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My First Car

By Neal Herman

Shortly after I turned sixteen (during the Malaise Era in 1978) my parents started agitating me to get a part-time job after school.I wasn’t particularly enthused about slinging burgers at Mickey D’s or bagging groceries at Von’s, one of the supermarket chains in Ventura, California where we lived.What I really wanted, as every red-blooded American high-school student wanted at the time, was a car.My, how things have changed!My parents, however, didn’t share my goal.So, to appease them, I dutifully went to the job board at my high school’s career center to see what was available to match my more-refined tastes.Sometime in April, a card popped up on the job board that sounded promising:a drug dealer!Sounded like that would pay well enough to get me that car, maybe a new Mark V!Well, actually it was for a drug courier.Okay, it was for an after-school and Saturday morning clerk at a small pharmacy.But over half of my duties was to deliver prescriptions, and for that I obviously would need a car.So, this solved the problem.My parents wanted me to get a job more than they didn’t want me to have a car, so they agreed to pay half of it and I’d repay the rest from my earnings.So, I started scouring the Los Angeles Times car classifieds.

Four cars piqued my interest:a 1971 Mercury Cougar at Harbor Auto Liquidators in a skanky industrial suburb of LA, a 1970 Pontiac Bonneville coupe at a used car lot in Pasadena, a 1970 Chevrolet Monte Carlo at the VW dealer in Pasadena, and a 1971 Chrysler New Yorker 4-door at another dealer in Arcadia.The Cougar - a muscle car with a dash of luxury - was my first choice, so down we went to Gardena.It was triple brown and ran quite poorly.What do you expect for $800?I didn’t even take it for a drive.Then it was up to Pasadena to see the Bonneville.It was a real pretty green with a white or beige top and green interior, and nicely equipped.However, there was a large dent in the rear passenger fender, and it might have been missing a fender skirt.My mother wasn’t going to have some beat-up old car in our driveway, so she nixed that one immediately.

The VW dealer was next, with a light blue Monte Carlo, white top and blue bench seat.I liked the burl-wood dash.It had the optional 400 cid engine, which Mother pegged as a gas-guzzler.Pot-meet-kettle; her car was a ’74 Dodge Monaco Brougham with a 440 that got around 8mpg on the freeway.Regardless, I took the Monte out for a test drive with the salesman.We got about three blocks when it ran out of gas.The salesman walked back to the dealership to get a gallon of gas, and we returned to my Mother with her “I told you so” look.So that one was out!

So far, I was striking out.I wasn’t about to settle for some Pinto or Vega (like my friend Penny - the grocery bagger - had) or Datsun, or economical slant-six Valiant or Nova. The New Yorker was my last chance before econo-box land.Alas, it was a 4-door hardtop, not the least bit sporty like the other coupes.It was Amber Sherwood Green (I determined later) with a black top and green brocade seats, with most of the PPA’s (Power Princess Accessories).My parents liked me having a big safe car with lots of steel, and Mother was still in her Mopar-centric phase (soon to end with the frequent problems that Monaco would give her).Never mind that it had an even-larger 440 engine (same as the Monaco) than the Monte Carlo.The purchase was made and I gritted my teeth and grinned that at least I got a car that generally fit the bill, absent the sportiness.A staid 4-door luxo-boat New Yorker still beat a “sporty” fastback Vega in my book.

The gas mileage wasn’t awful for the time - about 13mpg, as I recall.I got a $20/week gas allowance and pretty much broke even.The pharmacist, Dr. Nolan, was surprised at the car choice; all of the previous high-school clerks had little crap-mobiles.He drove a ’71 Jag XKE 2+2, which he offered up to me one day to take for a spin.I declined - too much responsibility for a 16-year old.And it was a manual, which was a bit alien to me then.Why go through all the nonsense coordinating feet and hands when, as Anthony Quinn told Lana Turner in “Portrait in Black": "Now look, Sheila, here's all you have to do.Now, you step on the brake here.You release the emergency.You push this button ... 'D'.This pedal makes the car go, this one makes it stop.All you have to do is steer it.Sheila, the car practically drives itself!"

I belly-ached about the New Yorker for the next 8 or 9 months, always looking for a sporty coupe.Finally, my parents capitulated and let me look for a replacement. I first pined for (and still do, to an extent) a bunkie-beak ’70 or ’71 Thunderbird fastback, but finding none that were mechanically up-to-snuff, I stumbled on a vintage red ’72 Riviera, and the lust for the boat-tail continues to this day.I got the Riviera just as the ’79 gas shortage hit, and for a while was the only kid in high school with two gas-guzzlers.The New Yorker got sold after a couple of weeks.The Riviera lasted until the summer of 1981, replaced by a ’77 Cordoba, which was in turn replaced by my still-owned ’83 Cordoba, that’s now been with me for 35 years.

I have no pictures of the New Yorker, which in retrospect was a pretty good car; only one problem with a failed freeze plug.The Fuselage design now looks quite good to me, better than the other three I first looked at. I found one picture of a car that could be its twin and a couple of vintage commercials for the ’69 and ’70 Chryslers:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnTvKqSXPZg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiw1nm-QqtI