At the DFW dopefest, I told the tale of Moby, the unkillable white whale… I was prevailed upon to post the harrowing story here, and I figured my 1500th post was as good a place as any to write it.
Moby was a 1976 Thunderbird. 76 was the last year before they drastically reduced the size of the T-Bird, and this behemoth was HUGE. You could get up and stroll around in this car. More than 20 feet long. White, with maroon interior. And LOTS of chrome. Hell of a car, Moby.
I bought Moby from my boss at the clothing store where I worked at the time (1989) for the princely sum of $600. he let me put it on my Discover Card. :eek: I was paying interest on Moby’s carcass long after I no longer had him.
The future Mrs. Chef had a ceramic white-whale SOS pad holder, which I forced her to give to me, against her will. I was going to mount it on the hood, but I knew some vandal would come along and smash it, so I glued it to the dashboard and used it for a change bowl.
Being elderly, Moby had some problems. The worst of these was that the tilt-wheel did not lock into the usual three or four positions…the mechanism was sheared off, and the steering wheel just rocked bonelessly up and down. The flopping around caused the wiring in the steering column to start to go bad, and eventually the only way to start the car was to turn the key and then rock the steering wheel as far forward as it would go.
On Moby’s last drive, I turned the key and rocked the steering wheel up and down and back and forth, and it took about five minutes to get it to catch and start the engine. Relieved, I drove home, put it in park, turned the ignition off and pulled the key out…and the motor didn’t stop. I looked back and forth from the keys in my hand to the steady thrum of the engine, and felt like whispering, “…christine?”
I got out, walked around to the front of the car, and felt myself at a complete loss as to what to do. One of my neighbors came ambling up, and I brandished the keys at him and asked him if he had any holy water.
“I guess I’ll just have to let it run until it runs out of gas,” I shrugged, and my (barefoot) neighbor replied, “Don’t be silly. Pop the hood and I’ll yank one of your spark-plug wires. That’ll kill it.” (Did I mention the ground was wet?)
It worked, but the fool gave himself a hell of a zap. I think the guy later found work as a Beakman impersonator.
Ah, Moby, how I miss ye.