A Quick Drive Down Memory Lane...

I just got back from the discount gas station.  I filled up my car for a nice, round $92.00.  Or, roughly twice as much as my previous record for a fill-up.  And not in a muscle car.  Making California the place where people go broke who don't wish to walk.

And while there, I stuck a credit card in the pump, took out the nozzle, put it in my car, pumped it full, and then took the nozzle out and returned it.  Oh, and checked my own oil and washed my own windows.  Mine was the labor that served me that day.  Making me wistful for the "Good Ol' Days."  And giving me cause to write this blog posting.  So sit back, grab an adult beverage, and take a quick drive with me down Memory Lane to learn what it was like in my storied yout ("What's a yout?")

I hate those people who start their blog postings with, "Back in the good old days."  But I'm going to start this posting with, "Back in the good old days," because the days were good back then.  And simple. And enjoyable.  And inexpensive.  And fun.  Unlike my visit to the local gas station I recalled above.  Which was expensive, noisy, smelly, and required of me to work for myself without pay.  In other words, awful.  

When I was young and dumb and a little bit crazy, I lived in a little Midwestern town where the only source of fun with our pants on was driving our muscle cars up and down the 4-lane highway.  We had two fat cops in 6-cylinder Plymouths, and one State Trooper named Dick Defreece in a light blue Dodge.  And when things got dull we'd do a burnout in front of one of them where they could see us, they'd chase us, and then we'd outrun them.  

Just for fun.

The 4-lane in our town was about 6 miles long.  And we'd go from one end to the other, flashing our lights at our friends, and maybe giving them a little beep from our horns.  And God help us if we failed to flash or honk.  They'd think we didn't like them anymore, and it could end in a fistfight.  We'd then turn around, rev our engines, dump our clutches and lay a yuuuge strip of rubber as we ran up through the gears.  Getting some scratch each time we power shifted. And then we'd do it all over.  

And when we ran out of gas, we'd pull into the local Phillips 66 station or Citgo station or Sunoco station or Mobil station to get some more.  Push juice.  Motion lotion.  And it was a pleasure.

Because back in those days, there was an old guy in a denim jumpsuit who'd come out to serve us when he heard that ding-a-ling from the hose.  The one that occurred when you ran over the ring thingie.  He'd ask how he could help us.  We say, "Fill 'er up!"  He'd then start the gas flowing.  Alway Hi-Test, 93 octane to be sure.  (Which is no longer available, BTW).  He'd then check our oil and the air pressure in our tires, and wash our windows.  All around.  By then he'd be finished pumping gas.  We'd give him our credit card  or tell him to charge it to our account, and then make our way back on to the 4-lane to do it all over again.  

Happily.

Because back then there was a "GAS WAR."  The various gas companies were in competition with each other for market share.  Mobil was trying to undercut Sinclair, and Shell was trying to undercut Phillips.  The essence of capitalism.  So they'd each keep on lowering their prices to capture our business.  They'd keep doing so, a penny at a time, until they reached Rock Bottom.  I recall the least I ever paid when that bottom was reached.  Are you ready?

            $19 CENTS A GALLON! 

Imagine filling up a 409 Chevy or a 427 Ford or a 426 Plymouth for, ummm, $4.00?  We did it.  And thought nothing of it.  I'm so sorry those days are behind me.  Be advised "change for the sake of change" is not necessarily a good thing.  No, not at all.  Not when you're filling up for $90.00.

Sometimes we'd fill up two or even three times a night.  Our driving only broken up by an occasional trip to the Dairy Queen.  Where we'd back into a parking space next to one of our friends in some other delicious car, and then open our hoods so everyone could see our massive motors.  All dressed up with a cromed this and a chromed that.  Boy, were we proud of ourselves! 

I remember we had a farmer named Terry Smith.  He had a 1963 1/2 Ford Galaxie Lightweight.  Its fenders and hood and trunk lid were all fiberglass and its windows were so thin they were barely there.  This was all done to make it so light he could win drag races against the hated Chevy 427's.  He'd drive into the DQ with his car on a trailer and then park it so all could drool.  I wish I knew then what I know now as that car is now worth a cool $250,000 on the collector market.  

