at his station, fixing flats, doing lube jobs, changing oil. Many tires still had tubes “back in the day” as my son now puts it. Back in pre-history, way back in ancient times.
Jackie came in my dad’s station for gas. I hadn’t seen the car or him for some time. I said hello, pumped gas, checked the tires. As he was leaving he pulled out on University Avenue. We were a half a block from Texas Street, and it was uphill. Just as he entered the street, a car came over the hill. It didn’t see him.
Even if it had, it would have been too late, it was going much too fast to stop.
I swear I could see what was about to happen.
But it didn’t. I forgot it was Jackie, and the car was Jackie’s car.
The deuce coupe suddenly accelerated. There were no tires screeching, no rubber burning, nothing but poetry in motion. It was as if the hand of God had flicked its finger on the back of the coupe and set it in motion, like a soundless shot.
A yellow blur, a flash, and it was over. The coupe did a vanishing act.
I imagined Jackie and his coupe could evade Death at will. There was no way it could touch him, he had become one of the Immortals.
A month later his brother Lee stopped by to tell me the bad news. While outside Joe’s Liquor on University Avenue Jackie heard a commotion. The place was being robbed. He went in to help Joe, a retired policeman, and caught a stray bullet. He staggered out to the street and collapsed within feet of his car. His young blood flowed into the gutter like rainwater.
He lived on the street and died on the street. How fitting.
To me, Jackie will always be the real John Milner. I’m glad I knew him, glad I grew up in the fifties, and glad I still like Green Onions.
My son even has a Booker T and the MGs CD. Life, death, livin' in the streets. How the wheel turns.
Let the good times roll.
©Steven Hunley 2011