It looks like we’ve found ourselves in a little mid-July fling with pointless stories about some dude who cruises around in his 1970 Cuda in search of the next piece of ass. Then again, this is the Literary World of Tom Raimbault. We offer plenty of weird stuff, so this shouldn’t be out-of-the-ordinary.
It’s assumed in this mini series of Mopar fantasy stories that the fictional character, Mopar Man, lives somewhere in the early 1970s. He does, after all, purchase the much sought after Mopar muscle cars off the show room floors. Wouldn’t you love to do that?
In today’s featured writing, Mopar Man tells us about a little adventure that he had with a 1971 Plymouth Superbird. Surely you’ve seen them before. They’re the cars that have the big wing in the back. But I learned something about these cars. As you’ll find out, the Plymouth Superbird was initially rejected by consumers back in its day. Sure; if you find one, today, the Superbird will cost you a fortune. But that wasn’t always the case.
I really hate doing this, but I'm going to have to break the story up into two parts. I'm running short on time for writing these days. But I don't like leaving the blog un-updated for too long.
Have a great weekend! Test drive a Superbird at a car lot near you.
Mopar Man Advetures : Superbird (part 1)
You know those Plymouth Superbirds that you see at classic car shows? You know: the ones with the over-extended, big-ass wings on the back that often have the Warner Brothers cartoon figure, The Road Runner? Man, those are the goofiest-looking cars, aren't they?
Sure, I hear you. "What's wrong with a Superbird?"
Okay, I'll correct my statement. I'll say that the Superbird was a car that was ahead of its time. I say that because you kids all want them, now. You hope that Chrysler brings them back like they did with the Chargers and Challengers. But you see; back in the day when these things first appeared on the show room floors, nobody wanted them. They were ugliest cars. People hated them. Some people, when first seeing one, didn't think that it was actually a car; just figured that it was some display or prop set up in the middle of the car lot. And then they'd learn that it was an actual car.
"What's with the big-ass wing on the back?" was usually the first question. "Does it fly?"
(I actually found out that these cars really do fly! I'll get to that, later, in my little story.)
A Plymouth Superbird was big and long; shaped funny and looked like something out of a futuristic comic book. They'd sit there on the lot for months, and no one would buy them. Eventually, the dealer would have to move his inventory, and continued dropping the price until some poor sucker with no money would end up buying one. But that guy soon found out that he was the laughing stock of the neighborhood!
My buddy was one of them. He was selling real estate at the time, and drove an old convertible Roadrunner—dirty lemon colored. It wasn't exactly the sort of car that you would drive around with buyers to show houses to. So his boss told him that he needed to get a new car. And he needed something with air conditioning because it was hot that summer, and buyers didn't want to drive around in the heat.
Well my buddy was starting off in his career, and didn't have much money. So when shopping for a car, he landed a great deal. There sat a 1971 Hemi-orange-colored Plymouth Superbird under a canopy of the outdoor lot. It had sat there for nearly a year while the dealer kept dropping the price. Well, one thing led to another; and my buddy had been suckered into buying that thing for a cheap price. But hey, it had air conditioning. That's what his boss wanted, right?
But everyone at his office laughed at him. And his boss complained that the Superbird wasn't what he had in mind.
And we all laughed at him at a party one Friday night when he and his fiancée cruised over in his brand new Superbird! I remember his fiancée didn’t look too thrilled to be sitting in it.
"Man, you got one of those? You must have gotten a good deal!"
He tried to play it cool and brag that his Superbird was a sophisticated business man's car that had a cast iron Hemi V8 with Holley Four-Barrel carburetor. And of course he bragged about the 425 horse power; not something to really boast, considering that the car was a serious gas-guzzler.
Someone ended up saying, "Well if it was me; I'd do one thing: I'd take a hacksaw and cut that wing off the back."
We all laughed. Good times!
Yeah, I thought those Superbirds were the goofiest-looking cars. And just like everyone else, I hated them. But then came a night when that very car got me one of the best pieces of ass I had ever received. Not only that; the car probably even save my life.
Let me tell you a little back story before continuing. It was a Friday around noon, and I was just returning from my lunch break. At the time I worked as a construction laborer, and was certainly dressed for the job in my baggy, old jeans with holes in them, faded pocket t-shirt, and a dirty pair of work boots. Just as I tossed the empty bags from McDonald's out the window of my car, I happened to look through one of the windows of a shop and saw a beautiful brunette in a pair of tight slacks and a dark, green blouse. I remember that blouse so well! When she walked, her tits totally bounced in it. It made you want to just cop a feel. Man, she was pretty. Her hair was long and shiny.
