The Ghost of a 57 Chevy
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The Ghost Of A ’57 Chevy free porn video
The Ghost of a ’57 Chevy
Janet Fremont
You drive east from Lexington – not on the interstate, but on the old Kentucky state highways and smaller county roads – on past Stanton and Hazard and Pikeville, on past the tiny towns and the even smaller places that used to be tiny towns before the mines closed or the new roads bypassed them or maybe just the ones where all the younger people left and the older ones finally died. You drive on into the true rural part of the state, into the mountains with their hidden turns and sharp ridge lines, their forested slopes and secret hollows. You pass the ruins of old farms and occasionally a newer place bought by some city folk who thought they would like to live out here in the middle of nowhere. At least, until they actually did live here. You see a lot of things that you would never see if you stayed on the big roads. Some of them make you feel happy. Some of them make you feel sad. And some of them – a very few – make you feel something you can never really describe.
Don Carson pulled off I-64 somewhere east of Lexington and turned into a gas station. He got out, removed the gas cap and began to pump the fuel into his tank. While it was filling he looked around. This seemed as good a place as any to leave the big highway and start off on the smaller roads. He glanced inside the little Ford, checking that his camera was on the passenger seat, ready for immediate use.
Don was a finance officer for a small firm in Louisville. A very good finance officer. But for this week he was on vacation. It was a clear, hot August day and he had exchanged his suit for an open neck shirt and jeans and planned to spend a few days traveling through the eastern part of the state pursuing his hobby of photography. In reality it was more than a hobby. A passion, actually. He had made these trips before, capturing photos of interesting things in the rural back country of the state. He had even won a couple of awards for his work.
In general, Don liked to photograph still objects. Sometimes just landscapes, but most often with some old man-made works included. He had one shot he had taken of a house located back into the edge of the mountains. It was obvious the place had not been occupied in a number of years, the paint already gone or at least peeling. It once must have been a nice house. Frame construction, two floors, a wide porch both front and back. Now it stood alone and forlorn, long grass and weeds filling the yard, a rusting swing set in the back. One swing hung on its rusty chains, ready for use but the other hung from a single support, tilted onto the ground. A large barn was visible, its loft door open to the elements, its red paint faded along with the ‘Mail Pouch Tobacco’ sign painted on its side. Looking at the scene, one could almost see the children playing on the swings and hear their excited laughter. Now only the ghost of their image remained and one was left wondering what had happened. Did they just grow up and move away? Did some tragedy forever alter their life? It was impossible to tell, but the house still stood as silent testimonial to the earlier times.
Occasionally he would include people in the photo. A year ago he had been driving back in the hills on a Sunday afternoon in July. As he rounded a bend in the road he suddenly saw another typical rural house. This time it was in fairly good repair and there were people in the side yard. A couple and their three children: two boys and a girl. The oldest, a boy, was perhaps ten or eleven, but what caught his attention was that they were making homemade ice cream with an old fashion hand crank freezer. The three children – even the small girl who could have been no more than five or six – were taking turns sitting on the tub and turning the crank. It looked like a scene from fifty or more years ago. Don stopped, and after talking with the parents for a few minutes, got permission to take a few pictures. They asked if they could see them or maybe even buy a copy and he said he’d definitely let them know. When he had processed and printed the photos, he made a nice 11 x 14 of the best one and framed it and sent it to the family along with smaller copies of the others. He got back a very nice letter thanking him. He thought this was probably the only non-snap shot picture the family had ever owned. The whole thing had given him a very good feeling. The shot he had considered the best won him an award which now hung on his wall at home.
