By Clint McElroy
HQ 108 | WINTER 2020
My hands gripped the steering wheel like the claws of a gargoyle clinging to the roof of an ancient castle. The eyes that stared at me exuded cool confidence. I took a deep breath and eased the car window down. I was about to embark on the riskiest caper of my life, and there was no automobile I would rather be driving than this, the greatest car I would ever own. Its name was The Tank.
The Tank was a 1968 Ford Thunderbird with a lime gold exterior, black Landau roof and black interior. It weighed almost 4,500 pounds. It had rear-wheel drive and a 429 “Thunder Jet” Big Block engine. In the interest of full disclosure, I had to Google the engine specs on my ’68 T-Bird because I honestly don’t know diddley about cars.
What I do know is that The Tank was remarkable. The rear-wheel drive allowed me to peel out on command. The back seat was comfortable and roomy enough for necking at Olympian standards (that’s theoretical only), and it had a massive trunk. It was in this marvelous vehicle that one of my greatest adventures took place.
It was a hot, muggy Saturday night in the summer of 1973 when I decided to round up my buddies and catch a movie at the drive-in. Eight of us set out that fateful night. There was Mayn, Ort, Wally, Raha, Bob-R, Joe the Toe, Hack and yours truly, known by my friends as Mac. But first, we needed provisions.
We decided to stop at Bartram Brothers Grocery Store in Ironton and procure the base essentials needed for an expedition like this: grape Nehi, five cans of Durkee’s French Fried Onion Rings, eight boxes of Screaming Yellow Zonkers and a slew of Vienna sausages which Bob-R swore was pronounced “Vye-eeny.”
We all piled back into The Tank and I navigated my way through Flatwoods, Kentucky, en route to the Corral Drive-In. Done up in a Western theme, the Corral was built on a slope so that each row of vehicles would get progressively lower as you moved down toward the screen. When you pulled in, you drove through what looked like an Old West corral to buy your tickets.
We were just a couple of blocks away when Hack said, “Hey Mac, pull over and pop the trunk.” And that’s when Hack, Bob-R, Ort, Wally, Mayn, Raha and Joe the Toe all climbed into the trunk.
“You’re gonna have to sneak us in, ol’ buddy,” Hack told me.
As Wally reached up to close the trunk he said with a grin, “We spent all our money at Bartram’s.”
“It was the Vye-eenies that put us over the edge,” said Bob-R. “Why do we love the finer things in life?”
Whump! Wally slammed the trunk.
And that’s how I found myself gripping the steering wheel and pulling up to the ticket booth at the Corral. The silver-haired lady in the booth arched an eyebrow as I approached. Who can blame her? She was looking at a young man in a ’68 T-Bird going to an R-rated movie by himself.
Did I forget that detail? The movie that night was Seduce and Destroy, a classic drive-in schlockfest directed by Ted V. Mikels, featuring “an elite army of female assassins in a race against time and death to save the world!” At least that’s what the movie poster proclaimed.
I faked a smile. “One, please,” I stammered. She stared at me, no doubt memorizing my face to describe it to the police later. It was then that a loud metal thwang echoed from the rear of The Tank. I recognized the sound – Bob-R had opened the can of Vienna sausages. Silver-hair’s other eyebrow arched. I had to think fast.
“Darn rear-wheel drive,” I laughed. “I’ve really been having trouble with it.”
I don’t know if she was buying it, but at that moment the driver in the car behind me impatiently honked the horn. Silver-hair rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders and waved me through.
When The Tank was well away from the booth, I called to my co-conspirators in the trunk and asked, “Now what?”
“Drive to the back row where nobody can see,” said Raha. “And let us out! Bob-R’s Vienna Sausages smell like farts.”
“Actually,” Mayn chimed in, “that’s probably not the sausages.”
“For God’s sake, Mac, hurry!” screamed Raha.
“Mayn, cut it out!” cried Ort from the trunk.
“I can’t help it,” said Mayn. “Mom made salmon croquettes!”
Throwing caution to the wind, I reached down and pulled The Tank’s trunk release lever. There was a muffled clunking sound, but the trunk didn’t open. Wally’s hair was jammed in the trunk release mechanism. The cursing, laughing and kicking of the trunk was now attracting attention, and not the good kind. I saw the light click on in the projectionist’s booth, immediately followed by the appearance of a security guard.
Only one thing could save me now. I grabbed the steering wheel and floored it. The Tank zoomed through the crowded rows of cars on a serpentine trajectory, headed for the exit at the bottom of the slope, spewing gravel in its wake. People who were there that night described it as a two-and-a-half-ton skier zig-zagging down a mountain.
With an angry security guard in fruitless pursuit, and a silver-haired ticket seller with an I-knew-that-guy-was-trouble expression on her face looking on, I flew through the exit gate to safety, all the while driving the greatest car I would ever own.
