THE CLAW HAMMER Saturday nite. Hot humid in the big city. Windows down. Radio blared. Joking, bsing, guzzling beer. Street lites danced on the hood of the blue Plymouth as we p***ed under. Reflections glimmered. Shadows started on the dash, ran thru the interior and leaped out the back window. We were in North Omaha, just in from Fremont on Hiway 36, headed for Dodge Street, drive-in hangouts, 4 females or a couple of races. Sam aimed the60 Fury south, his brother, Curt, rode shotgun. I occupied p***engers rear and Randy, a friend from our supermarket day job, sat on drivers side rear. The breeze whipped in around Curt and Sam, whooshed into the back -- felt cool, listened to the duals babble their 383 song. Sam pulled alongside a fresh-off-the-showroom-floor, white 1964 Olds Cutl*** 4-4-2 waiting at a traffic lite. Evening, Curt said, pointing at the orange and yellow badge on the front fender Four-barrel, four-speed, dual exhausts. Sposed to be the hot set-up. It live up to its pseudo reputation? He acknowledged our presence with a yeah, it runs good and pointed at the Sonoramic Commando badge on the Furys fender. Whats that Plymouth running? 383, Curt answered. Heard those Olds are quik, think that Cutl*** can handle this big barge? The Olds driver rapped the throttle, almost if to say Aint scared of a lowly Plymouth and turned to his girlfriend. She shook her head no. He bowed his head like a punished puppy dog. He wasnt going to go, Curt knew it. With both hands, he unrolled a twenty-dollar bill, like unfurling a flag. Holding it in two fingers, it fluttered in the breeze. Olds driver looked at it, at Sam and turned to his girlfriend. She said something we couldnt hear. He shook his head. Curt grinned. Slid another twenty alongside the first. Olds driver slipped the clutch to the top and jerked the 4-4-2. Could be the 310 horse version three hundred thirty cubic inches in front of that 4-speed. Could be quik. Sam punched the typewriter, dropped the ****** into second. The lite changed, Sam slammed the throttle and left more like a rocket than the Olds was. Gold colored cross rams, dual fours under red air cleaners on the 330 horse 383 ****ed humid air as the trans banged out of low and squawked the tires. I looked back. Olds driver eased off the intersection, all nicey-nice, exactly like his cute girlfriend wanted. Two traffic lites down, he pulled next to us. Big mistake. Curt didnt like no for an answer, from anyone, and pushed until the breaking point was in sight. No guts, pal? Curt pointed at his girlfriend, or just whipped? Olds drivers jaw tightened, so did his fingers around the wheel. Girlfriend looked out the p***enger window ignored Curts comment. Your girlfriend pick out that color? Curt asked. Its terribly average. With a V8, I dont understand why SHED let you get a four-speed with a plain color like that! Thats all it took. Olds driver motioned to the next lite, pushed the 4-speed into first gear and topped the clutch. The Olds tightened up, the rear raised a bit and the rpms winged. The race was on. Sam listened to the proceedings. Curt could goad anyone into anything with his sly grin and soft voice he never yelled, kept his voice in a low growl and always looked everyone square in the eye slow, deliberate action got anyone to do something they knew was wrong. Curt knew Olds driver was mad. All the better. Sam pushed the low ****on. With his left foot on the brake, his right on the gas, the engines rpms grew and the Furys rear end raised several inches. The exhausts roared. Rear tires churned-- a little at a time (front brakes adjusted tighter than rears). Sam would ease off the brake and the car would jump quite unnerving to the compe***ion Sam did it oh-so-well. The lite changed. Olds driver got a great hole shot Sam hung on to his door. I watched Olds driver jerk the floor shift back with all his weight the whole bucket seat moved as he slammed second. The 4-4-2 leaped, barked the tires, did a little sideways action. He was close enuff, I could have reached out and touched the Olds quarter. Sams Plymouth banged into second. The chase was on. Olds driver hunched over the wheel, hed done this a time or two before. The Olds throaty exhausts reached fever pitch, he forced the shifter into third, jerked sideways again but tires didnt lose traction. He wasnt pulling away from the Plymouth. Sams jaw was set. Sam held that square transparent acrylic steering wheel tightly, watched the road, stole quik glances to see how much the Plymouth needed to put this one away. The 4-4-2 was quiker than we thot or was it that four of us in the Fury was too much weight? Didnt make any difference Sam was losing something that seldom happened. I wasnt sure how far Sam would take this one hed been known to go until there is a clear winner or his opponent quit. Neither of Sams options applied at this point. Olds driver glanced over still had Sam, the Plymouths bumper