I’m writing this stoned, wide awake, just past that Full Moon that some said would be ‘easy.’ I’m writing this, well starting this before I finish the roll of film that I started today. It isn’t gonna be linear time this time. I bought another Corvair end of September, on a very telling day. September 24th went a different way last year. Instead of a flourless cake for a beloved, I decided to treat myself this year.
When Bobby put Mel on the phone I was surprised by the familiarity of his voice. There’s something forever inquisitive and quick in the speech patterns of East Texans. I didn’t want to say much, if anything while haggling the deal of how to get Grace Lucille back in good enough shape to be road worthy. You leave deeper questions for later. You can’t get away from the reality that you are about to dump a huge amount of cash on a 60 year old car on top of the relative fistful that you spend to have it in the first place.
Well, 61, Cause Grace is a Virgo from September of 1964, but I digress.
My the hairs on my ear started to tingle as Mel listed items that Bobby said should get taken care of…
The whistling sound that sounded like a bearing whisper its last prayer…
The fact that this rear engine wonder laid dormant for how many years we don’t know but the heater fan is broke…
Seal up the radio antenna, re-seal the floor air vents…
“I’ll callya with an estimate.”
Mel actually just started texting as he tore down, piece by piece what may be fattening the bill. He kept me abreast with texted Photos of axle shafts, heater ducting, the notorious leaky pushrod tubes from sitting came as he drew up an estimate. An estimate I was more than happy to pay.
I paid the price dearly with Frankie. The never getting around to the parking brake before the pandemic hit was the first blow. Then the fan belt flew, taking half of the plug wires with it. I think the speedometer cable broke next. I’m forgetting the fuel pump came before the speedo cable, hence why I, after asking Josh, I immediately agreed to the electronic fuel pump. The current mechanical ones, mostly refurbished are of pitifully less quality. Our supply chain challenges leaves Corvair owners stranded roadside as another diversion tactic of fascism.
I was gonna pay a tariff somewhere, so I might as well make the more secure choice. The story then time jumps to when COVID hit, the alternator died, the battery died then somehow it was July 2020. I flew a white flag of surrender to a mechanic in West Oakland. A mechanic that pulled the typical spiel when confronted with a Corvair.
“I hate workin’ on them but you’re paying.”
This is why I can’t remember for the life of me that man’s name. I literally came to him, defeated but still in love with the purchase I made. All I got was a bunch of dismissives in response to my love for how a Corvair just, drives. Even with all of the flaws of a well worn, neglected sedan, I still put up with those flaws for those glimmer of joy moments. It had been a long stretch of lack of affection since me and Lee broke up. I needed to feel something.
That era of COVID was when we were collectively the most locked away, the most fearful. American society has been getting worse with simple connection to the tangible world around us. Frankie, for all of the flaws, provided me with a hug, a cuddle, a little friskiness. It’s sad when we have to turn to machines to get thrills we need. I really wonder how many lonely souls at GM headquarters wanted to do something different that dressing up the same old shit in different suits.
Also, what made them really wanna go with putting the engine in the ass end of the car? Corvairs are vocal but smooth like a Hitachi Magic Wand. The grumpiest mechanic with the most egregiously snobbish shop cat said he’d pull a one wire alternator off of a ’63 Skylark Convertible that was in the shop. It was being held back from returning to its motoring life because it threw a rod through the aluminum block.
It was wild to be surrounded by the most radical mainstream General Motors cars had produced during the height of its corporate behemoth powers in the 1960’s. It was bizarre to hear someone bemoan one while glossing over the other’s complications. Somehow the admonishments came back, not understanding why anyone would want a Corvair, a recommendation for a Falcon, an American, hell even a Studebaker Lark would be better.
If I were more childish I would have said “relax, tightass.”
I also remembered that I was going off a recommendation that was more to get annoyance of a know-nothing-at-all-Virgo was the easiest way out. The Pandemic didn’t leave much room to shop around for vintage auto repairs. I knew of Zaki and Mel, but thought they would be booked pretty far down the road. Frankie was my only car. BART and Buses were still shadow-skeletons of themselves in the summer of 2020. I would have to hold my tongue, perhaps not identify myself as queer, and not point out making this choice was about feelings.
The intertwine of how when being pushed and stimulated from behind, I gain more confidence and focus on where I’m going. I leave the phone behind, turn some music down low, plant my feet, toggle a leaver in a slot and set off to a destination. Sometimes I just do it for the thrill of the journey. It’s getting back to some basics. Corvairs are no power brakes and steering basic. It’s one of the most sensuous experiences in my life, right next to the most memorable sex I’ve had.
Pretty damn good, 2nd generation Corvairs raided their big brother Corvette’s athletic gear and musculature out back. All Miles’s Mustang had, as comparably equipped was that dreadful Falcon experience. Falcons, if you have the displeasure of ever driving one, will remind you that Ford never really wanted to stop making the Model T. That goes up to every last damn Focus or Fusion that rattles and surges away as Uber and Lyft rides near certain death these days.
I picked Frankie up 4 days later with a $760 bill. That may seem cheap but it came with a weird mixture of complaining about the 4 piece throttle linkage being hard to set with a desire for me to take him for a ride to prove he did good work. Despite all of the bitching, his honor as a mechanic was on the line. With an obliging thud from the Powerglide going into reverse, I invited him to take the passenger side as if it were his best friends ride.
