I have been turning wrenches since I was 5 years old. My old man, being a mechanic his whole life, got me into it. I remember going out to the garage at my grandparent’s house, seeing my young father working on one of his projects. I would always ask him, “Dad, are you going to get your hands dirty?”. To my little 5 year-old ass, getting my hands greasy and washing them with gojo was fucking awesome. Of course, my dad, not missing an opportunity to pass off the grunt-work, had me clean parts. My job was to hand him tools and clean parts. My reward for helping out was letting me play with the air hose and nozzle. Whatever was left in the compressor tank, I got to blow dirt and leaves and shit around the garage and driveway till the air an out. Good enough compensation for a kid.
I must not fail to mention the numerous times I would fuck around and get yelled at and sent into the house, bawling. Kids naturally fuck around at the worst times, and a garage is no place for kid fucking-arounding. I know damn well I’ll be sending my son into the house crying when he fucks around. Can’t wait till that day! But… it never kept me from wanting to help my dad out.
My first safety lesson was when I was about 7. I learned to respect a floor jack. My dad was working on my grandfather’s Cutlass Supreme (which is now mine) and had to go underneath it. I was out there helping, and I laid my eyes on the jack handle. My dad pulled me to the side and told me, “Son, see this handle. Don’t touch it. If you do, no more Dad.” Every time I work on a car now and raise it with my floor jack, I always repeat that line in my head.
One of my first technical lessons was how to use a [click-style] torque wrench, when I was 12. My dad told me that when I was done using it, I should always turn the torque setting to its lowest. When I asked why, he put me into a headlock, squeezed hard and asked me, “Could you sleep if I had you like this?”. Of course I said “no”. Then he loosened his grip on me and asked me the same question, to which I replied “yes”. Again, every time I put a torque wrench away, I think of that lesson.
My dad has taken me to numerous car shows throughout the years: Pomona, Long Beach, Hot August Nights, Moorpark-High Street and Simi Valley-Metro link Station to name a few. I was hooked on cars from the first time I went to one. Seeing car after car made me want to grow up fast and get my own. Also, let’s not forget to mention the NHRA drag races. Nitro methane fumes, burnt rubber smoke and the noise made it the experience of a lifetime.
It was around this time that the transmission on my dad’s ’85 El Camino SS took a shit, leaving us stranded on the way to Sears to do our weekly tool shopping spree. I helped my dad rebuild the tranny and watched him try to install the torque converter. This is where I learned to kick shit across the garage when something doesn’t want to be installed, and to call parts “mother-fuckers”, “bitches”, etc. when they don’t cooperate. But, we got it, albeit with tranny fluid every goddamned where.
When I was 18 and in my senior year of high school, my grandfather gave me his old 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. I’ll never forget getting my driver’s license and going down to his house to go pick it up. It was a Saturday, so that meant I had another few days to get it ready to drive it to school. Once I got the call that it was insured, I drove it. It was that following Friday well after school. I just got in with one of my friends and drove around town. No particular place to go. Just out. I drove it to school that next Monday. My “misadventures” as a teenager with a V8-powered old car will be saved for another blog.
From then on started my real adventure of wrenching on my own car. I went through a lowrider phase, just wanting to cruise slowly and play oldies. Well, that got old real fast as soon as my dad taught me how to rebuild the Rochester Quadrabog (sorry, I hate those things. It’s all about the Holley). As soon as I bolted it back on, I did my first burnout. Never has a surge of adrenalin felt so good. I decided right then and there that hot-rodding was for me. No more of this low & slow shit. I traded in the wifebeaters for white t-shirts. The ironed khakis for Levi 501’s. The Always-clean white canvas shoes for black hi-top Chucks. I became known for the “car guy who always wears blue jeans and white t-shirts".
My challenge though lay in getting familiar with my car. Trial and error is how you learn. Thanks dad for bailing me out of the jams I got into. Also, I made a group of friends and we all had old cars. We spent many a Friday nights turning wrenches and drinking beer. They are also the ones who exposed me to Rockabilly. Because of them, I made my final transformation from white t-shirt/jeans/muscle car guy to Greaser. I put classic rock on the back shelf (don’t get me wrong, I still like it) and put Rockabilly front and center, and haven’t’ looked back since. All of my “trial & error” can be seen by the coolant/oil/tranny fluid/gear lube stains on the driveway at my parent’s house.
While I was in college, my dad walked me through rebuilding my first engine. I replaced the tired old 305 smallblock with a 350. The real technical lessons were learned: how to use Plastigage, measure cylinder bore size, how to assemble the rotating assembly, and how to assemble the heads. I took it upon myself to port the heads, making my dad’s compressor work overtime and trip the circuit breaker a few times, not to mention covering half the garage with iron dust. To those who R&R engines, please remember to put coolant in the radiator before you fire it up.
So there, to sum it up, I have my dad to thank first and foremost for my interest in cars. My old friends: Nate, Mark & Newt, you guys know who you are. Thanks for the Friday nights we shared wrenching and drinking beer. But my old friend Nate, I have to especially thank for teaching me how to do burnouts (responsibly), how to do doughnuts, to use bailing wire/zip ties and various other automotive tomfoolery a bunch of Greasers can cause.
And now, I have my own garage to work in. No longer will I have to navigate the “trails” between mountains of car parts and shit in my dad’s garage. I will now be able to really work on my Olds, build a Harley and work on the 1961 GMC that my dad and I will co-own and work together on (I see a Paul Sr./Paul Jr. situation brewing there) to get ready for Viva Las Vegas 15. My wife also wants me to fix up a ’63 Falcon for her, so looks my hands will be full of weekends drinking beer and busting knuckles.
I think this sentimental moment calls for a beer. Right now, I feel like an ice-cold Bass Ale. Salud!