But perhaps his favorite photo had no people in it at all, On a small county road outside a nearly abandoned town was an old drive-in theater. It was clear it had not been used in years. There were a few small holes at one side of the screen, grass grew in clumps among the abandoned speaker posts and the concrete block refreshment stand presented a couple of cracked windows. Such old drive-ins were not uncommon throughout this part of the state but what made this one unique was what was located just behind it. Here was an auto salvage business – a junk yard – with the shells of old cars. The business had evidently run out of storage room and since the drive-in was not in use, had moved some of their vehicles into the back row of the theater. In a line were a half dozen cars, all of 1950s to 1960s vintage, lined up as though they were watching the movie. Don had looked at this row of cars and could imagine a family in the ’59 Ford, a couple in the ’53 Chevy, and, in the ’60 Dodge, he was sure there would be two teenage couples, neither watching the movie. Probably the ones in the back seat wouldn’t even be visible. He smiled to himself and positioned his camera behind the row of cars with the refreshment stand and the screen visible beyond them.
He had a large black and white print of this one hanging on his wall. Every time he looked at it he could see the ghosts of the people inside the cars and to him the cars themselves no longer looked like junkers, but rather as they had been.
Beside photography, Don had an interest in older cars. He never knew just where he got his passion for photography but he was pretty sure where his interest in older cars had originated. Don had an uncle and aunt – Fred and Mary. Fred was his father’s brother, ten years older than his dad and thirty-five years older than Don himself. His father often said that if anyone collected wool from his family, they would only get black from Fred. Fred and Mary weren’t really black sheep, but they were a little more wild than the rest of the family. From about the time he was fifteen, Don had found them a fantastic source of stories of a type that would appeal to a teenage boy.
His favorites were about Fred’s old Chevy and his and Mary’s adventures with it. Fred had bought a ’57 Chevy Bel Air his senior year in high school which was 1962. It had needed a lot of work but Fred did most of it himself and by the time he graduated the big 283 V-8 engine was running perfectly and he had repaired and repainted the body so it looked almost new. He and Mary had been going together for over a year when they graduated and they decided to celebrate by taking a trip out west in the Chevy. They spent six weeks, traveling the western states and parks, camping or even sometimes just sleeping in the car.
When Don had heard this story the first time he had been nearly seventeen. Fred and Mary were both fifty-one at that time but both, especially Mary, looked much younger and were still very active. When they began telling about their trip, Mary had pulled out a scrapbook with pictures. Looking at her photo, Don decided she must have looked fantastic at eighteen. She was tall, about five-eight, with blonde hair which hung down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were still a deep blue and in almost all of the photos she was wearing either a skirt which came only to mid thigh or some of the shortest shorts Don had ever seen. Her legs and ass were everything a teenage boy could imagine – or dream of.
From the stories his aunt and unc
le told about their trip he guessed that they shared more than camp chores. He felt sure they had only used one sleeping bag although they never said so directly. Still, some of the tales they told him made it pretty clear that it wasn’t a platonic relationship. After the trip they had gotten married and, from what he could see, were still as interested in each other – both romantically and physically – as they must have been at eighteen.
They told him other stories, many involving the ’57 Chevy. This car had become an automotive icon. The distinctive tail fins, the chrome. Not to mention it had the first of the big block V-8 engines Chevrolet had put in an auto. Fred had the largest, the 283 cubic inch, and with the light weight car, it provided unparalleled acceleration. While Fred didn’t actually compete in drag racing, he was quick to point out the ’57 Chevy quickly took most of the records, although often they were later refitted for racing with the bigger 409 or other large V-8 engines.
Because of their stories – or for whatever other reason – Don had developed a keen interest in older cars. In high school he was sort of a nerd, serious in his studies and not really into much in the way of outside activities, so his interest in old autos was more academic than hands-on. When he decided on a career in finance and went to college, it was much the same. He did date but never found the right girl, then or after, and thus remained single. Often he got to feeling that maybe he had missed the excitement he should have had when he was eighteen or twenty, but felt it was now too late to recapture it.
But he still dreamed about the old cars. He would love to own one, restore it. Especially a ’57 Chevy. But he knew he lacked the skills to rebuild one, either body or engine, and couldn’t afford to pay others to do so. A restored ’57 Chevy could go for seventy-five to eighty-five thousand dollars or even more. Collecting old cars was a hobby for those with much greater financial resources than he had, so he tried to content himself with taking their pictures.