"Whoa! What is that?" I yelled out loud. I whipped my 1970 Cuda around and head back to what I soon learned was an antique dealer. Lunch break would soon be over, but I just had to park in front of the store and rev my engine good and loud to attract her attention. I quickly glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked good. Back in those days I had shoulder-length hair with low side burns and full mustache. There was a lot going for me in that moment: good looks and a bad-ass Cuda. So I stepped out and entered the shop
There were a few old people in this place just looking at all the old furniture and junk. She seemed like she wasn't busy, so I carefully approached. And the closer I got, the prettier she looked. I didn't even know that women like this existed. She must have been Spanish or Italian with that olive skin; long, black, shiny hair and dark eyes. Did you ever just see a stranger and want to kiss them? Well she was one of those!
She looked at me like I didn't belong there. I mean looking back, I now realize that I was dirty and sweaty; probably not the sort of person you would expect to shop for antiques. She almost had a disgusted look on her face and sounded annoyed while asking, "Can I help you?"
"You sure can." I answered with all the confidence I could muster. "I was driving past the store and saw something that really caught my attention... You see that car?" I asked while pointing out my Cuda.
"Yeah...? The one that you revved and made a lot of noise with just a moment ago?" she asked.
"Right, that one!" I answered. "Well, while driving by I saw you through the window. And I thought to myself that you would look really good sitting in the passenger seat of my car. So what are you doing after work? Wanna go out, tonight, and cruise around?"
She was flabbergasted, and I don't mean that in a good way. She was so cold while answering, "Sir, if you are looking for a date, then there are a lot of bars in town that you can go to." Then she walked over to one of the customers and began discussing the antiques.
I didn't want to be late coming back from lunch, so I stormed out of the antique shop, and peeled out of the parking lot. I was not happy. Although she was so pretty, there was just something about the way she spoke and acted that made you think she was some stuck up bitch—like too good for everyone. In fact, my new name for her was "Sweet-ass".
You know what a "sweet-ass" is, right?
A sweet-ass isn’t necessarily an ass that's really nice. Instead, it's one of those sophisticated, educated, rich women that are too fucking good for everyone. You want her ass, but you can't have it because it's too good for you.—sweet ass: you don't deserve it!
And that's what inspired me to change my strategy with her. You know that song from ZZ Top, 'sharp dressed man'? Actually, that song wouldn't have come out until about ten years later. But the concept of being a sharp-dressed man has been known since the beginning of time. Don't let your friends fool you. Don't let them tell you that women want a roughed-up guy in dirty, stinky clothes. Oh, some do; maybe those sweet-ass bitches that live in mansions and watch the landscapers out the window. They've never had one of those, but have had plenty of wealthy, sophisticated, sharp-dressed gentlemen. The same can be said about the rest of the women out there. They've had plenty of hard-working average guys like you and me; but can't help but become intrigued when they see a sharp dressed man.
But how to change my image to convince Sweet-ass that I was good enough for her: that was the question. I went to the barber shop the following morning—a Saturday—and got a haircut. I even had him cut my sideburns off. I considered shaving my mustache, but that might have been too drastic. Returning home, I was clean, cut and shaven. But I still wasn't sophisticated-looking. I needed a suit. But where could I get one? It would be easy to blow an entire paycheck on a suit, and I didn't want to do that.
Now on this particular weekend, my buddy—the same guy who owned the Plymouth Superbird—and his fiancée had gone out of town. I can’t remember where it is that they went. And for some reason, he left the Superbird at home. Maybe he learned how bad the gas mileage was. Anyway, I was asked to come over a couple times a day to check on things; feed and let his dog out. I agreed, of course. After all, what are friends for?
Well it was around noon on Saturday when I had gone to his house, and was suddenly hit with a brilliant idea. My buddy sold real estate. And back in those days, real estate agents were supposed to wear suits because it was professional. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded if I borrowed one of the suits in his bedroom closet.