But then again, my 409/409 Chevy Impala Super Sport, 4-speed, posi-trac, honduras maroon with black buckets, would bring a nice $100,000, too. 

We'd get ourselves an order of tater tots and a cherry coke which cost $0.25 cents.  And by the time we were finished somebody had arranged a drag race.  To be held at the "Old Highway."  The highway in Bear Lake Bottoms.  And then all the cars would peel out and head to the drags.

BTW, I had a friend who worked at a printing company.  We printed up a bunch of "BLBTA" stickers and sold them for a nickle so we could put them on our bumpers.  It stood for the "Bear Lake Bottoms Timing Association."  Or some said, "Better Leave Betty's Tits Alone."  I liked both.

The New Highway 36 had left the old one unused and growing grass between the cracks in its concrete.  But it was good enough for 30 or 40 of us to head that way nearly every night and proceed to race a little bit.  We even had radios for the designated spotters to wait at each end so the highway patrol couldn't snag us.  Our spotters would let us know if Dick Defreece* was on the way so we could all jump into our cars and make like a bananna and split.  Otherwise, we'd race for at least an hour or two.  Bonfire raging, beer guzzling, tires burning, the smell of burnt oil hanging blue smoke in the air.  Winter or summer, no matter.  Drags almost every night.  Was it dangerous?  Sure.  Did anyone ever get hurt?  No.

And then we'd go fill up again, get our oil checked and air pressure checked, windows washed, and another $4.00 worth of gas to get burned up.  Sweet 93 octane out the tailpipes.  Yummm!

Just for a change of pace we might go to the Highway 65 Drive-In and watch a movie or two.  And then go park out in the weeds with our girlfriends.  Then go home for some much needed Zzzzz's to get ready for tomorrow night.

Then we'd do it all over again.  And it was amazing!  I might mention we had 11 American Hot Rod Association record holders in our town of less than 10,000.  The fastest cars in every class.  Everyone was smitten with speed!  We loved it!  I still love it! 

Now?  We all drive 5 mph under the speed limit 'cause we cannot afford BoyGuv's 87 octane "summer blend" gas.  And also because there's jillions of cops on the road just lusting to take us to the slammer.  The Gray Bar Hotel.  And tow our cars.  And steal our money. The money we worked hard for.  The road pirates we hire with our tax money to rob us blind!  

We can afford the gas in Oklahoma, BTW, and Texas, and Kansas, and Tennessee, and Arkansas, and all the other states not named Taxifornia.  Where it's $4.00 a gallon.  But here we can't.  Too bad, so sad.  Gas is like a precious comodity, to be priced like gold.  It should be sold to us by the c.c. insted of the gallon.  Only those who've been born and raised here, and know no better, are immune to bitching about it.  They think this is normal.  Like the Uyghurs in China who are held as captives.  Robbed of their organs and made to work as slaves.  The rest of us know we're being taken for a ride, and not in a good way.  

I sure do hope you feel better having read this.  As for me, conjuring up all these memories from "way back when," I feel worse.  Mucho Worso.  That's Spanish, I think.  Please just forget you read it and I'll forget that I wrote it.  And then like the guy with a feather up his ass, we'll both be tickled... 

*     Dick Defreece was our one and only resident Missouri State Trooper.  He'd arrested me so often for traffic crimes he had my driver's license number memorized.  Including twice on my 19th birthday.  It seems driving 140 mph in my brand new 1962 409 Chevy Impala Super Sport was not acceptable.  It was a birthday present to myself and I thought opening it up just a bit seemed reasonable.  I'd gotten a total of 23 speeding and careless and reckless tickets in the preceding year, so I was expecting to get the notice from the State my driving priveledges were suspended.  Except, Kelsey Reeter, the Sheriff, had failed to send the State its copy of my tickets (and everybody else's, too!).  Thus causing the statute of limitations to run out on them.  So oopsie!  Tickets all cancelled.  

It seems Kelsey was too busy romancing his Black hooker girlfriend to do his day job.  And we know it's true, 'cause the State inspectors who'd come to check on him found her bare footprints on the inside of his patrol car.  I wonder how that happened?  Another big oopsie, I'd say...