We ambled down Peralta before making a left 10 blocks after to come back up Mandela Parkway.
“I see where the Poor Man’s Porsche comes from.”
I think I finally heard a compliment, an understanding why that despite the humble origins, there is something to be said about the pedigree of design of Corvairs.
“Treat this one as your learning Corvair, but don’t get too attached. When you have more money buy a nicer one, it’s not worth restoring this one.”
It destroyed me in the way a controlled burn can turn into Centralia, Pennsylvania. It was a small specific burn of advice, but it exposed all of my insecurities about purchasing Frankie in the first place. I was so numb in ways that I was desperate to feel something from anything. Getting a deal of $3,000 on a quirky classic car that drives nice is one of the more socially acceptable vices. It haunted me as things continued to go wrong. I tried to balance the insane boss being that white gay explaining DEI to everyone with trying my damndest to figure out when to circle back to that parking brake. Then the oil leak got worse, then the driver’s door got crunched. I held on for two more years. I hoped that someday I’d prove this asshole wrong.
And then I found myself, explaining to an already understanding police officer about my dad’s violence because of his dementia. My surgery scar still weeping, my Aunt Stephanie annoyingly telling me to stay strong at the most vulnerable moments of my life. Still I dutifully I booked myself a hotel room, climbed out of Frankie forever and into my cousin’s Civic. I took Billy’s lead on the job, I had to once again, be a part of the non-profit world, for I had definitely not the willpower to deal with corporate shenanigans at Apple under contract.
By the time I was driving again, I was in the Volvo S40 that I never bothered to name. That S40 that is on the same chassis as the second generation Focus. This period of chariot as accomplice in art form was grey, colorless, numb. Somehow I forgot how much I hated how Volvo 240s drove. They drive like updated Ford Falcons. They’re Swedish Model Ts. I have enough of the empire building (though through slave labor) of the Irish Blood in my ancestry. No thanks to discovering any of it is Nordic because Europeans are more nomadic that they allow themselves to be.
When I saw Grace, when she was just humble Lucy, It felt like coming home. This second half of 2025 has me healing a lot of things. It’s remarkably found me welcoming the return of those people I love the most. It felt more than appropriate when I saw another 1965 Monza in Artesian Turquoise on white vinyl and turquoise carpet I’d be hooked. One twist of the key was followed by that obliging thud of the Powerglide. I was sold.
Grace is a coupe, however.
I lament the ease of people just opening their own door to get in the back seat. At the same time I crain my neck to merge into another lane, a strength not used anymore. I realize how much more glass there is in the more bubble dome of the coupe. The world is framed as your oyster as you look back to go forward with your next move. This is a heaven I want to share with those closest to me.
I meet Mel and his face looks familiar as his voice. He had brought up that he greased axle bearings on his favorite of his 15 years ago, and they’ve been good going back and forth to Texas for years. He mentions the part of Texas, not by city but by County. Harrison County, then Waskom I smile, and I sort of pause but blurt out at the same time:
“My Granddady is from Shreveport. His Mama’s folks were from Waskom. You know of any Flanangans?”
I know I was quizzically looking to see if I saw family on his face. We were definitely familiar with our speech patterns.
“I know me some Flanagans” Mel said.
Lucille Goni came up, as Mel reminisced working on Lucy 30 years ago. Lu passed away in 2006 a 90 year old fierce warrior. She kept up this Corvair good enough to have it ready to wrestle Teslas on the Lawrence Expressway with just over a week of reconditioning from dormancy. I feel the dual pressures of honoring and preserving a legacy of a woman that probably drove others to safety in this car. Ironically a car slandered as ‘Unsafe at any speed.’
“Any car is unsafe at speed, cause you’re moving” Mel said with the chuckled implication of life just isn’t safe. Mel is so vibrant I don’t want to even know his age. He wrote down a very detailed receipt that gives me proof I can tend to something as long as I deeply cherish and respect those that help me along the way. It’s clear that making sure these little magic machines run give him a new lease on life every day.
“I dreamed of having one when I was young but we were too poor to even have a car!”
Mel looks, moves and sounds so young you could believe he was either 3, 13 or 23 while rhapsodizing about a Corvair. I assumed he was referring to the 1965 models. Mel said he was super excited that I’m Black. I’m surprised that in the ever bleaching of the populace of the Bay Area, the stewards whose expertise is asked for statewide are at least in my mind 63, 73 or hell 83 goddamn years old.
They still find one of their biggest joys getting their fingernails greasy digging up the ass end of a much misunderstood car designed nearly 70 years ago. We have limited time to play with the boundaries and logic of time and progress in this society. I felt weird leaving Mel’s, knowing I’ll be back before Philadelphia becomes real. The possibility of a $1,500 disc brake upgrade makes me tingle.
I text Josh about getting lunch, but we decided to Old Car Picnic next weekend, so there’ll be more photos incoming. I texted Ty and we’re gonna go for a drive next Thursday. To hell with Porsches, Fuck your Falcon.
I love my Corvair.
You may love it too.
