July 31, 2008


During the Roy and Maceo years I lived in the same building as an Irish bar, in a tiny studio apartment whose walls would echo with the sound of rock music 6 nights a week.

Up the street lived a guy I dubbed "Barracuda Man". His haunted-looking Victorian was decorated only by scaffolding and three Barracudas, two of which were on blocks.

He didn't ever trim a tree or water. His house was a pit. But I loved his Barracudas. I needed to have one.

Eventually I found one listed in the free paper. I went to visit it. I drove it. It purred like a kitten. The body was a little wrinkled in spots, but I was prepared to sink money into it. Little did I know! The guy said he was getting rid of it because it was too big. I laughed.

The Barracuda was one of Plymouth's early mid-sized cars. Maceo had been two feet longer, easily. Feeling superior and pitying him for not recognizing the modest size of this vehicle, I missed noticing that this car would probably eat my future earnings indefinitely. What I could see was that it would gain me cool points with the menfolk. I was 24. This was all that mattered.

So I whipped out thirty twenties and became a two car family. As I pulled around the corner (the same one where Roy had met his untimely end), two guys walked up to my car and offered to buy it on the spot.

Shoulda taken them up on this offer.

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