Muscle Car Mission

By Rick Garmon, Monroe, Georgia

As appeared in

I was 15 years old and it was love at first sight when the white 1970 Plymouth Superbird rolled into the dealership one day where I worked after school. I fell head over heels. I wanted to grab the keys and take it for a joyride around my neighborhood, and hear my friends ooh and ah. No other car could beat its look—its space-age nose, the trademark spoiler that rose high from the trunk like a futuristic goalpost. That car was prettier even than Farah Fawcett. NASCAR champion Richard Petty drove one just like it. A Superbird. It was the ultimate muscle car.

I eyed the owner enviously. The car was immaculate. Not a scrape or a nick anywhere. I caressed its gleaming finish. And to think that I was about to work on it, to run an inspection on it. I'm in heaven, I thought.

"Be careful," the man said. "Now don't go scratching up the paint."

Someday, I found myself thinking, someday this Superbird will be mine. And I made a note, jotting down the man's name and address.

But I never followed through. Life got in the way. I married my wife, Julie, had three kids. When I was 18, Dad and I decided to open up our own auto-repair shop. I worked long hours and always got the job done.

One Saturday I plopped down on the couch, grabbed the remote and flipped the channel to a NASCAR race. Thomas, my son, watched with me. By nine, he'd already caught the fever, just like I had. "Let me tell you about Richard Petty and his Superbird," I said. I spooled out racing stories, one after the other.

Just talking about the Superbird got my juices flowing again. It's not too late, I told myself. I'm going to find that car and buy it. I grabbed Thomas. "Wanna take a ride?" I asked.

I had no idea whether the Superbird owner still lived at the address I had scrawled on a piece of paper and shoved into the bottom of a drawer. Thomas and I drove over to the house anyway. Looked around. Nothing on the street. I craned my neck, trying to see behind the house. There it was! The white tip of the Superbird's spoiler. I felt my heart quicken.

I spotted the owner sitting in a lawn chair out front. I parked and jumped out. "I worked on your Superbird when I was a kid," I told him. "Do you mind if I show it to my son?"

"Heck, no," he said. He led us to the backyard. There it sat.

"That's your dream car?" Thomas asked, his voice cracking.

I can't say I blamed him for being skeptical. The Superbird, the immaculate Superbird of memory, had rusted into a heap of junk. The paint job had faded. The finish was pocked with more holes than Swiss cheese. The man caught my surprise. "She's been sitting out here for the last nine years," he said. "I didn't have anywhere else to put her."

I ran my fingers over the car's fender, just as I did at 15. It still looked beautiful to me. "Any chance you would sell it?" I asked him.

"Heck, no," he said, shaking his head. "That car's not for sale."

I led Thomas back to our car and we drove away. "Dad," he said, "you really want that car, don't you?"

"More than any other car in the whole world," I said.

"Then keep asking him. The same way I bug you when I really want something. I bet he'll sell it to you," Thomas said, nodding wisely.

I glanced at him. Out of the mouths of babes, I thought.

I heard through the grapevine that the car might be up for sale.

One day the owner called me. "I sold my house," he said. "I can't take the Superbird with me. It's yours if you want to buy it."