Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Hunt For The Crown Vic - Part I


Hunt for the Crown Vic -Part I

S.A.R.


Our day begins with breakfast. It is a ritual that Psycho Jack and I have held between us since the late 70’s and while I myself am apt to switch gears easily, no one is more a chained to his habits than Jack. Usually we break bread at ‘Hucks’ in Burien because of the ‘Mountain Man’ breakfast of mushed eggs, hashbrowns and other vegetable entrails (Excellent with the requisite large dollop of tabasco.) So it was an out of character move that Jack agreed to meet me in the south end for a meal at my favorite morning spot, Mr. A’s.
Personally, I think it was simply the name of the place that hooked the J, knowing Psycho as a man attached to the language of snappy catch phrases and film noir imagery, the title of this eatery summoned a mob feel to it. And no sooner than we had been seated by the coffee girl in one of the overstuffed, oval booths did Jack spot the mobbish proprietor, Mr. A himself.
A John Gotti look-alike, Mr. A was holding court behind the open grill counter, waggling a ring festooned finger at three waitresses and mumbling something that Jack was sure was a Sicilian/American tongue lashing.
(Jack in Mr. A’s character): ‘And you Sophia...how many times have I told you to meet the customers at the door!.. you must NOT keep them waiting....’
Psycho’s face assumes a ‘one eyebrow raised’ angle while he waggles his finger at me. I’m sure that Mr. A or at least one of his girls can see Jack doing this and I feel the familiar blush of embarrassment at his
dependable behavior. Especially since Jacks version of the dialogue is almost always laced with his idea of how all movie scenes should sound, and thusly, there is no shortage of ‘fuckin’s, gawdamns, and sonovabitches.’
Our waitress rolls up just as Jack finishes up his last sonovabitch. She smiles demurely and makes the mistake of asking Jack if he is ready to order. “ OH.. YEAH.. SHIT.. AHHH.. COFFEEEEE AND.. LOTSA HONEY,’ Jacks voice cranks up to announcement volumn. “ AND WHATEVER MY FRIEND HERE WILL HAVE.”

Psycho’s booming voice is his most recognizable trademark, at least until you see him. And most people who make his acquaintance will back me up on this. Jack is truly heard before he is seen in most cases and I attribute this to two things; Firstly, Jacks stint in the Armed Services. Psycho Jack is the first one to pull ear plugs out of his jacket when you see him at the gun range, truck pull or ACDC concert and I am certain that he learned the value of the little foam inserts from the practical experience of having an M16 cracking off rounds next to his head in some ditch in Italy at midnight in a rainstorm while on manuevers during war games. And this had to have inflicted some hearing loss, coupled with Psycho’s love of the high-throttled throaty thrum of his 69’ Shovel-head Harley and blaring rock songs on the radio.
Jack is hell with a remote control, mashing down the ‘volumn up’ button on his stereo until the big speakers threaten to rattle off the wall shelves.

Secondly, I believe that it is part of Jack’s self image, to be larger than life. Like a caricature of a modern day pirate, one who storms his way through each moment dedicated to leaving a psycho/sonic trail, at least, in the soundtrack of the movie that is his life. (Along these lines, I routinely imagine Jack in movie scenes that I construct as I observe him, complete with panning and dollying shots, tights and overheads, either at his house or in his car, Jacks radio often supplying the amazingly perfect music bed for each storyboarded scene. I can even see the soundman wincing and raising his boom mike every time Psycho’s turn to speak pops up). Once you’ve heard him, the image of Jack falls into place nicely. Now 38 years old, and a solid 6 plus feet and 250 pounds of english/anglo pastiness, his high and tight, blondish army haircut is nearly unecessary given the lack of onsite hair to begin with. Deep set green eyes and questionable, ancestral british teeth, his head is the size and shape of a healthy pumpkin. Like his father was, Jack is a heavy man, and watching him walk is almost painful. Huge strides in buffed jungle boots, his enormous thighs and gut forcing each footfall into an easily audible address of his imminent arrival. He is a denim guy and nearly always wears suspenders, I must suppose, because his dad wore them. In spite of his ungainly appearance, Psycho has had years of marital arts training and in a semi-drunken sparring match with him years ago, he nearly broke my jaw.
We sup at the very good egg dishes and Jack lays out his plan.

