Parked out front of Woodrow’s was this beauty of an old car, a classic, with a sweet two-color paint job. I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, but I thought I recognized an old friend running his hand along the hood and explaining something about the car to one of the khaki-wearing onlookers. He looked like Thomas Gonzalez, my roommate my first semester at UT. He had the same tight curls covering his head, and he postured and gestured in that same semi-effeminate way. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
Thomas was crazy. Not crazy, crazy, but that well-thought out delusioned kind of crazy where he seems really sane and easy-going, but he’s just not looking at the world right. But he loved to work on cars.
He was a good guy. I think his father drank too much and he’d spent his life over-shadowed by a younger brother who was better in school and better with the girls, and worse yet, better with cars than Thomas would ever be. Growing up like that, your grandest dreams handed, one right after the other, to someone else, right in front of you, day after day, year after year, well, that makes a man humble. That makes anyone humble. And it makes you thankful for what you have. That makes you a good guy.
Thomas, more than anything else, wanted to build Corvettes. He loved Corvettes. He had a half-dissembled carbuerator on his desk in the dorm and stack of several month-old car magazines lying around. He probably bought them with a bit of flush cash when he first moved into the dorm. Most of us were broke after we’d frittered the financial aid money away in those first weeks at the beginning of each semester.
Being broke, most of us hung around playing videogames or watching Beevis and Butthead. Mostly, we were just looking for trouble.
So when my car wouldn’t start, Thomas was more than happy to help. A gang of us, bored, agitated with wasting youth were more than happy to trek to the back forty where my car was parked, dead.
Wouldn’t start.
I had this sweet, maroon Pontiac Firebird. Thomas kind of squinted at it funny, and I’m sure he was making it look like a Corvette. He loved Corvettes.
Jorge was there. Me. Thomas. And at least two others. We pushed it to the top of this hill (in Austin, they pave hills for parking lots). We wanted it at the top of this hill because it was a standard, and if you get a standard rolling fast enough — or so the theory goes — and then pop the clutch, the engine has no choice but to start.
We’d tried this a couple of times in the flat parking lot towards the bottom of the hill: a bunch of monkeys pushing a maroon Pontiac Firebird around a parking lot as fast as they could in the middle of the night and wondering why it wouldn’t start.
If I had a Physics degree I could probably explain the process thusly: the inertial rotation caused by the vehicles present velocity, upon imposition of the gear mechanism, forces the pistons to turn, in turn forcing combustion in the engine, and further piston rotation.
So we obviously hadn’t been able to get the car going fast enough. It was obvious, really.
Being educated men — we were college boys, after all — and noticing the incline of the steep fucking hills we had to climb every time we came out this way, we decided we could get the car moving real good if we got the car to the top of the hill and then pushed it down.
Now it was a light car, and there were several of us, but it’s a steep hill and it took some cussing and some sweat in the humid Austin night. At the top, we maneuvered the car so it was pointing down-hill and rested for a moment. That was hard work.
So this was the plan. Several of us line up behind the car and push. Thomas, the resident car expert stood beside the open driver’s side door to push. When he judged the car was going fast enough, he would jump in and pop the clutch. This system had been working fine all night, so we saw no need to change it now.
Below us we had a plenty good stretch of parking lot. The moon was out, and we were men, dragging machines, Man’s dominion over nature, around like the Gods we always knew we were. In essence, we were 18 and not just ready to take over the world. We were taking over the world, that very moment, just as soon as we got the Firebird running.
Thomas gave the steering wheel a final adjustment. His truck was parked down that way a bit, and we didn’t want to hit that by accident. Otherwise, the parking lot was almost completely empty. Everybody was ready, got into a good pushing stance. Glancing around, we all affirmed we were ready, and then we were off.
It’s not hard to push a car down hill. We were running almost right off the bat.
The Firebird took the slope eagerly. In fact, it accelerated so fast, we were having a hard time keeping up. As it streaked down the hill we realized that even if we caught the car, there wasn’t anything we could do.
We just dropped off and watched. What else are stupid apes supposed to do?
Thomas on the other hand was half-running and half being dragged as he held onto the car door. We shouted the helpful and encouraging things panicked youth and real Men of the World yell when something goes all too well. “Jump in!” “Hold on!” “Let go!” I’m sure Thomas thought we were most helpful.
And then there’s the steering. Thomas couldn’t steer. He’s too busy holding on, so the car starts drifting. Adrift as it raced down the hill the front left wheel jumped a median. A pole caught the driver’s side door, slamming it shut. Thomas was nowhere to be seen.
Obviously he’d gotten inside the car, but he must’ve lost a finger or slammed his head or something, so we’re hauling ass down the hill. Thomas steps out of the car just fine, looking pensive.
He hadn’t managed to pop the clutch. I got it towed later that week.