Me and My Comet, It’s Pretty Much a Love Affair

In cleaning up all my email folders, I came across a lovely little story I wrote about my car for a hot rod zine sometime last year. Since I have absolutely nothin' else to write about right now, I thought I'd share.....

Me and My Comet, It’s Pretty Much a Love Affair

My first car was a red, two door 1962 Comet. My Grandparents bought it for me when I was 17 and when they told me they had bought me a Comet I thought I was gonna die. All I could think of was those hideous cars that looked like retarded miniature Camaros.

Who was I to complain though? It was a car right? As long as it got me from point A to point B, I would never complain.

That car was such a nightmare for me at first! I literally had to learn how to drive it. I had to feather the gas all the time or it would die. I had to stand on the brakes with both feet just to get it to stop and when it did stop, smoke would billow out from underneath the hood. Then there was the vacuum controlled windshield wipers. The faster I went, the faster they went. When I stopped, they stopped. I had to constantly put transmission fluid in it and when the radiator blew a hole, we fixed it with that awesome bright orange bondo. The exhaust fumes damn near killed me and there was no radio so I kept my awesome pink ghetto blaster in the front seat. Yeah, that car was nothin’ but a headache from day one, but it was pretty flippin' sweet nonetheless.

(This is how my sweet, sweet car met its demise. A car hydorplaned and

hit it while it was parked in the yard.....killin' her dead)

Fast forward 15 years and I’ve bought a 1963 four door for $100 and 1962 two door (which now that I've gotten what I want off of it, it's for sale if you're lookin') for $250 that we could use for parts. Then, FINALLY I found “the one” on ebay. A 1963 ½ S-22 Comet Fastback (Sportster…whatever you wanna call it). It was all original with a stock V-8 260, power steering and bucket seats. I love bucket seats AND it had a V8! Then there was the sleek fastback roofline that made it look FAAASSST. I hit the “Buy It Now” button and we were on our way to Virginia Beach to get it.

When we got to the car, it wasn’t at all what the guy said it was. He said depending on how "adventurous" we were, we could probably drive it home. SHA! How do you suppose we’re gonna do that when the tires are flat and dry rotted, the battery’s dead, the starter’s seized with rust, and I blew a brake line the first time I stepped on the brake pedal. (Not to mention the fact that wasps had made their home in one of the doors and attacked me when I opened it!) Despite all that, I still heard angels sing when I looked at it. I was 31 and in love all over again.

Once we got the car home, I realized the extent of its fuckedupedness. It had sat in about two feet of water for god knows how long. There was a flood line all around the interior of the car. I about cried, but instead, I cleaned it up a bit and got to work. We replaced the starter, the battery, and the radiator. We cleaned out the gas tank, put in new fuel lines, new brakes and new tires. We were almost there. Just a few more minor adjustments and it would be ready.

I remember being upstairs when I heard my husband start it. I ran outside and saw him driving away. That BASTARD! I was supposed to drive it first! When he got back, I was waiting outside for him. He got out and I got in. A girlfriend of mine was over so she went with me for the first ride. The wind was all blowin’ our hair and fiberglass was all coming out of the rotten headliner and gettin’ in our eyes. I didn’t care, I was driving M Y car and it was AWESOME.

The next week we got new exhaust put on, because the original was just no bueno. I wanted straight pipes coming out by the back tires. Holy hell. It was so freakin’ loud and I think it made it faster too. Like the car was all proud and shit.

Slowly but surely, “the car” was becoming a person to me. The “it” was becoming a “she”. When I would go to start her and she didn’t want to start, it was because she was tired and I needed to give her some time to stretch and take a deep breath. When she would kinda stall out (because in all reality there was schmutz clogging the fuel filter), it was because she was gettin' a little tired because she’s so old and I needed to take it easy on her. Then after a few races on a dirt track in Fairmount, GA (wherein we stomped a Chevy II to shit and back) her little two speed Merc-O-Matic started to slip.

Seriously, it can take like 10 minutes before she decides to change into second, but that’s ok for now. She’s old and I put her through hell so she can take her sweet assed time and when she does finally decide to kick her old cantankerous ass into gear, I lovingly pat her in the dash and tell her what a good girl she is.

In a way her and I are a lot alike. We both have the “I’ll get around to it when I fuckin’ feel like it” attitude, we’re both a little rough around the edges and we’re both loud as hell.

We’re both kinda fallin’ apart because of old age, but chances are, it ain’t nothin’ a little duct tape can’t fix. Neither of us are all shiny an’ purdy, but no matter, because when you see us, you’re gonna look because we are so freakin’ awesome. We truly are a match made in heaven.

My name is Jessica and her name is Bess, and I love her.