You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

JAGUAR (part 1 of 3)

“1950 Mark V Jaguar, drophead coupe, green. $750.” This was the advertisement I saw in the local newspaper while visiting a friend in Albuquerque New Mexico. My friend took me to see it. It was a classic, with a large chrome grille, sweeping fenders, and heavy chrome hinges. “Those are called quadrant arms.” The seller told me, “Which accommodated the folding of the convertible head.” The heavy white canvas top folded back behind the seat in a neat stack. The dashboard was of finely finished burled mahogany. The upholstery was cream-colored leather. There was no rust or deterioration as it had spent its eight years of existence in the dry and salt-free desert environment of New Mexico.

I had to have it. I emptied my bank account to buy it. I drove it back to Eugene Oregon where I planned to start my summer job at the cannery. Most of the money I earned that summer, which was intended to support me through my sophomore year at the University of Oregon, was spent on the Jag. There were no mechanical issues. The largest expense was having it painted. I wanted it to be red. The purest red possible. Recognizing that people see colors slightly differently I collected scraps of red things.

After lunch, with classmates from the School of Architecture, I pulled these scraps out of my pocket and spread them on the table. My friends looked at me with concern. I could see they were questioning my state of mind that I had a pocket full of what appeared to be trash and that I was now arranging it on the table.

By the time that I had them arranged in a line, my friends were pushing back from me and the table. Pointing to the scraps, I asked “Which of these scraps is the truest red?” They moved up closer to get a better look. To their surprise, there was a difference of opinion. I then invited them to go out on the terrace and make their judgment in the sunlight. The debate continued on the terrace. Some scraps were a little more orange some a little more purple. After much discussion and rearranging the scraps, the conclusion was that the truest red was the color on the Lucky Strike cigarette packet.

I thanked them for their opinions and drove to the auto body paint shop. There I presented the cigarette packet to the foreman and told him to paint it Lucky Strike red. That paint job, which converted my classic Jag from metallic green to the truest red, took the rest of my summer earnings. The paint job was a great success. It was such a striking and unique automobile that when I drove across campus, most people on the sidewalk would stop to watch it drive by. I even felt a bit offended if someone would ignore me. I was invited to join the Beta Theta Pi Fraternity. I think it was because they wanted that car in their parking lot. I loved my classy Jaguar.

JAGUAR (part 2 of 3)

The Oregon winter was hard on the Jaguar. The convertible top leaked so I couldn’t drive it. I stored it in the unused garage at my mother’s home. The garage was a concrete bunker buried into the hillside. The jag was out of the rain, but the garage was damp. After each rain storm trickle of water would run down the floor and out the garage entry. The glue that held the wooden dashboard together began to soften. The edges of the mahogany laminations were separating. The leather upholstery was growing a white mold. The mold on the white canvas hood was dark green.

I had classes to attend, tests to take, and academic work to submit. Since I had squandered my cannery pay on a paint job for the car, I had to take on two part time jobs to pay for food, tuition, and rent.

The burden of my deteriorating Jaguar weighed heavily on me. It was a love gone bad. I had to get rid of it. But selling it in this condition would involve taking a substantial loss. I waited until summer thinking I might change my mind. June came, if my feelings about the jag were going to change that should have happened, and yet I could only think of the relief I would feel when it was gone. So in June, a time when dreams of driving a convertible, with the top down, were occupying the minds of many young men. I cleaned it up, and placed the classified ad in the Eugene Register Guard.

“1950 Mark V Jaguar, drophead coupe, red. $750.”

I was asking the same amount that I had paid for it. The money I had spent painting and maintaining it over the preceding year was a total loss. There were no replies to my ad. A week after the ad had run, I received a call from a man who introduced himself as Jack, a real estate broker. He explained that he had seen my ad for the Jaguar and wanted to drive it. We took an extensive test drive, with him at the wheel. “I like it,” he said. I will pay you $500 for it. I told him that I had paid $750 for it and had spent as much on repairs and having it painted. “It is a bargain at $750.” “OK” he replied, “But before I buy it, I would like to take it over the weekend.” I declined his request, noting that we had just taken a long test drive. He turned and left in a huff, saying only “Good buy”. I was glad to see him leave, thinking surely a nicer person would call and want to buy my car. But no one called.

About a month later Jack called me again. This time he said, “OK. I will pay you $600 for it.” This call put me off. He knew the price. I politely declined his offer. He said $600 is my best offer, take or leave it.” I replied, “I will accept nothing less than $750.” He slammed the phone.

In September he called a third time. “OK” he said. “ I will pay $750 for it but first you must take it to my mechanic to have it checked out.”