at the front edge of his door gaining, slowly. Regardless, Im sure Olds felt he had this one well in hand and Curts forty bucks. I glanced at his girlfriend, she was terrified. Forty bucks didnt mean a damn thing to her at the moment! Traffic ahead slowed, taillights blinked on. The traffic lite was red and we were coming for it hard. Olds driver glanced over to see if Sam was going to quit. Not a chance. The lite turned green. One car went left, one rite. Olds lane opened. Sams didnt. Olds driver went past the only car in Sams lane like it was parked. Sam lifted enuff to whip the big Fury behind the Olds, around the car and back into his lane. Fatal error! The dual fours ****ed precious ethyl and air trying to regain ground but it was over. Sam knew it. Olds driver knew it -- he had the race. Sam lifted, Olds driver lifted and four exhausts echoed. Olds driver held out his hand, close enuff for he and Curt to shake but thats not what he wanted. Curt looked at him quizzically. Gimmee that money, Olds driver yelled. No, man. You didnt accept the wager when I first offered. Your girlfriend said no. That deal went away when we left the first lite. You lagged YOU lost. What was Olds driver going to do? Argue with four guys? Intelligence said no. He raised his middle finger and slowed. Wrong thing to do. Sam slammed on the brakes, Curt turned and hocked a big loogey at him. Hit him square in the face. Now THAT would piss anyone off! Olds tapped the brakes, dropped farther back and wiped his face. THAT took a lot of restraint. Curt grinned. Thats the end of that fool. Olds driver hung back, made sure there were cars between us. We figured hed had enuff and was listening to a brow-beating. Randy and I watched for several bloks, thinking maybe hed try something since Curt humiliated him in front of his girl. But he wasnt making any moves. We talked about how quik the Olds was, one of the few times Sam was bested. Win some, lose some, to hell with the rest. None of us paid attention when Sam pulled up behind three cars at a traffic lite. For some reason I noticed there was only one car in the rite lane. The traffic lite changed, we moved. The roar of another set of dual exhausts filled the interior. We turned to see Olds driver holding even with Sams rear quarter with a claw hammer in his hand. Ka-whump! Dont know how he managed to strike the Plymouth left-handed and make an immediate rite turn at the same time as Sam rolled thru the intersection. The Olds exhausts wailed away from us. Sam couldnt do a thing. Traffic in front, traffic on his rite, blocked in. Took a minute. Sam whipped into the outside lane, hung a rite at the next intersection, screamed around it, doubled back, but the Olds was long gone or parked, hidden somewhere on those streets. We drove around several blocks, never did find him. At Kings on Dodge, we checked the Plymouth on the edge of the stainless trim surrounding the rear window was a dent, ¾s inch deep crosshatching marred the stainless. One quarter inch more and the rear window would have shattered. The stainless and rubber absorbed the blow. Fortunately for Sam, Olds driver wasnt left-handed his aim wasnt the best. Guess Olds driver figured if he wasnt going to get that forty bucks, Sam was going to pay somehow! At least, thats the way I remember it. Copyright 06-2002 RAJetter/Aden Rush OK Kiddies...get ready for a NEW and IMPROVED version of the Friday Nite Read...coming your way...soon!!! Can't say anything more about it just yet...suffice to say it'll be rip-roaring, high speed lunacy from word to word...but first, a few words from your sponsor: Wanna read some car stories set in the 1960s? Wanna know how it really was back then? Wanna know what 61 409s, 62 406 Fords ran like off the showroom floor? Wanna read about illegal street races, fist-fights, sock hops, real cruising and Premium gasoline? Wanna know how most of us spent our weekends back then? If you do this book will, at least, help most of you relive YOUR youth and I know you had one! Bangin Gears & Bustin Heads is a commentary on the late fifties to mid 1960s a series of 26 episodes, with each episode explained, between each story. Vintage B & W photos are included-- a total of 208 pages. A personal, autographed copy is available at www.RAJetter.com or send check/ M.O. for $20.95 to: P.O. Box 440042, Aurora, CO80044.
Thanks Roger, Funny stuff, bet it wasen't at the time Hope this sends it BTTT, see ya this after noon. Roach
Thanks Roger. It was on page three and I did not have a chance to read it, when I did have the time, it was already on page four. Next time I will bump it back to the top. Another good read on Monday at work!
this is the first one i've had the chance to read, good stuff. thank you. looking forward to many more.
Do a search for "The Friday Nite Read, Two"...you'll be a happy guy...OR better yet! BUY the book from Roger!!!! It's an excellent read!
The Jalopy Journal
