I think I was 6 years old when my dad began dragging me off to work in his "Speedway 79" gas station. It was located in downtown Detroit behind the Olympia stadium (where the Redwings used to play) and just a few blocks from the MoTown Studios. Not the best of neighborhoods at that time. Each morning began with letting the German Shepherds out of the building and locking them in the kennel so they would not attack the customers. Then I had to set up the pump island displays, stack oil cans, haul out the Bardhal racks, tire displays and change the price signs. The "gas wars" were in full battle mode. The lowest I remember was 8.9 cents for leaded regular and 11.9 cents for ethyl. Lead was big in the fifties. It was in the petrol, paint and pencils, and God knows what else.
Dad was grooming me to become a Detroit "car kid" with hopes of one day changing the business name to Willis & Son. I was really more interested in pitching for the Detroit Tigers. Al Kaline, Gordie Howe and Diana Ross used to drop in from time to time; just to name a few. The highlight of every saturday was the regular visit by my Uncle Les. He took me down to the corner tavern, set me up on the bar where I had a clear view of the street through the window and treated me to a coke. He would then proceed to bet the local patrons that I could name the make, model and engine of every car that passed. I was rarely wrong and uncle Les drank a lot of free beer. That was before all cars looked alike and kids were allowed in bars.
I wasn't old enough to pump gas but I did clean a lot of windshields with a long handle squeegie. I also picked up a lot of dog shit which I still do today. I spent a lot of summer vacations working in that gas station and watched the cars change from fat to flat fenders and grow fins. When the new models came out every year I was on my bike hitting all the new car dealerships, pawing over the new iron and collecting brochures. My mother threw them all out just before she ran off with a bongo player from Toledo.
Leroy, the local car detailer and long time customer used to visit the station every day for his usual peanuts and coke and get fifty cents worth of premium! He was a long and lanky black man who sported a kerosene soaked dew-rag on his head and a cloth diaper hanging from his back pocket. He taught me how to "slap" a car with a chamois and "diaper" buff chrome like a shoe-shine boy. I think it was somewhere in the early sixties when Leroy proudly rolled up in his new (to him) 1954 Chevy 235 six cylinder Bel-Air sedan and said, "Gimme fifty cents worth of premium and check the oil!" I had graduated to checking under the hood by then without a stool. This car had been painted baby blue with a brush! Coon tails dangled from the dual rear antennas. Fuzzy dice hung from the mirror. It sported headlight shades, a chrome swan with blue plastic wings sat proudly on the hood, Woody Woodpecker decals were pasted on the bubble skirts, spinner hubcaps accented the gangster whitewalls and it was all topped off by a black telephone receiver hanging from the bottom of the dashboard. Fake of course.
He rode around with the phone up to his ear talking to himself. He said, "It was to impress the ladies."
Dad would not let me do "tools" until I was twelve. He said it had something to do with responsibility.
You know, put it back where you found it. There was a wrecked 1954 Buick Roadmaster sitting on it's side in the vacant lot next to the station that had been there for years. Not uncommon for downtown Detroit. Now that I was twelve and had tool permission, I proceeded to tear it apart, piece by piece until all that remained was a bare body and frame. I was very proud of my accomplishment until Dad said, "Now put it back together."
Dad is on the right. Tom Bowen, his best friend of 60 years is pictured on the left. Note the overalls and dapper leather gas station guy hat. We're talking grease monkey chic. Dad was not much of a hot rodder. As I remember, all of his cars were factory stock. He spent so much time fixing other people's cars, he had no interest in working on his own. Except for the tow truck which was a giant step up from the old road service jeep.
That's me on the running board. The new truck was supposed to increase business but I don't remember ever seeing it actually tow a car! I guess it's because when cars broke down in downtown Detroit the owners just left them where they quit. From what I hear, they still do that today. I do remember the old truck pushing a few out of snow banks. Dad was a window designer for a department store in Detroit before he bought the gas station. Note the hand lettering. He was a pretty good artist and quite the retailer. He bought a fancy new wheel balancer and dedicated the rear fenders to promote his new gizmo. A buck fifty a wheel plus weights. He used to let me push the starter gadget on the floor.
The guy on the right is my uncle John. He was the car guy in the family. His wife (my aunt) Helen
worked at a Buick dealership and it seemed like John had a new car every month. Buicks and Cadillacs only. Dad was the frugal partner and stuck with his 1950 Ford until he drove home in a brand spanking new pink and white 1955 Ford Crown Victoria - V8 no less! Loved the motor. Hated the pink. It would have been the perfect car to promote breast cancer but, the only breast awareness they had back then was on pin-up calendars in the garage.
So why am I telling you this story? Because this is really where RatRodTV started. Flashback: I never did put the old Buick back together. I didn't have a clue. True to this day. I'm a lot better at taking them apart than I am at putting them back together. And that's why I recruited Rick Ackerman to do our
RatRodTV Essex build. More on this later.
