The Rust Bucket of Freedom

The zig zig zag patterned seats could have been the fabric for the suit of a Jazz musician. A Delco AM radio rested proudly in the dashboard not knowing it had become antiquated as it filled the car with the didactic voices of preachers or frenzied ramblings of talk show hosts. Rust had done its job on the wheel wells and doors. It was more of a junker and a rust bucket than the dream car for a  sixteen-year-old boy in 1985, but I didn’t care. I loved this lumbering 1973 four-door Chevy Impala. It was mine and meant freedom from the borders of suburbia. 

My Mom’s boyfriend, who was a used car salesman, helped me find the car for three hundred bucks. The day he drove it into our driveway was the only day I was happy to see his mopish bald head that was punctuated with a bulbous nose. As soon as his nicotine stained fingers placed the keys into my hand I felt the surge of possibility vibrate the molecules in my being. 

My brother did a half-assed job of replacing the Delco radio with a Pioneer radio/cassette player. It simply filled the space where the radio had been. The speakers weren’t mounted, but placed behind the backseat so they would slide back and forth anytime I rounded a corner. 

I was in the throes of discovering new music and I was no longer interested in the repetitive cycle of Chicago FM radio. I was into Iggy Pop, The Clash, The Deadmilkmen, Suicidal Tendencies, The Dead Kennedys, Violent Femmes, Talking Heads, REM, U2, and The Waterboys. I bought several packages of blank cassettes and recorded my favorite albums and made mix tapes. In addition to new bands I was learning about the Blues and would record the local public Radio show “Blues Before Sunrise.”  

After my Mom was asleep I’d hop into the Impala, pop in a cassette and drive in any direction. Often I’d head north towards Illinois farmland as Muddy Waters moaned while the yellow moon followed  across cornfields, farmhouses and barns. If the moon wasn’t prevalent and the roads were dark I’d switch off the headlights and drive with the stars as my audience. 

One day as one of my high school teachers droned on about I-don’t-know-what because I never paid attention in school, I had an epiphany - I could be anywhere.  When the bell rang I walked straight to my car and left. Ditching class became my favorite pastime. The consequences for ditching school was a three day suspension. It made me laugh that the punishment was exactly what I wanted, not to be in school. 

Some days when I skipped class I’d make a frozen pizza, nap, or watch reruns on TV. Often I’d drive to I-90/94 and head east to Chicago. I’d exit onto North Avenue and head towards Old Town which was the only neighborhood I vaguely knew. I’d make a plethora of wrong turns trying to remember how to get onto Lake Shore Drive. I’d head north solely and turn around at Sheridan Road solely so I could have lake Michigan to the left of me and Chicago’s skyline before me. This view filled me with the illusion that life was perfect, that my nose was’t crooked, that one day a female would love me, money would always be plentiful and all dreams come true.

Any free night I had I’d drive to Chicago at night to see the free improv sets at Second City. I’d arrive in the city early so I could walk around Old Town. I preferred the city with the lights dimmed as my feet tapped on the pavement as if keeping time with the alluring chatter emanating from taverns. The air felt alive with possibility as if everyone who was out would find what they were searching for.  

When My Mom learned I started hanging around in Old Town she warned me to not go too far south on Wells, “That’s when it starts to get seedy.” Could there be more of a perfect invitation than your mother cautioning you not to do something? 

In the sixties Old Town was the hub for the counterculture and though the yuppies had begun to make their mark with nuvo-cuisine restaurants and overpriced boutiques, remnants of Old Town’s unscrupulous past remained. An adult bookstore let you know you had arrived at the less desirable side of the neighborhood. I didn’t have the courage to enter, but it sent my mind racing with what existed on the other side of the entrance. I did enjoy the show of men trying to enter the store unnoticed. Some would yawn, or pretend to tie their shoes, or act as if they were searching for an address before they made a quick dash through the door.

Further south was the Bijou Theater which showed gay porno films and held live cabaret shows. The theater piqued my curiosity. Other than kissing two girls I had no sexual experience. I had no concept of sex or sexuality. I knew who I was supposed to be, but didn’t know who I was.  All I knew was that the hormones in my body were twisting about and screaming at me adamantly to do something to ease the suffering. Perhaps, the answer was in this theater, or the Adult Bookstore, or perhaps the prostitutes who waved at me as I crossed the North Avenue bridge. I never attempted to satiate these curiosities. I was too scared to even entertain the idea. 

At the far end of Wells was Bizarre Bazaar, a store that sold a plethora of items with a strong emphasis on dildos, bongs and intricate wood or glass pipes for smoking marijuana. They also sold crack pipes which during the height of the crack epidemic seemed morally questionable.  For legal reasons the drug paraphernalia were displayed with a single Camel Light cigarette protruding from the bowl which was intended to hold an illegal substance. I found it laughable that anyone would wish to power hit a cigarette.

The name of my favorite shop to browse evades me, but I loved everything about it other than the overwhelming scent of cheap incense. As soon as I entered my sinuses and eyes began to itch. The store sold a variety of items none of which had a cohesive theme. There were novelty items like fake mustaches, magnets that read Fuck You It’s Friday, and 8x10 photos and pins of old time Hollywood stars. I’d buy pins of Harpo, Groucho Marx or Buster Keaton and stick them on the lapels of the green army trench coat I had started wearing to appear more urban. The lapels of this coat was where I decided to project to the world of who I was, or more accurately, who I was trying to be. Mixed in with pins of the Marx Brothers were my favorite bands and leftist political comments. I only had a vague concept of  what they meant. It didn’t matter, I was projecting the image of an angry self-righteous young man who was going to change the world. 

The store was run by a transwoman who resembled Divine. In the mid-eighties trans people weren’t as prevalent as they are today. I marveled at her in all her I-Don’t-Give-a-fuck glory. She was always wearing a colorful mumu as she sat on a beat up gold velvet loveseat behind the counter as she smoked a long thin cigarette. A male companion always sat next to her and they’d gossip and laughed. I wanted to be her friend and would try to think of something to say to her as I flip[ed through the photos of Humphrey Bogart or Greta Garbo. As I made my way to the counter an awkward,“How are you?” would fall from my mouth.  “Fine,” she’d reply as she was a prisoner responding to the warden. 

One night after parking on a particularly dark sidestreet I returned to discover the back window of the Impala had been smashed and the speakers stolen. They didn’t notice that the stereo was also an easy grab.   I drove home to the suburbs as I blasted the heater to keep the Illinois winter cold from entering my car. I wasn’t bothered. It was a christening of sorts into the world of city life.

Eventually the Impala died and was replaced with a blue 1973 Chevy Nova  that was so rusted that the water from the street would splash into the car and puddle on the floor. The Nova didn’t last long. One rainy afternoon I hydroplaned through an intersection and went sideways over a curb destroying the suspension. I was now eighteen and without a car. It didn’t matter. I was about to start Columbia College in downtown Chicago. Public transportation was about to be my mode of transportation as my soundtrack played from a Sony Walkman. I was about to experience a new level of freedom.