Now it was August and he was taking a week off. The firm had insisted – they wouldn’t let him accumulate any more vacation days. He had nowhere in particular he wanted to go, nothing special to do. Clear, hot weather was predicted for the next several days. He had decided to spend the time driving through the eastern mountains of the state and taking pictures. Who knew? He might find another award winning scene.
He put the gas cap back on and took his receipt from the pump – he hadn’t spoken with a human gas station attendant in years. Getting back into the little Ford, he glanced at the map and instead of getting back onto the interstate, he turned onto one of the smaller state highways heading towards the southeast.
The little car was air conditioned so despite the hot August sun beating down, it was quite comfortable inside. He drove on for several hours, stopping for some lunch at a small restaurant before starting up into the mountains. He had never been in this part of the state before. He generally tried to find new locations on these photographic expeditions.
The state highway had given way to smaller roads. These had led him through a tiny hamlet, now mostly abandoned. Only a few houses looked to retain their residents and only a few single stores remained open. From the looks of things he guessed that there had been a small mine which had probably become unprofitable and been forced to close. Those who still remained in the town probably had nowhere else to go.
The small road he was following crossed another which at one time had been a state highway until the state road had been rerouted. Near the intersection he saw a sign, now old and faded, advertising a motel. In another half mile he saw the entrance. Six small individual cabins with a slightly larger office-residence combination. Instinctively he looked around for a possible photo and then his gaze froze, locked onto the vision in front of the office.
He pulled into the lot and parked near the office. Getting out, the hot air hit him like a solid thing but he hardly noticed. Slowly he moved over to the item which had originally caught his attention. Yes, it was real. A ’57 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It looked like it might have just come from the showroom floor, clean and polished, its candy apple red paint shining in the sun. He looked into the window and saw seats in nearly new condition, not a stain or cut in the fabric. The dashboard was pristine, the windows sparkling with no hint of chipping or even abrasion. But the thing which made the biggest impression was the small, hand lettered sign in the window. It read simply ‘FOR SALE.’
What in the world was this car doing out here in the middle of nowhere? It seemed very unlikely that anyone who owned such a car would be living out here and even less likely that any potential buyer might happen along in this remote location.
Don slowly walked around the vehicle, examining each detail. The tires even looked almost new. Slowly he reached out and opened the hood. The big V-8 stared back at him. Looking more closely he saw that not only was it the big 283 but it was the fuel injected model. That year Chevy introduced the first fuel injected engine and produced the highly wished for ‘horse power per cubic inch.’ This would perform better than anything else in its class.
Still in a state of disbelief, Don closed the hood and again circled the car before heading over to the office. He had to find out what this was doing here. Inside was a desk with a small bell but no one visible. He rang the bell and after ten or fifteen seconds a man appeared from the back room. He was probably in his eighties, short and white haired. He moved to the desk and asked, ‘Can I help you?’
Don replied, ‘I was just wondering about the ’57 Chevy outside.’
‘Yes,’ the man said. It belonged to my son but he went and got himself killed. I won’t be driving it now, so I thought I’d sell it.’
‘I’m sorry about your son.’ He hesitated a second. ‘How much are you asking for it?’
‘Five hundred,’ the man replied.
‘Five hundred! It must be worth a hundred or hundred fifty times that much.’
The old man looked at him with a somewhat sad expression on his face. ‘It might be. Probably is. But it wasn’t mine and I have no use for it. No real use for a lot of money either. And when I see it there it reminds me of him. If it were just up to me, I’d probably just scrap it but I know it meant something to him and that he would want it to mean something to someone else. Five hundred will make me happy. You interested?’
For a few seconds Don couldn’t even reply. He’d never be able to afford this car at its real value. In fact, he’d probably pay five hundred just to rent it for a few days. He looked up at the man and finally said, ‘If you are serious, I would love it.’
