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Souped
Up '49 Mercury Coupe Caused Island's Most Uncool Event Everby
Bill Cherry | |
All
of a sudden the headlights on the maroon 2-door ‘49 Merc went very bright, dimmed
to an orange glow, then went out entirely. We could smell the burned wires. From
bright to total smelly darkness didn't take 10 seconds. It was Friday night. "In
the Sill of the Nite" by the Five Satins was playing on the car radio. Rascal
McCaskill's "Night Train" on Baytown’s
KREL-AM was on.
Every kid in a 50 mile radius of that station listened
to Rascal.
The Merc had cat eye tail
lights, chrome headlight sleepers, fender skirts, $49.95 maroon and black fiber
seat covers, spotlights on both doors that didn't work, two antennas, plus dual
glass-pack Smitty mufflers that could be turned on or off by pulling a chain that
went through a hole in the floorboard to a goofy valve system that had been attached
to the exhaust pipe. |
1949 Mercury
Photo courtesy Bill Cherry |
You had to have all
of that muffler craziness if you were going to keep the motorcycle patrolman that
we called Sam Catchem from seeing how many tickets he could write you. I guess
old Sam expected Seawall Boulevard to always be as quiet as a cemetery, and he
used his authority to make certain it was.
And the Merc coupe had a fine
horn, too. It was actually blown by the engine pressure from the car's manifold.
It was as loud and as boisterous as those on top of any 18-wheeler's cab. Unfortunately
when it was honked, the car's engine would almost die from the lack of pressure.
The four of us had come up with a quarter a piece, and that had bought
four gallons of regular at Pat Hogan's Shell on 45th. It left us with 75 cents
each to buy a cheeseburger basket and a frosty root beer at the Boulevard Drive-in,
with a grand total of 40 cents left over to tip Seawall Mary.
We knew
that the headlights weren't going to get fixed that night. The only one of our
friends who stood a chance of knowing how to fix them was Bill Latimer, and he
had a date.
So the decision was made to go home and get a couple of flashlights.
The one sitting on the backseat on the driver's side – that was I -- could point
one out of his window, and the one riding shotgun could point one out of his window.
Victor was the 16-year old lawyer wannabe of the four of us, and he ruled that
this would make the Merc perfectly legal again.
"The law doesn't say what
kind of lights you have to have facing forward, just that you've got to have two
of them, and they have to be on when you're driving after dusk," he opined.
So
armed with two D-cell Rayovac flashlights, one pointed out of the left-rear window,
the other out of the right-front window, we started on our way back to the Boulevard
Drive-in. The chain through the floorboard was released so the Smittys would rumble
away. Then the ‘49 coupe crept back onto Seawall Boulevard at the 39th Street
traffic light.
Let me honestly say now, nothing that totally uncool had
ever happened in Galveston,
and it hasn't happened since. Two teenagers lighting the way for their wheels
by hanging out the windows and pointing Rayovac flashlight beams ahead, for goodness
sakes.
Tell me what could beat that.
So with the two flashlights
leading the way, the driver gave the slowing down hand signal, then his arm rose
into the left-turn position. He crossed the Boulevard and went into the drive-in's
parking lot. "Hello, Babe-ee," the Big Bopper said over the outside jukebox speakers.
The kids in the other cars saw the Merc fumbling for its place, the two of us
still holding the Rayovacs out of the windows. Loud laughing and cat calls erupted.
A couple of lewd hand gestures were advanced. We made out like they didn't notice.
But I promise our stomachs were tied in knots.
Seawall Mary came out in
her blue and white rayon slacks and starched white shirt, put her menu card with
her number (a big 6) under the left windshield wiper blade. The driver gave her
our order. "Four cheeseburger baskets, two Pearls, a Falstaff and a Bud." Seawall
gave her best glare.
"OK, we've all forgotten our IDs, so make it four
cheeseburger baskets and four frosted root beers."
It wasn't long until
Seawall Mary brought out the tray with the cheeseburger baskets and four frosted
root beers. The driver rolled the window up about three inches so that she could
hook the tray on, then she extended its arm down at a 45 and propped it against
the car door.
She went back to the wooden bench that was just outside
of the carhops' door and sat down next to her boyfriend. He was drinking a Pearl.
They resumed chatting.
Before long, we were through eating and were ready
to cruise. So naturally the two of us with the flashlights held them out of the
window and started pushing the buttons that made them blink. Seawall and her boyfriend
didn't notice. Never mind everyone knew the nighttime signal for calling back
the carhop when you were through was blinking your headlights, so she ought to
have been watching.
The driver started the car; the Smittys rumbled. He
gunned the engine and about blew the place down. Seawall and her boyfriend kept
on chatting. The kids in the rest of the cars sat quietly as they watched to see
what would happen next.
He hit the horn. BLAAAT! That's when Seawall and
her boyfriend jumped and grabbed each other. Then Seawall's boyfriend casually
got up and walked over to the car and said with a big friendly smile, "Bet you've
got a V-8 with lots of chrome under that hood. May I see?"
With pride
my friend pulled the lever that opened the hood. Seawall's boyfriend leaned over
the fender, then he yanked out the wires that operated the horn. He walked away.
Seawall Mary took the tray, and we drove off into the night with the flashlights
guiding the way.
Behind us, though, was lots of laughing and rude hand
gestures punctuating the end of the most uncool event that has ever happened on
the island, even though 48 years have now passed.
I don’t go to my class
reunions because I can’t bear to hear the story told.
Bill
Cherry's Galveston Memories
September 12, 2008 column
Copyright William S. Cherry
All rights reserved |
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Galveston Hotels
Bill Cherry, a Dallas Realtor and free lance writer was a longtime
columnist for "The Galveston County Daily News." His book, Bill Cherry's Galveston
Memories, has sold thousands, and is still available at Barnes and Noble and
Amazon.com and other bookstores. |
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