1967 Chevrolet Camaro
"1967 Camaro" 11"X17" pen and ink watercolor by Christopher Parent ©1999
This signed and dated 11"X17" print comes ready to frame for $13.95
"The Camaro House"
It was 1974. I was 16 years old and there had been a story around our neighborhood for several years about a 67 Camaro that was sitting in an old man's garage several blocks away. He had bought it new in late September 1966 as a gift for his son who was leaving for the war in Vietnam. It was said that on the night before he left both father and son took the car out for a late evening drive. They took turns speeding through the clear autumn night and the rumor was they got the Camaro up to 110 on the freeway before a State Patrol spotted them and began the chase. The officer never got close to the screaming Camaro as they weaved their way home through the darkened backstreets of town. They backed the car into the garage and together, father and son giggled their way to the back door of their house like two school boys who had just gotten away with something big. The next morning the son left for his tour of duty.
He never came home.
My friends and I would often walk past "The Camaro House," as we called it, trying to sneak a look at the car behind the dusty, foggy windows of the old garage, always afraid the man or his wife would come out of the house to chase us away. One night when they were both gone my friends Mark, Brian and I planned a mission to get into the garage and look over the sacred 67 Camaro. We walked to the garage at dusk, equipped with candles and matches. I fumbled with the door before realizing it was unlocked, pushed it open and one by one the three of us crept into the musty garage. We lit a candle and waited for our eyes to adjust to the light. Before us in the flickering amber glow was one of the most beautiful cars I had ever seen. Goosebumps covered my body and the hairs on my arms stood on end. I could feel the pulse of my heart beating through my chest. I felt like we had discovered an ancient tomb and in the darkness of the earth a prince's coffin was laying before us, untouched by human hands since the day it had been laid to rest.
The Camaro was covered with a fine layer of dust. Under it the chrome pieces glittered like diamonds in the candles warm light. Oddly there was one polished spot on the hood of the car that was free from dust and grime. It was close to the windshield and gave us a vision of the true brilliant red color of the Camaro under the dim light. None of us could figure out why that one spot on the car was shiny and clean. "Perhaps," we thought, "a cat slept there at night." Whatever the reason, it remained a mystery for several weeks.
As we stood in awe before the beautiful car a feeling of reverence overtook me, it was as if I was standing before an alter in a church about to receive my first communion. I gently placed my hand on the door latch and pushed the button and as I heard the perfectly smooth mechanical click, the door jumped open. Inside the driver's seat was smooth, clean and soft and as I pulled the door open a rush of new car smell overtook the three of us. We all glanced at each other, afraid to move. After what seemed like an eternity of exchanging grins and snickers I slid into the driver's seat. Firmly gripping the steering wheel, I pushed myself back in the seat. We were silent. Mark and Brian craned their necks in. "Look" I whispered, pointing to the odometer. With my index finger I brushed away the dust of the last seven years. The mileage read: "00351."
We left the Camaro and slipped into the cool evening. Not a word was spoken but it was clear to me that we were all thinking about the same thing. Young men a few years older than us fought and died in a jungle thousands of miles from home and except for their age, they were no different than us. Mark finally ended our silence with the question we were all pondering. "Did you ever think that if we had been born a few years earlier we would have had to go to Vietnam?" he asked. It was the kind of question 16 year old boys from our generation didn't answer but one they thought about often. We resumed our silence and walked home.
Several weeks later I was walking past the Camaro House. I saw the father leave through his back door and walk toward the garage. I stepped across the street and moved closer. I had to see what he was doing. As I peered into the window I saw the red Camaro glowing in the light. I looked around the garage for the man before I spotted him sitting in the drivers seat sobbing. I felt embarrassed when I saw his body shaking with grief and I thought I should turn away and go home but I continued to watch. He laid his head on the steering wheel and for a moment he looked like a child seeking comfort in his mother's arms. It was then that I realized what had happened. This beautiful 67 Camaro had become a shrine. It was a monument to a lost son. Somehow over the years all the horsepower and sculpted metal had changed into something more than a car. It was all the memories and all the love a father had for his son.
The father pulled himself from the Chevy and slowly shut the door. It made a perfect sound. The sound a solid well made door should make. He reached out his hand to the car like a priest and rested it on the hood next to the windshield, where my friends and I thought a cat slept, and bent down to kiss the cool red metal. Sleeping there on that shiny red spot on the hood of 1967 Camaro was the memory of a son who was well loved.
I walked home under a star lit sky. I didn't want to go inside so I sat on the porch of my house and watched the sliver of the moon rise in the cool autumn sky. I thought about the red Camaro and I thought about fathers and sons but mostly I thought about how war stinks. I didn't like it, I thought it was wrong but I also thought that if I was told to go I probably would have gone. It just seemed so unfair that young men were gone and families were in grief. I stood up to go inside my house and realized how strange it was that I didn't even know the name of the father or mother or son they loved so much.
That night I told my Dad that I had seen a really cool 67 Camaro then I did something I hadn't done in years, something 16 year old boys are too old to do. I told my father I loved him and went to bed.
This story is a condensed version of "The Camaro House" by Christopher Parent ©1999