Brian’s father was the manager of the huge new J.C.
Penny’s store in the newest Dallas-area mall in Irving, Texas. He also owned a Ford dealership, a Coca-Cola
Bottling plant and was a partner in Fame Fashions, a women's clothing line. You could say that Mr. Beach was rich but
that would be understatement.
Consequently, Brian had more money than any 18-year old I ever
knew. He was always driving a new Ford
Mustang convertible, took girls on the most lavish dates and never had to
scrounge for beer money. Brian was tough
on his cars and he had to have them replaced about every four or five
months.
One spring day Brian was between cars and driving a
rental car he had picked up from a used car dealer in Austin who would rent
cars off his lot to the underage college students for special weekends. The car was a two-year old Chevrolet Corvair
in mint condition. The Corvair was the
car that consumer-advocate Ralph Nadar proclaimed was “unsafe at any
speed”. My father was one of the first
Corvair owners in the country and I grew up learning to drive these sporty
little rear engine vehicles. The had
independent suspension on all four wheels and a peppy, dual-carbureted six
cylinder engine which made them really fun to drive on curvy country
roads.
Brian was napping one Sunday afternoon in our room, still
slightly hung over from his Saturday night excitement, when I approached
him. “Hey man, can I borrow your Corvair
for a little while?”
Opening one bloodshot eye, Brian mumbled, “What
for?”.
“I just want to take a little drive in the country”, I
replied, thinking he might want to stop by the local Blood Bank and have his
eyes drained.
“Keys on the desk”, he murmured, but then as I snatched
them up and headed for the door, he barked, “Just don’t wreck it or I’ll kick
your….” the door slammed on his description of my posterior part.
Gathering up two floor mates from the dorm as my
traveling companions, I promised them a lessen in road handling they would
never forget. We headed out to south
Austin in the little two-door, white coupe and drove until we were out in the
country. I found a little country road
with lots of curves and corners winding through cattle ranches and cotton
fields. The car handled really well and
I was pushing it to its limits, drifting through the turns with the tires
squealing in protest. After negotiating
two very tight turns at excessive speed, I hit an S-curve. The car careened through the first curve and
I cut the second turn perfectly, pressing on the gas. Then, as they were prone to do, the Corvair
over-steered in the third turn kicking the rear of the car way out left. Overcorrecting, I plunged the car into the
final curve, realized I was going too fast and stabbed at the brakes. The cars left tires hit the gravely shoulder
and we drifted sideways into a ditch. At
that point, everything went into slow motion.
The left wheels left the ground and the car rolled over
on its side, still going about 30 MPH.
Then it completed the roll over onto the top. The windshield started to crack as the roof
crushed in, splitting from right to left in one loud, eerie crunch until it
shattered, spewing glass into our faces and cutting our clothes. When the car finally came to rest, upside
down in the ditch, all you could hear were some cows mooing on the other side
of the barbed wire fence we had managed not to hit.
“Are you guys O.K.?” I asked, half dazed. Two stunned responses confirmed we had
avoided disaster. I quickly turned off
the key, remembering that if gasoline were leaking an active ignition switch
could cause an explosion. The roof of
the car was totally crushed to within 12” of the tops of the doors and
dash. I told the guys to crawl out of
the side openings as fast as possible and we all made it out with nothing but
bruised muscles and egos.
A farmer who had been plowing his field and saw the
accident came running over as we stood there looking at the total wreck of the
Corvair. “Are you boys alright?”, he
blurted out, breathlessly. We assured
him we were all fine and said we just needed some help to roll the car back
over. “You ain’t goin’ no where in that
thang”, he said. I assured him it would
still work and he helped us roll the car back onto its tires with a big
thump. The roof was caved in, the right
side was all smashed up, all the windows
were broken and the doors were jammed shut.
I squeezed through the window and crawled back into the
drivers seat. Turning the key and
pumping the gas, I cranked the engine until the battery started to fail but
then, it suddenly fired. Oil had drained
down into the cylinders and plumes of blue smoke billowed from the tailpipes
but the engine was running....roughly, but running.
With a hoot and holler my buddies crawled back into the
car, we shouted thanks to the farmer and off down the road we went, me hunched
down in my seat, peering out through the slit once occupied by a windshield,
wind blowing in our hair.
We actually made it back to the dorm and I parked it
outside and trudged up to our third floor room, ready to take Brian’s
wrath. He wasn’t there so we spent the
next hour telling our dorm mates our tales of daring do. All of a sudden my blood curdled when we
heard the scream from the street, “SMITH!
SMITH! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” I looked out the window and saw Brian
standing by the wreck, veins popping out of his muscular neck, mixing my name
with various expletives. Then he saw me
looking down at him and dashed into the dorm.
Our heretofore rapt audience were diving for cover and I
locked the door to our room and put a chair up under the doorknob. Brian’s screams of promised death were
getting louder as he bounded up the stairs, three at a time. I decided the chair might not be enough so I
slid the large double desk over against the door as well.
Brian hit the door with a loud thud and finding it
locked, let out a roar of frustration that vibrated the transom window.
Brian repeatedly used his body as a battering ram trying to
break down the door, which made me thankful our dorm had been built in 1933 by
the WPA with doors of solid oak. Brian
got a broom stick and tried beating a hole in one of the panels. All the while I am trying to calm him down,
promising I would take care of the damage and pay for everything; although how
I didn’t have a clue. After two hours,
Brian’s exhaustion and my powers of persuasion combined to bring about serious
peace negotiations; which included not only my promise of full restitution but
my agreeing to do his laundry for a month and providing a case of his favorite
beer.
All-in-all, it was a fun, albeit expensive day, for me
and I had successfully avoided death by roommate.