The time I had the Ford in Louisiana was frenetic, in retrospect. It couldn't have been more than about three weeks, but I found time and occasion to:

• Try spinning the wheels in a parking lot. Result: broken axle. Split six inches off one side of the splined end. While Richard Joyner drove me

  "...why I got shot at..."

  to a wrecking yard to get the $7 replacement, "Pappo," the Puerto Rican mechanic/mapmaker fished out the littler piece with a long loop of insulated automotive electrical wire. By the time Rich and I came back all we had to do was slip the part in, screw it a little, and bolt on the wheel. Smooth. There is no substitute for expertise.
  
  
• Loan it to a not-so-good ole boy who used it to go "N-word swatting." A dolt with a standard straw broom stood behind the front seat as another inbred anchored him and the Neanderthal driver cruised them past bus stops in black neighborhoods. There is no substitute for abject stupidity. And it's not hard to understand why I got shot at a couple times after that.
  
  
• Drive it to an East Texas recreational lake, where a good time was had by all. One of the boys had bought a new product: "Man Tan." After-shave lotion with an ingredient that turned skin sort of a caramel color. Another of the boys kind of surreptitiously tattoed designs on one of the girls' legs. She was one of those clear and pale-skinned dark-haired beauties, and the "tan" didn't fade away while I was still in Louisiana.

• Drive it to New Orleans. Tom Fuhrer and I left on a Friday and returned by Sunday night. I "hocked" the TD to a Shreveport finance company to buy a suit to wear to roommate Lennon Glenn Briley's wedding (it nor I was ready, and we didn't attend), and had a little money left over, so...
  
  We had a marvelous time. Went to Papa Joe's (?) where I knew Milt

  "...Stolen Yellow Ford Convert-ible..."

  Rebennac hung out. Either he wasn't there or he saw me coming. Earlier had I called his number and I heard him tell his Mama he wasn't home? Yup. Between that 10 AM call and Papa Joe's Tom and I made a complete round of Royal and Bourbon Streets, eating free lunch with a beer at most places.
  
  Middle of the afternoon we came back across the street and started up again. I noticed the Ford was not where I left it! Holey Moley! Stolen Yellow Ford Convertible With California Plates lost in Nawlins! There were some parking restrictions posted, and it looked as if we had overstayed by a few minutes.
  
  We headed out to the impound address shown on the signs. Quite a few alcohol-fueled blocks of fast walking in 99.9% humidity later we were at one with the atmosphere and told to find the car in a giant fenced area.  Couldn't.  Find.  The.  Ford.  Fully conscious (so to speak) of our impaired state, we looked again. No more luck. We said the car must have been stolen. From where? asked the officer. 400 block of Royal Street. Uh huh, he said.
  
  We listened as the dispatcher broadcast the description and we thanked

  "...it took a nickel to dial the impound number..."

  the officer profusely. Stepped out into a light rain, a condition that could add nothing to our state of moisture, but was a good excuse to hail a cab. Rode the taxi for a seemingly long time and got out of it in the 300 block of Royal Street.  Right.  Next.  To.  The.  Ford.  Parked exactly where I left it, one too many blocks west of where I thought it was. Thank Bog. No lost car.
  
  Figuring we had an "in" with the impound guys, we left the car there and I stepped across the sidewalk to a public phone. Give you an idea about when this was: it took a nickel to dial the impound number and confess. I heard the officer tell the dispatcher What'd I tell ya?
  
  The Pirate's Alley Beatniks, Tempest Storm, Jax Beer stories have nothing to do with cars. Some other time and place...

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