Every now and then I look at a collectible car, and I have to have it. I have to have it for a reason outside of the car itself. The car reminds me of something intangible. Jada’s FOR SALE 1963 Black Lincoln Convertible is that car for me at this time.
One day, when I was between classes at the University, my friend Steve walked up to me tired and wild-eyed. He told me about a race he had been in on a local highway that had gone out of control. You need to know that Steve drove a powerful hopped up 1970 Nova. Ultimately, it was a forgettable car, but it was lifted in the back and had those fat meats that hot rods have. It was a street racer.
The night before he had pulled up next to an old, black, drop-top, suicide door Lincoln and revved his engine. It was for the attention of the woman behind the wheel. She was small, cute, and had brown hair that was settled over the back of her bucket seat. She was a vision. She smiled and her feather-shaped eyes flashed as she revved her engine back. At the green light, she was off. There was a lot of start/stop within the city limits until they both took the exit and hit the highway. Steve struggled with his sophomoric vocabulary to articulate the fact that the amount of power in the Lincoln was more than he could summon from his .350. Off the blocks he had her, but in the long run, her presidential vehicle left him in the dust. I was walking with Steve towards the parking lot to see his car as he gesticulated and told this story. Apparently, at completely heathen speeds, they raced down the coast fighting for pole position. Steve’s concentration slipped for a fraction of a second and he nudged into her driver’s side. She swung back in order to stay on the road, and Steve’s car flew across the highway and into the shoulder on the left side where he skidded, swerved, and eventually stopped with a flooded engine. It was late at night, dark, and Steve was stranded. She was long gone. He fumbled around and was attempting to assess his damage with a penlight when she rolled towards him, oncoming in one of the lanes he had flown over. Her car was rumbling hard, the top was down, and she was blasting some sort of speed metal. She turned it down for conversation.
“You ok?” She yelled over the passenger side. Steve nodded yes. They both looked at the damage. Steve’s front corner panel was crunched and his right headlight was housed in a perma-wink. Steve walked around her vehicle to the driver’s side. Her car had no damage from what Steve could see.
“You take care of yours, I take care of mine?” She asked. Steve nodded again. She turned her music back up, winked at him with one of those beautiful dark eyes and was off, long brown hair billowing in the wind.
Steve did get his car started again and limped it home. As we looked at the damage to his car in the University parking lot, he smiled at me.
“I think I am in love with that woman.” He said.
The truth of the matter is that he never found her. She is probably still out tormenting young hipsters who think that they have enough muscle under their hoods to humble her. Or maybe her car went for sale to some lucky person who had no idea the kind of the sheer power and heart-wrecking ability it had.
Whatever the case is, when I look at Jada’s For Sale 1963 Lincoln, this is the story that comes to mind. In my mind, I am sure that is the car that humbled Steve’s Nova. I am sure right down to the ding in the windshield and the primered rear door on the driver’s side. If I saw this car for sale in real life, I would purchase it point blank. But for now, I will settle for Jada’s wonderful rendition of the car that broke Steve’s heart.