Now keep in mind that this was back in the day; a time when fashion was much different than it is in modern times. My buddy had a collection of what would be described by today's standards as leisure suits. I chose a plaid, light-blue colored suit with a matching shirt that looked like something that Mr. Furley from Three's Company would have worn. I didn't know how to wear a tie, so I didn't bother. I slipped on a pair of leather buckle, hard-soled shoes. They looked like something The Beetles would have worn. There; I was now a sharp-dressed man and looked good.
But what about my car? What if Sweet-ass recognized my sporty Cuda from yesterday?
After some careful consideration, I convinced myself that my buddy wouldn't have minded if I borrowed his Plymouth Superbird. It was supposed to be a nice ride, and did have air conditioning. It was going to be hot that night. If taking a sweet-ass bitch out for a date, she would surely expect to sit in a car with air conditioning.
So by early afternoon, I casually cruised through town in my buddy's Plymouth Superbird until reaching the antique shop where Sweet-ass worked. I could see her right through the window, and she looked great! Unlike yesterday, I did not rev the engine to catch her attention. I was a sophisticated and refined gentleman.
I entered the shop that was empty of any customers, but didn't bother to approach Sweet-ass. I had to play it cool, you know? Instead, I browsed some of the antique furniture. It didn't take long before Sweet-ass approached me with a beaming smile. Just like the song from ZZ Top, she was crazy for me because I was a sharp-dressed man.
"Can I help you with anything?" she asked.
"I was just getting some ideas on antique furniture." I explained. "See, I'm an executive manager of a company that plans of releasing furniture that appears antique."
"Oooo! I've heard of that, before." said Sweet-ass. "I heard that people are looking for brand-new furniture that has the antique look. What company are you from?"
That's when I froze for a second. What could I tell her?" "Well, it's actually a secret." I answered.
"A secret? Why?"
"We're not in business, yet." I began to explain. "We don't want competition to know what we're doing. It's the whole top-secret business information stuff, you know?"
My lies just continued to grow and grow. But I really had her enchanted. She believed everything! It's because I wore a suit and looked all sophisticated. I added more to my story, "Rather than manufacture this sort of furniture, we're thinking of seeking out actual antique furniture and making it appear new."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, I was thinking that maybe you had connections, and could supply me with large amounts of antique furniture."
Sweet-ass paused for a few seconds and appeared to be in deep thought. Did she find my story strange? Did she catch my bluff? Or maybe she believed me and was really interested. "Antique shows are a good place to start." she finally suggested. Then she waved me on to a room behind the shop. "Come back here with me. Let's talk."
Sweet-ass actually escorted me into a small conference room behind the store that had comfy, antique furniture as seats. It wasn't like something you'd expect to see at a big company where executives sit and have their meetings. It was like a lounge with antique furniture.
"Coffee...?" she suggested. "We have tea... soda... I can get you some wine."
"Wine sounds great!" I answered. “It's hot outside, and it's the afternoon. Who wants to drink coffee on a day like this?"
"You know, you're right." she agreed. "Let's drink some wine and talk business.”
For nearly two hours I sat in that room and bull-shitted about my bogus company. Sometimes she'd briefly step away to help a customer out in the shop. But throughout that time, together, we finished off a bottle of wine; and it seemed like we shared chemistry. I actually started to feel bad that I referred to her as "Sweet-ass". But you know; I had to turn myself into someone who I wasn't, just to have a chance with her. That's what a sweet-ass does; she turns you into a sell-out.
Towards the end of our afternoon, I looked at my wristwatch—actually borrowed that from my buddy—and announced that I had to meet with some people. Then I casually asked, "You're not married, are you?"
She gave me a weird look.
I quickly explained, "The reason I ask is because I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner and talk more about this. Maybe we can meet, tonight, and go over some plans on purchasing furniture?"
See, I heard somewhere that sophisticated people go about romance a little differently. They have to pretend like they are not interested in anything beyond a business relationship. Dinners, luncheons, or meeting at secluded places are purely for business. A man and woman who might discuss a brand of sofas to release might say, "Well let's make sure that this sofa is good enough for fucking." The fucking that follows is purely business. And that's the sort of thing I had in mind with Sweet-ass. She wasn't like a normal woman. I couldn't let her know that I was interested in fucking her.
She hesitated for a moment.
I quickly added, "I mean if you have a boyfriend, and you don't feel right, I understand."
"No, no; it's not that." she reassured me. "Could you be here later tonight, like around 9:30?"
Of course I agreed. And I later figured out why she needed me to meet her at the shop, after dark.
To be continued…