My ’51 Chevy. There it was. On TV. Driving down the street. In Cuba.
The scene I saw from Havana looked like a movie from the 50’s. That’s how old all, and I must emphasize all, of the cars were.
What prompted the story on TV was a plumber from the states who traded in his old truck for another one. He didn’t bother to remove his logo from the side, possibly assuming when he let it go, it was heading for scrap metal. Instead it wound up in Havana with his logo still on it. One problem—he wasn’t plumbering in Havana.
But some people in the states thought he had defected or something, because they became angry and took to the social media to tell him. Maybe his story on TV explained the situation sufficiently to satisfy any doubters.
Honestly, sometimes these people just don’t stop to think. Here in the states you’re normally dealing with a $70 or $80 charge just for the plumber to show up in your driveway. They must have a taxi meter attached to their belt when they walk through the door, because it starts accumulating more money. If you stop to think about airline fare, and airline extra fees, and hotel, etc., this plumber would have had to charge $3,278.31 just to show up in a customer’s driveway in Havana.
How do I get my ’51 Chevy back? I’m certainly not going to have those folks in D. C. negotiate for me. They’d want to swap 60 new Mercedes for my ’51 Chevy. I don’t happen to have 60 new Mercedes sitting around in my 60-car garage.
I think Papa John paid $250,000 to get his old Camaro back. Maybe the first car he ever owned, I don’t know.
I’m not going to let Papa John negotiate for me.
I know. I’ll offer them tickets to the 1952 World Series. Actually it will be a copy of two tickets to the 1952 World Series. I can get that for $50.
With the cars being so old in Cuba, I figure their communications are slow as well. Raul and Fidel probably haven’t gone on TV to tell everybody that the 1952 World Series has already been played.
When I get my beloved ’51 back stateside, I do have another couple of problems. I’ll have to call in CSI. No, not to investigate any crime. To check the car over.
If they want to scan the car for Raul and Fidel bugs that’s okay, but the main thing I want is for the car to be de-womanized.
You see, I can’t remember if my now wife was the only one who ever rode in the car. She is the only wife I’ve ever had, but I call her my now wife, because at the time I’m referring to here she was one of a long line of girls.
You must remember we were all young then. Girls were rather nonchalant with their lipstick, and one or more lipstick tubes may still be under the seat or somewhere else if the shenanigans we were up to caused the lipstick tubes to be hurled someplace else.
Now if the lipstick belonged to my now wife, and she found it, she’d simply say, “I had been looking for that.” If it belonged to a girl now a lady not my now wife, I can assure you my now wife will find it. Whereupon her kind demeanor would change abruptly, and she would say, “Who does this belong to?”
There’s another glitch CSI must solve. Young girls always seemed to empty a bottle of perfume on them to impress impressionable boys, me in this case. Do you know how long that perfume scent hangs around in a car? I can tell you. Longer than 63 years.
First words out of my now wife’s mouth, “Who’s perfume is that?”
Despite all of the mechanizations, it will be good to have my old ’51 Chevy back. I’ll just sit in it, and reminisce about old times until my now wife pulls me by my ear out of the car, and tells me to wipe that smile off my face.
“But honey, “I’ll say, “Remember………………………….”
Then she will say, “What?”
I’m hoping that what I remember is what took place with my now wife and not another girl, because my now wife will remember if that was her and not another girl, and that’s not good for me to remember if it wasn’t.