In Homeland Security databases it’s noted that classic American cars are terrorists’ preferred mode of transport for weapons-grade plutonium. Or they’re the vehicles of choice for human trafficking. Or they’re tagged as drug cartel automobiles. Or I could just be stretching the hyperbole a bit much. What do I know? I fit the profile of a ne’er-do-well myself. Looks aren’t everything though.

A bullet-riddled car with a couple of rock-n-roll miscreants inside will at some point be pulled over. Maybe for expired tabs. Maybe for a small crack in the passenger-side windshield. & maybe just for standing out. Pretty sure most people that saw us wondered who’d be in a ’68 Dodge Dart that had been T-boned in a previous life yet driven as if nothing were amiss. Hence the holes that seemed as if the car had been used for target practice. Drilled by a guy with auto body experience to pull out the smash. The car came to us dented for an affordable price; the fix as well. Guess we were supposed to putty the holes & repaint. What– & lose that Bonnie & Clyde appearance? One of my brothers-in-law offered to buy it off us because of the holes. But we liked it too much.

A couple of those traffic stops my mouth moved of its own accord. When faced with an uncalled-for police presence, my inner snark pokes out. How dare jackboots just show up! & not even bothering to veil their insinuations! These days I don’t carry identification. Let the mystery of who I might be eat at them.

Being merely the passenger & asked for ID tips me off it isn’t a typical traffic violation stop. This after the news reported an officer killed a Black man on the assumption he was pulling a weapon instead of his ID. I can’t just let that horrific shit pass. I said to The Man “I am now reaching slowly into my pocket for my WALLET. I am going to remove my WALLET. Here I am opening my WALLET for my ID.” I don’t know if he got it. & it wouldn’t put a dent in the abuses of power, obviously. But it felt richly cutting. Gotta use your smidgen of privilege where it can do the most jabbing good.

Next came the stop on the schmancy Eastside, where the Dart may as well have sported a neon sign saying ‘concealed body here.’ We were in Bellevue for a housecleaning gig, because that’s the kind of day labor poor arty types do. After the preliminaries of being pulled over, asked to exit the vehicle, explain why we were in this area we clearly didn’t live in, comes the “I’m going to need you to open the trunk” & “What will I find in there?” We listed the contents prior to opening: a vacuum cleaner, buckets, cleansers, mops, etc. Upon opening it I blurted “Oh look– cleaning supplies! How’d those get in there?” as if it were several kilos of cocaine. It’s fortunate there’s no such thing as a sarcasm charge. Also that he didn’t look in the glove box. There may’ve been paraphernalia.

There’s gotta be a law against being on the road in a beat-up 30 yr old car & looking like you just rolled out of bed after months on tour. Amazing the gauntlet you have to run for the pleasure of scrubbing other people’s dirt. But somebody should inform the police that no criminal enterprise would hire bagmen that draw that much attention. Perhaps it’s that unwritten law against being too distinctive: If it screams LOOK AT ME! it must be villainous. [I wanted to use ‘descript’ as an opposite of nondescript, but the dictionary said no. The dictionary is yet another authority I disdain.]

Other peculiarities arose with our auto over time. The passenger door began to sag & wouldn’t stay closed. We discovered this when it swung open on left turns. To close properly, the door had to be lifted from the outside for it to latch. I started getting in on the driver’s side & sliding over. In summer I left the window open & climbed in. I have to say it’s way more fun to ride in an unpredictable, gangster clown car when your work puts you up close & personal with toilets, greasy stoves, & sticky refrigerator shelves. The journey is better than the destination.

Soon there came the whacking on the starter with a hammer. & a battery charger, after AAA informed us they didn’t send out roadside assistance to jump a car when parked at one’s home. Some might think it strange to have AAA for a car like this, but I think that’s exactly the kind of car AAA is for. Strandings are only welcome when you can’t get to the job, not when you’re coming back from it.

Car geeks would try & engage us about the Slant 6 engine design. A classic, apparently. I’m too car dumb to know, but the Dart did have verve… when it was running. Had a nice purr when tuned. If in mint condition, it would’ve fetched a handsome vintage price. Not as much as the Chargers of the same era, but some car nuts valued them. Instead, we traveled in the badass Mad Max version– sometimes reliable, always noticeable. In many ways its visage did fit us more so than any other car. Kinda scrappy, grubby, with the promise of something special under the hood.

The best day for the Dart came when the horn went wonky. If it was a traveling Circus of the Damned before, imagine when sound was part of the package. It began gradually. A short beep here. A short beep there. Mostly during turns. Throughout the day these increased in frequency. By the time we were heading home, it lost its mind altogether. What else are you gonna do in a crazy car honking a samba beat? So we started waving at people stopped on the sidewalk staring. When inadvertently a member of a one-car parade, just go with it.