These guys (Frank Manley, below, and Frank Lies, right) raised me, and yes I spent A LOT of time in garages and at tracks. But they didn't teach me much about cars--forcause I'm a girl, I'm guessing.
But I managed pretty well on my own.
For instance, if your battery cables are loose on a '55 chevy that goes 103 in a quarter-mile and you have a portable clothes iron in the backseat (no idea why, now, but there it was), you can use it to hammer nails in next to the cables and get the battery to work. Probably not recommended.
And if the car still won't start, you can leave the hood up in a shopping center on 13th Street and Oliver in Wichita, Kansas, and eventually a sympathetic woman will stop by and pour her coke over the cables to get them cleaned up--and get the car started.
And if you wear a a yellow-lace two-piece bathing suit and sit with your legs in the engine compartment while holding a big screwdriver and can of Gunk, guys will pull over and offer to help you clean that sucker right up.
Lies did quiz me one day about my red Corvair convertible with the 8-track player and Muntz speakers in the doors:
Lies: Have you noticed anything funny about your car lately?
Me: Yeah. It's pulling to the left a little.
Lies: What do you think might be causing that?
Me: Well, the guy at the gas station said I need an oil change.
Pause
Lies: I'm sure you do. You also have a tire going flat.
Luckily, I amused him more than I irritated him. Of course, the bar was pretty low--forcause, you know, a girl in a garage.
#TrophyGirlNovel
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Love this and miss that Corvair!
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