I reflected on his proposition. It was Fall again. I couldn’t stand the prospect of going through another winter with the jag rotting in the garage. So as much as I dreaded any further dealings with this man, I agreed to his request. I drove the jag to the shop for a Thursday appointment. The shop foreman told me I could pick it up the following day at 4:00 PM. I was going to be out of town for the weekend. I told him this and said that I would be back to pick it up on Monday.

On Monday morning I went to the repair shop to pick up my car. The foreman informed me that he had given the keys to Jack on Friday. The mechanic said that Jack had said that I had given him permission to take it when it was ready. Furious I said. “That’s not true. Nothing was mentioned about his taking it.” Jack had stolen my car.

I went home and called my friend Bob and told him what had happened. Bob suggested that I go to Jack’s house and demand that he return it. I liked the idea. Bob drove me to Jack’s house. My Jag was parked in the open garage. Bob waited at the curb, while I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I returned to Bob’s car. We reviewed my options. He suggested that I take my car back. That seemed like a good idea but I didn’t have the spare key with me. “The creep has my key.” I noted. ‘Well” Bob said “The jag is here, so the key is probably here also. Let’s go find it.”

The garage door into the house opened into the kitchen. We went in. I began to go through the drawers looking for a junk drawer where keys may be found. But it seemed futile until Bob said “Are these your keys?” I turned to see him standing next to a board mounted on the wall. It was decorated and had hooks on it for keys. There was one key on it. The key for my Jag. I took the key and drove my Jag back to the my mother’s garage.

When Jack called to berate me for breaking into his house and stealing the Jag. I told him that I had merely recovered stolen property from the thief who had taken it from the repair shop. I also informed him that I would not sell it to him for any amount of money and hung up.

JAGUAR (part 3 of 3)

It was Fall again. My classes had started. I was dreading another winter with my Jaguar rotting in the garage. I placed another classified ad in the Register-Guard. About a week later I received a phone call from another student. His first question was “Is it the same red jaguar I have seen on campus?” I told him “Yes. There is only one.” I thought it was not likely that a student would have $750 to buy a car. But on the chance that he might, I invited him to take it for a spin. We met on campus, as he didn’t have a car. We went for a test drive. At the end of the drive, he expressed great enthusiasm about buying the Jag and presented me with $750 cash.

Rather than sign the title over to him and walk away with the cash, I wanted to be sure that the title exchange was registered by DMV so that I would not be held liable should he have a wreck. I insisted that we mail the title transfer to the DMV. We signed the paperwork, put it in a stamped envelope, and walked to the nearest mailbox. We put the envelope in the slot, thanked each other, and went our separate ways never to meet again, or so I thought.

I was so relieved to be free of that car that I felt like hugging the red, white, and blue mailbox. It was as if a staggeringly heavy burden was no longer mine to carry.

Several weeks later, I was awakened from an afternoon nap by heavy rapping on the window of my basement apartment. I got up off the bed and looked out the window to see who it was that had so rudely banged on my window. Outside, I could only see the pants and shoes of two men. One wore Levis and tennis shoes, the other had highly polished black leather shoes and dark gray, well pressed, pants. I asked “Who’s there”? A man’s stern voice responded saying “Come out side. We want to talk with you”. Who could this be? I wondered as I put on my pants and shirt and stepped out onto the landing of the concrete stairs which led up to the sidewalk where the two men stood.

The man who had bid me to come out was in his 50s wore a suit and tie. He did all the talking as he stood at the top of the stairs blocking my ability to climb up to his level. “Did you sell your Jaguar to my son?” He asked while pointing at the young man cowering behind him. “Yes” I said “I sold it to him.” Thinking that he may want a bill of sale or something, I explained. “We both signed the title and mailed it to the DMV.” The suit then stated, in a voice of one who is speaking to an underling, “I an attorney. We drove a hundred miles from Portland today to see you. You sold my son a defective car and I demand that you refund his money?” I disputed his claim saying “The car was not defective. He drove it and agreed that it ran well.” “It was defective” the suit insisted. “My son drove it to Portland last weekend and the motor blew up. It will cost over a thousand dollars to repair it.” “Oh.” I replied, “I’m sorry that he blew up the motor. Perhaps he didn’t realize that it is a classic model of Jaguar and not a sports car.” “In any case, we made an agreement and mailed the signed title to the DMV.” “Will you refund his money and come get your car?” the suit demanded. “It is not my car anymore.” I replied, “It belongs to your son who drove it in a way that blew up the engine.” The suit had lost his cool demeanor. He was angry now and showed it. He said, “You will hear from ME on this matter.” He turned and stormed down the walkway to the street. Before turning to follow his father, the young man looked at me with a deeply apologetic expression on his face. He raised his arms in a gesture of surrender before turning to follow his father. I returned to my apartment. This time, when we went our separate ways, it was for good. I heard nothing more from the attorney father.