“Ahhhh...” J’s face gets pensive. He stirs his honeyed coffee and then looks up to catch my eye. “ I found one..in the paper this morning,” I wait patiently for the other shoe. “ It’s a ‘95, which is not reallllly the year I want, I’d rather have a ‘96... but it’s worth looking at.” Now I remember that Psycho is looking for a car. And not just any car, but an upgrade of the one he favors for his daily driver, the ‘81 Dodge Diplomat Ex-Police Pursuit Cruiser.
Today the car favored by Police Agencies all over the nation is the Ford ‘Crown Victoria’ or Crown Vic to the initiated. It has all the same accoutrements that the original cars came equipped with, as well as the added benefit of air bags, anti-lock brakes, and improved gas mileage.
Jack has a long standing interest in this kind of auto, although he rarely elaborates on his reasoning beyond the fact that they are routinely well-maintained as fleet vehicles. Of course there are multiple scenarios that could flesh out his real reasons, and I posit that they begin with a desire for power.

Simple power over Joe Citizen is what Jack needs. The need to be a couple of heads above the guy on the street. So, a used car with the barely concealed visage of authority, ( that grill in your rear view mirror, that low profile and those antennas bristling from the top and trunk ) creates the millisecond of fear on the highway and in your driveway that Jack uses to his advantage. I know what I’m talking about here because I’ve owned two of these cars myself, an ‘83 Diplomat and a ‘86 Dodge St. Regis Ex-State Patrol Sergeant’s Car.

And yes, I’ll admit that I liked the unusual sense of pseudo-authority these cars offered. I picked up the ‘83 for $1500 bucks, put a Police scanner in it and a blue coffee mug on the dash that rudely resembled the blue light of a real cop car. The result was amazing. On the freeway I would nose up to within six or eight lengths of the rear end of cars in the fast lane and they would always, instantly move to the right.


On at least three occasions, while on my way home from working late shifts, I approached traffic accidents or crime scenes and would be waved in. (I always whipped a ‘louie’ or manuevered around and out of those areas.)

Now, 15 years later, I think about my motivations and chuckle to myself. Eventually I became bored with these cars - the novelty wore off - and so I am left to wonder why Jack still wants them. He doesn’t equip them with any extraneous gear, save the non-functioning spot-light. And the reasoning of an economical used car might be filled even better by a Volkswagon or a japanese import. I think it must also be the addition of the mystery of a regular guy just wanting a car like this that also drives Jack to own them.
He’s not a cop-wannabe. He respects the job that Policemen do, but never hestitates to say that he’d never want to join the force. As evidence he points out the statistics of shooting and stabbing injuries sustained by Cops on the job - especially during domestic disputes - as the worst sort of job perk.
It’s more like Jack to maintain a layer of secrecy about himself, to act as a buffer. It gives him time, I think, to route out the motivations of everyone he deals with. So in routing out my own motivations, Jack folds a twenty onto the check tray and asks, “Whaddya think bro..should we go look at it?”
“I’ve got a better idea, J.. lets go...I’ll leave the tip.”

Across town is the Washington State Government Auto Auction. It is a huge carlot situated on 30 acres of Auburn Valley silt and is the repository of the vehicular castoffs of bloated governmental transportation budgets - here because of long standing, hand-in-pocket deals that County, State and City governments have with big automakers and local dealers - and here also as bank repos and drug dealer confiscations
They are publicized as the go-to place for a steal deal on great used cars. The ads blare from TV sets like air raid warnings. “DRUG CONFISCATED CARS AS LOW AS $500.00!!” --- “GOVERMENT AGENCY TRANSPORTATION FOR PENNIES”--- “FEDERALLY-SEIZED VEHICLES”
“POLICE IMPOUNDS AND IRS TAX REPOSSESSIONS FOR AS LITTLE AS $50.00”

All of this speaks volumns to Psycho. The buzz words must burn in his ears as we amble in through the swinging doors and sign up to get a bid number. The girl behind the counter hands us both auction lists and points us towards the yard door. The place is busy, with lots of different types milling about the neatly spaced cars and trucks. Off in one corner is where the action is already taking place. A metal building with a drive-thru is packed with people surrounding cars idling in single file. As we approach we can hear the auctioneer’s maddening verbalizations. “ Forda-dollas, forda-dollas, forda..FIFTA dollas.. Dew-I-ear Sixty..WE GOT SEVENTY-FIBE, Dew-I-hear..EIGHTY>>goin’...goin’ ---SOLD!! $6thousanssevenhunerdfifty number 326..NOW....wegotta 97chev..(bla,bla,bla)..”

