I had never heard of a Chrysler 300 until I met
this guy named Allan. Cars had always been something that you drove,
a mechanical thing somewhat like a washing machine. You only noticed
it when it stopped working. So I was quite surprised the first time
Allan told me, with stars in his eyes and a catch in his throat,
about this old white Chrysler. He never talked to me like that. I
decided it was a good thing that old white Chrysler was gone or I
would have to share his time. After a year or so of hearing these
farfetched stories of burning rubber for two blocks, I was lulled
into believing that my competition would remain in his memory. Allan
– “Hey, did I ever tell you this one about my old 300?”
Me – “Ugh, not again!”
Then he drove this
thing into my driveway. It was big, black (although really Parade
Green) and rusty. The ride was bumpy and noisy. I wasn’t
impressed. “So this is the mighty 300.” Privately I said
“What a piece of junk.” Allan started his ravings with,
“Look at those lines.” Yuck! The Chrysler and I never hit
it off. We may have continued that way for years had not the engine
died.
Allan had been driving
around the city, which for him meant dragging from every red light.
At one red light another Chrysler 300-C pulled up. That started a
lasting friendship with Gary Hagy. I met Gary and was shocked that there
was a nut loose that actually collected these things. When the engine
in that black beast died, Gary offered the use of his garage and
technical assistance for its repair. Gary’s garage was the
worst thing I had ever seen. It was in one of the worst parts of
town, virtually no heat, filthy and littered with all these greasy
parts. They spent every available night or weekend in February
working on the engine of the “old lady,” as I had by now
named the car. Now this operation put me in a bind. My old car, a
1966 Volkswagen Beetle, was my pride and joy and my only
transportation. I spend a considerable amount of time chauffeuring
Allan to his rendezvous with the “old lady.” Since I was
there, I was given the job of cleaning parts, buying food, beer, and
kerosene (for the heater that didn’t work. The garage was
freezing cold!). It was at this point that I started hating Chrysler
300s. before it was just a general dislike, but now I hated that “old
lady.” What really clinched it for me was when they used my new
little VW to push start that monster. The VW mechanics just couldn’t
understand why the clutch went out at 20,000 miles so they gave me a
new one.
During this time at the
garage, I not only had to listen to Allan saying “look at those
lines,” but I also had to listen to Gary’s stories of the
hemi. So I hated the hemi too, whatever a hemi was.
Finally,
it was fixed. But the “old lady” was and still is a
lemon. Somewhere in here,
Allan and I got married and the “old lady” was put in a
garage.
Allan was driving a
truck and had been telling me tales of this beautiful Chrysler 300-F
he had found in the city. “God another one!” After a few
years of hearing about this car, I was shocked when he came home one
night and said, “Let’s go.” We were going to look
at it. Why? We were going to test drive it. Oh no, not again.
However, I was pleasantly surprised to see this shiny, pretty car. It
was luxurious too. Found bucket seats! After a year of the garage, I
though my technical knowledge had become quite good, so I told Allan
rather smugly that the fan belt was squealing, but other than that
the car seemed OK. Allan gives me this look, “Those are the
tires breaking loose, not the fan belt.” Well, this car is not
bad, so after 5 years and one hour, we owned it.
I spent many, many
hours cleaning that car. I liked it, but still did not like the
black C parked next to it. One day Gary told us about this car Club,
the Golden Lions, that was for Chryslers. Allan joined and one sunny
morning we set off for a concours they had advertised in Virginia. We
were not impressed with the picnicking, umbrellaed, riding boots Rolls
Royce set we met. Allan and I are more the beer drinking, pool
shooting type. As we were leaving we passed a black 300-G convertible
coming the other way. We both turned our cars around and out of the G
popped Lew Frazer. Lew said, “Did you know there is a Chrysler
300 Club?” Allan had believed that he and Gary were the only
300 nuts in the world, but now he had found a whole club full of
them. He wrote this guy in Michigan right away and joined up
. We washed, polished,
waxed and shined that F for a week solid before the Meet. Later, “Hey
Allan, look at all those pretty Chryslers.” Yes, my attitude
was definitely changing. By this time, I had just taken it for
granted the Chrysler 300’s were to be a permanent part of my
life and what the hell, if you can’t like ‘em, join ‘em.
“Hey Allan, next time you buy a 300, I want it.” He found
a 1958 300-D and it was all mine. That day, he drove his F home and I
my D. I was getting really hooked. “Hey Allan, I think I’ll
join this club too.” Then finally one day I said, “Hey
Allan, look at those lines.”
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