Stories

Why I Don't Drive Chevys

In 1973, my first wife called me from her job at Edwards Chevy, begging me to come to look at a car. It was the most beautiful car I had seen in a long while, powder blue with a darker blue vinyl top, 350 cubic inches, and automatic transmission, and she was hot to have it. The dealership gave her a great employee discount. We bought it for, as I remember, $4600, the first car I ever purchased.

It was a lemon.

It was entirely underpowered and handled like a boat. At 36,000 miles, the warranty was up, and the transmission started acting up. I spent too much of my small paycheck trying to get it fixed. I never did. When the engine started having problems, I traded it for a VW Bug. The last time I saw it, some kid had jacked it up and put wide tires in the back like a dragster.

In 1980, tired of driving a brown VW Rabbit, the successor to the Bug, I stopped by the Chevy Place in Centerpoint. They had a new 1981 Camaro Berlinetta. It was dark metallic blue, white-letter tires, 268 V8, and loaded. It drove much better than the old Camaro. The 115-hp even seemed to be adequate. People would stop and stare at this car; it was a beauty.

Kady, whom I had met and begun dating a few months before, surely appreciated not having to be seen in the Rabbit; it was an ugly little car. I took the Camaro back in the Army with me. All went well for a while.

At 36,001 miles, the antenna stopped going down. The cost to fix it was $200, so I decided I could stay broken.

It was just a precursor of bad things to come.

Next, the windows stopped going up and down. Good thing I had air conditioning. Then the door handles broke, so closing the door became a perfectly timed dance of pulling from the outside and hoping I didn't catch my fingers. The paint began to oxidize and fade.

The catalytic converter clogged up three times. I replaced it with a "test pipe" sold by an unscrupulous East Lake Auto Parts salesman. The engine ran better and stronger. The piping for the emission control system began to rot off the engine. I removed them and plugged the holes with pipe plugs. Again, I added horsepower and torque.

While driving down the road one day, the headliner fell on my head. I ripped it all down, scraped out the rotten foam rubber, and glued a beige fabric up in its place. It looked better than the original.

This car died a merciful death on Yadkin Road. A car hit me from behind with such force that I was pushed into the car in front of me, causing a five-car pileup. My car was smashed in front, buckled in the middle, and the trunk was in the back seat. My driver's seat collapsed in the impact, putting me almost in that back seat. I was unhurt, but the Berlinetta was totaled. When the guy's Insurance company contacted me, I descrived it as "my baby, prized possession, a classic, and in perfect working order." They gave me well above Blue Book for it. I use the money as a down payment for a 1988 Camry Wagon. Kady and I took that to England and drove it until 1996. It was one of the best cars I have owned.

So, when you tell me that Chevy is one of the best cars on the road or first in customer satisfaction and that your Camaro is as good as my 2005 Mustang, with which I have had zero problems and looks brand new, excuse me if I remain unconvinced.

You'll never see me in another Chevy.