Classic Car Painting

(I started writing this on 6/21. I'm not exactly that slow of a typist. It's just that, between Scrabulous, moving, work, unpacking, and the rest of my life, I just got around to finishing the story. (Because it's 7/10, I also need to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHRISTINA. WE ARE NOT OLD. WE ARE COUGARS!)

Bald Hot Ken and his oldest son, Bald Hot Kenny, helped me move a bunch of stuff into my new place over the weekend. Since Kenny was the product of a teenage pregnancy and Ken, Sr. takes very good care of himself, the two look more like brothers than father and son. Anyway, the two follicular-challenged hotties borrowed a pickup, help me load it with bins and boxes from my storage room, and headed to Milton so I could get a jump on my move. (The kids and I officially moved in on 6/27--my birthday.)

Since the truck was piled high with my belongings, Cautious Ken Sr. drove in the far right lane and never went over 50 mph. We were only on the highway for a few miles when I heard the sound of something hitting the road behind us.

"Uh-oh," said Ken, "Something fell." I was in the back seat of the extended cab truck so I couldn't see the side view mirrors or anything through the boxes that were blocking the rear window.

"Uh-oh," added Kenny. "It hit a car." I craned my neck, trying to see over, around, or through the boxes. As we pulled over to the side of Rt. 3, Kenny elaborated, "I think it was paint."

Did he say "paint????????I felt sick to my stomach as I remembered the Rubbermaid container filled with leftovers from various "art" projects (e.g., the minivan, a dresser, a lampshade, Ruby's old bed). Most of the paint was free from my old job and Craigslist but I don't like to waste anything so I hung on to it for possible future decorative painting projects. I was actually quite proud of myself for organizing it into a single bin and labeling the lid.

When I saw the car behind me, I felt nauseous and faint...and very, very afraid of what might happen next. Directly behind our truck sat a Beautiful, obviously antique, cherry red convertible...with the top down.

The driver, who I later learned was Phil Carrington, did not yell, swear, glare, call the cops, stamp his feet, take a swing at us, or do any of the other things I would have done. Instead, he got out of the car and asked if we had any towels.

Quick-Thinking Ken suggested we take the mostly green, white, and blue-paint splattered car to a car wash that was just off the next exit. Phil agreed and somehow managed to peer over the paint-splattered windshield to follow us to the car wash. During the next hour, while Ken fed quarters into the self-serve car wash and Kenny, Ken, Phil, and I gently but thoroughly scrubbed paint off the car, I befriended Phil. Most people wouldn't sue their friends. Plus he was a nice guy.

I learned that Phil lived on the Cape but grew up in Milton; the car was a 1970 Barracuda; and that Phil bought the vehicle new in 1970 as gift for his wife. I also learned that he paid $5000 for the car and that his lovely bride wouldn't let add the option of a Hemi engine. When I asked Phil if he was just out for a drive, I learned that he was on his way to a car show to show off his beautiful, cherry red Barracuda convertible.



Are you fricken kidding me????!!!!

Then, add to the weirdness, Phil told me that the reason he didn't panic was that the same thing happened to his daughter the month prior. She was riding behind a truck, a box of paint fell off and paint got all over her car. He knew from the experience that the paint would come off if you didn't let it dry.

Phil seemed calm but confused about the fact that paint regularly gets transported in open trucks on the highway.

"Are you painters?" he asked.

"No," I answered. "I'm moving."

"Who moves paint?" asked Phil, with a surprising lack of judgment in his tone.

Not me again.