The man reached across the desk and offered his hand. They shook and then he said, ‘Let me get the papers.’ He disappeared into the back room for half a minute and then reappeared with an envelope. Inside was the title and registration. When Don looked at the registration he saw that the last time it had been licensed was in 1985. He looked up and pointed it out to the man.
‘That’s right. That was the last time he drove it, but I’ve run it every month or so and when I decided to sell it, I had a friend come over and check out everything. It’s in good shape. All you need is this statement.’ He pointed to one of the papers. ‘That says it hasn’t been driven on the road since then. I checked with the DMV to be sure.’
Don read over the form and saw that what the man said was correct. He smiled and nodded. While on a trip like this, Don usually used a credit card for most expenses, but he had found that in some remote areas this didn’t always work. So he carried about nine hundred dollars in cash with him. Now he removed ten fifty dollar bills from his wallet and handed t
hem to the man
The man smiled, handed him the keys and the signed transfer on the title. Again he reached and shook hands. ‘I hope you are as happy with it as my son was.’
Don was still almost in a state of shock but he managed to say, ‘I’d like to take it out for a little while but I need to leave my other car somewhere until I can get back for it. Would that be OK?’
‘Sure. No one will bother it here. It can stay here all day or all month or as long as you want. Just leave it parked somewhere out front.’
Still almost in a state of shock, Don went back outside. First he pulled his little Ford over to the side of the lot beside one of the ancient cabins. Looking around he could see that none of them were being rented any more and, in fact, looked like they had been closed up for at least a few years. He took his camera, locked the little car and made his way back to the Bel Air, still not quite believing it was his.
The thought came to him that he hadn’t even started the car, much less driven it before he bought it. Still, he reasoned, even if it wouldn’t run at all, it was worth a lot more than he had paid for it. With this thought in mind he climbed inside and closed the door. For long seconds he remained still, just looking at the panel and controls. At last he put in the key, pressed down on the clutch and turned the switch. The car caught almost immediately and the low rumble of the big engine settled into a deep, purring roar.
He let it idle for nearly a minute, watching the gages. This model had been fitted with a tach, an oil pressure gauge, and an ammeter. His uncle had told him that wasn’t standard but evidently this owner had added them. He moved the shift lever into low and slowly let out the clutch. The car moved, feeling as though it wanted to run, not crawl. Smiling to himself he headed to the lot entrance and pulled out onto the road.
The car responded beautifully. Steering was tight with no slop. Shifting was smooth. And the acceleration… This car was designed to RUN. Suddenly he thought to glance down at the gas gage to find that the tank was only about an eighth full. A 1957 model – especially one with an engine like this – would drink a lot of gas. He decided the first thing he should do was find a gas station. He remembered one near a town he had passed through a little earlier and headed in that direction.
The car ran like a dream and when he pulled in beside the pump and turned off the ignition, he couldn’t seem to get the smile off his face. He got out and was happy to see that these pumps did take credit cards. He used his and started the fuel flowing into the tank.
While he was standing there he was suddenly aware that someone had come up just behind and a little to his right. Before he could look around, a pretty voice said, ‘Nice car, Mister.’
He turned to see who had spoken and for just a second the thought flashed through his brain that it was his Aunt Mary, now eighteen again. The girl was about her height – probably five seven or five eight. She had deep blue eyes and corn silk blonde hair which fell most of the way down her back. She also had a shape that made his eyes freeze and seemed to constrict his throat. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt, the top two buttons open and the tails tied beneath her breasts, leaving several inches of bare midriff between it and the cut off jeans she was wearing. Cut off as short as any he had ever seen, they made Daisy Duke’s look long. She had athletic shoes, but no socks, on her feet. And she filled every cubic inch of her clothes to perfection.
After what seemed an awfully long delay, Don managed to say, ‘Thank you, I just bought it.’
She moved a little nearer and let her hand slide over the polished surface, seeming to caress the vehicle. She looked over at him, a lovely smile on her face. Don noticed she wore no make-up and also that she didn’t need any. She let her hand slide over the car again and said, ‘I love cars like this. Wish I knew someone who had one.’
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