I am aggravated by the staccatto blast of the microphone through the poor quality speakers and I stop short of the throng. Psycho notices and turns toward me. “ Let’s just go check out what’s in the lot first, Jay,” I say in Jack-style tones.

We move towards the middle of the lot where guys with clipboards are poking under hoods, firing up engines and slamming trunks. From past conversations with Jack, I know pretty much what it is he is looking for parameter-wise. I spot a Gray one right away.
“Crown Victoria, 96” I say proudly to him and Jack is surprised, “ Shit Man.. Good eyes!” Psycho goes into a daze as he walks around the car. His focus is intensified and I stand back and watch as he smooths his hands over the hood, finds the door handle and gets inside. “Pop the hood, J” I yell from the front and he yanks the lever. Now comes the information harangue that I’ve learned to expect from Jack. Even though he knows that I am aware of the mechanical basics of these cars, He never forgets to list all the features of them, like an attorney going over boilerplate legalese, he reiterates the facts in case I suppose, he thinks I might forget.

“This is the Cleveland 351 man..without all the pollution bullshit..heavy duty cooling, trans cooler, lifetime battery... fuck man.. this thing gets 20 PLUS miles per gallon!” He leans his big pasty face into mine, “Hows that big truck of yours looking NOW!” Jack unfurls his best guffaws here, attracting the attention of people nearby. Never mind that the joke isn’t that funny--Psycho is often a man of crudely manufactured punchlines--the real laugh is Jack himself, as he holds his ample hand to his ampler gut and rears back on his heels.
I must admit that I enjoy this, and I snigger along with him as he galumphs his way around to the trunk, already slightly ajar. He whiffs it open and says.. “YEP...three bodies and you’d still have room for your shotgun and a six-pack!” I wheel away and sit in the driver seat. The keys are in the ignition and I crank the thing over. Jack piles into the rear seat and screws his face up, knowing that I can see him in the mirror. “ HEY MAN... I DIDN’T FUCKIN’ DO IT MAN... THE BITCH WAS DRUNK.”
This is Jacks imitation of a ‘perp’ who is on his way to jail. He crosses his hands behind his back, almost like he’s knows the position too well. I yell back to him, “ Shut the hell up.. You have the right to remain stupid, if you should refuse an attorney, a nightstick will be introduced to your melon...DO YOU UNDERSTAND!”
More chortling follows and I feel a shadow cross my window. I am startled to see an official looking belt buckle right at eye level. A face with a State Troopers hat leans down into mine. I clicked the ignition off and rolled the window down. “You fella’s like this one do ya?” the Bull asks in a strangely friendly way. Before I can say anything, Jack is out of the back and joking with the Cop.
“YEAH MAN.. YOU KNOW.. I NEED A CAR FOR WORK AND .. THIS ONE IS LOOKIN’ GOOD!”
The Patrolman nods and hooks his thumbs under his belt. “This one is part of a fleet reduction from our department, my friend drove this car ,” he offers. “ Never wrecked, mostly just freeway miles.”
I ease out of the seat, feeling weirdly guilty, and I notice the hugeness of the Policeman.Jack and I are both 6 foot 1 and this guy with the funny hat was nearly a foot taller than we were.
As the unlikely pair bantered, I moved away from them, feeling uneasy even though I haven’t done anything even remotely illegal since I stole some candy from a 7-11 when I was 13.

I scanned the Auction list and found two other Crown Vics. A ‘95 and a ‘97. Psycho notices that I’m walking away and he catches up with me. “ Shit Man..if ya ever want an inside tip on these cars.. THAT’s the guy to talk to, man....He told me about how he drove the shit outta his car and it still came back for more!” The idling motors and the auctioneers voice mixed up the noise so Jacks voice didn’t seem so loud.
“Ok,” I say, “ Here’s a 95.. says it has a leaking head gasket.” The white ex-police car looked sad and abused. “ Shit Buddy.. that’s nothing....I mean.. I bet I could have the heads off this thing in an afternoon.” Jack climbed in and started it up. The engine had a slightly wheezy sound that the first one lacked. “ I don’ t know, J... Maybe we should move on.” We walked a little further, scanning the tops of the cars. “The list shows a Blue ‘97 here somewhere.” I said. I saw the Trooper off in the distance looking like a forest service tower in a prairie of metal car roofs. “ HERE IT IS!” Jack trumpets, and sure enough, standing slightly away from the others is a Midnight Blue ‘97 Crown Vic Police Pursuit Interceptor. (Next: Part II)

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