One more car memory....

 All this talk about new cars has got my memory cells working in overdrive. I'm reminded of the time I challenged a co-worker at the grocery store to a drag race. He was a pompous, snot-nosed, spoiled, perfect complexion, well-rounded personality type that none of the rest of us could stand. He had his pick of any of the girls he chose to date without losing a drop of nervous sweat over the possibility of a rejection. He was the guy we loved to hate. His name was Ray Bands.....I kid you not. Oh sure, he probably adopted the "Ray" from Raymond or some other ill-fitting nomenclature but the name stuck. Ray Bands was at the top of his game in the year 1967 when all the rest of us were still trying to figure out what it was that made girls run in horror from us if we showed them the least amount of attention.

I still don't remember what weird feeling came over me the day Ray was at the store on one of his many days off, showing off his newest purchase, a baby blue 1957 Chevy, two door hardtop, 327, 4 speed on the floor.....mint....not a scratch or flaw of any kind. It was the car I had dreamed of whenever I wasn't dreaming of the lovely Melba Peach from sixth grade miraculously walking into the store wearing her Hurst Jr. High cheerleader outfit even though we had left junior high behind years before.....I'm sorry, where was I? Anyway, I couldn't stand it that he had everything he ever wanted....he had probably even dated Melba Peach at some point in the past. During his rundown on the overall qualities of his new purchase, I had all I could take. I said to him, "Ray, it's pretty and all but I just bet I can beat you on a quarter mile drag race!" 

Let me say at this point in today's story, I'm reminded I have already told you all about this race. You remember of course, Ray laughed at me and my 1953 Studebaker, six cylinder, 3 speed on the floor conversion. Laugh he might...but I happened to have driven my dad's 1960 Bonneville to work that day. Having accepted my challenge, we walked out to the parking lot where I quickly left Ray and his puny little 327 in the dust. I never told my dad I had raced his Pontiac so I am still alive today to talk about it. Ray never spoke to me again, which was not a problem for me but he also stole my girlfriend du jour to put me back in my respective place on his imagined social ladder. 

This is just another story about other people's cars. I personally have never owned anything worth talking about but I can sure brag about all the cars others in the family have owned. I won't do that though. I'm a humble sort of guy.