How My World Has Changed

My life started in January 1945. I was ready to go the minute I rolled off the assembly line. The factory shipping department placed me on a train that transported me from Detroit, MI, to a dealership in Little Rock, AR, where I was parked and ignored.

It's impossible to describe how boring it was sitting on a sales lot day after day, surrounded by other cars, waiting for someone to select me as their pride and joy. It was during this monotonous period in my life that I met my first owners. It was my stunning good looks along with my manufacturer’s stellar reputation for producing a superior product that drew them to me. After some intense negotiating, the buyers signed a purchase agreement, and the salesman handed them my keys. I was off to my new home.

The years flew by, and I watched as time began to ware on me. My owners had no garage and being parked outside in all kinds of weather had started to take its toll on my paint. The shiny deep blue I had been so proud of was slowly being transformed into a dull lackluster indigo. My interior began to fray from wear, and the foam rubber between the springs and seat covers started to break down. In short, I wasn’t the glamorous show car I used to be, but mechanically I remained strong.

My life as a valuable family sedan ended abruptly one night six years after it began. The transformation happened one moonless October night. A person I had never seen before used a tool called a Slim Jim popped my driver’s door lock and quickly jumped behind the wheel. He ripped the ignition wires out from under the dash and, after splicing them together, started my engine. We were off.

My engine would race to its maximum RPM’s before he depressed the clutch and slammed my transmission into the next gear. I have to admit, I found this style of driving exhilarating and terrifying in equal parts. We continued to travel at breakneck speeds until reaching an abandoned farm house surrounded by trees and shrubs. The driver got out while a different man used a skeleton key to open my trunk and fill it with packages. Once my trunk was loaded, we were off again. This wild irrational behavior became my life until that fateful spring night when it all came crashing to a halt.

My driver was taking our usual route through the back roads of rural Arkansas when a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. As the car closed the gap between us a red oscillating light on its roof sparked to life accompanied by a loud wailing sound. I expected my driver to pull over, but he pressed down on my accelerator even harder, forcing me to a speed I had never reached before. We continued down the road like this for several miles when a second car with flashing lights joined the chase. I was fast—faster than my pursuers, but not faster than their radios. Off in the distance three more cars appeared forming a barrier across the road. We were trapped, but my driver was not willing to quit.

A dirt road leading into the woods came into view so my driver put me into a four wheel drift, and we slid into a perfect right turn and sped into the woods. Keeping a speeding car under control on dirt is much more difficult than on asphalt. We had only travelled two miles when a pointed stone punctured my left front tire, and I crashed head first into a large tree. The police arrived and took my injured driver away, but I was left behind.

Now you know the story behind how a bashed-up hulk of a car ended up in the middle of the woods, rusting away into oblivion. Not the way I expected my life to end, but who knows, maybe a collector will find me and bring me back to my original glory. I can always hope, right!