Sophie's Last Hurrah

         A sturdy old girl whose performance seemed unhindered by age, Wes named her Sophie after Sophie Tucker, the portly singer and comedian. But the name was Wes’ little joke because she wasn’t really a “red hot mama” -- really more of a plain Jane. At thirteen years of age, a little past her prime, Sophie took things slow and easy. No jackrabbit, she behaved more like the turtle in the old fable – slow and steady wins the race. The sun had given her a faded olive complexion. She also looked a bit funny, plump in the middle and tapered at each end. From a distance you could barely tell whether she was coming or going. But Sophie’s appearance always turned heads and put smiles on faces.

         Wes, my best friend in high school, owned Sophie, his 1948 Studebaker. I got to know him because we both sang tenor in our elite high school singing group, The Enchanters. Sophie and I became friends too. She often carted me home after school and after rehearsals, and I developed an appreciation for her commitment to Wes. If Wes asked her to do something, she would if she could.

        In addition to providing reliable service, Sophie displayed a quirky personality. A manual transmission car with her gearshift mounted on the column, she came factory equipped with three forward speeds that helped her spotlight an unusual talent. If you slowly removed your foot from the clutch in first gear without giving her gas, she wouldn’t jerk, sputter, and die like other stick shift cars. Sophie simply moved forward – not fast – no more than eight or ten miles per hour at the most; but only the brakes, a steep hill, or a stone wall could stop her.

         With this peculiar ability in mind, Wes and I decided to attempt an experiment. We wanted to see if Sophie could travel in first gear, without using the gas pedal, all the way from the High School to my house, a span of three miles. Port Orchard’s hilly geography made this no simple assignment. Traveling to my house by the most direct route meant turning up Sidney Hill at the town’s only traffic light. Then Sidney Avenue would lead us the rest of the way to my house. But if we tried to climb the steep hill, Sophie would surely die – if Wes didn’t step on the gas pedal.

         Cross streets provided an alternate route to the top. By snaking along Bay Street, the town’s main drag, side streets could slice off some of the steepness like using switchbacks to climb a mountain. Maybe Sophie could do it. We knew she would try.

         The downhill leg of the adventure from the High School went smoothly. After that, luck became crucial. Sophie couldn’t afford to obey stop signs, and we needed to time the downtown traffic light perfectly. Fortunately, at 3:00 in the afternoon traffic was light. Sophie puttered down Bay Street turning a few heads wondering why we were moving so slowly. One guy even yelled, “Why ya goin’ so slow?”

        Wes simply yelled back, “Hey, it’s a Studebaker!” That explanation seemed to satisfy him. Luckily, we managed to make it through the traffic light just before it turned red. Next came the trickiest part.

         Wes turned Sophie left onto Kitsap Street that angled across the face of the hill. She showed no difficulty pulling us up the incline, but we needed to cross Sidney without stopping. Luckily, no cars were traveling either up or down. We safely glided through the intersection -- the rest easy.

         After turning left on Sidney at the crest of the hill the road became tediously straight. A couple cars pulled up behind us. Wes waved them by; I guess they thought we were having car problems. Totally false. Sophie was simply performing her little trick.

        During this last stretch boredom overcame Wes. He told me to “grab the wheel” while he opened the door and ran along beside Sophie for a while. The coup de theatre ensued when he ran to the front of the car and sat on Sophie’s left fender cross-legged while hanging onto her torpedo-shaped hood ornament. He looked like a sightseer on an open-topped tour bus. This act produced one honk and one shake of the head from two passing motorists. But . . . we arrived at my house without using the gas pedal. Sophie functioned flawlessly.

         Time passed. Sophie reliably did her duties, transporting Wes to school, to work. Whenever he needed her, she was there for him. I secretly wished she belonged to me. Then newer cars started showing up in the student parking lot – two ’57 Chevys, a ’56 Ford, even a ‘58 Oldsmobile – and Wes openly began to talk about buying another car. Let’s face it. To Wes, Sophie overflowed with personality, but she’d never rival Sophia Loren. She could act out her trick; but a one-trick-momma could never compare to a beautiful babe.

         It finally happened after an evening dress rehearsal for the musical Oklahoma. I played the male lead, Curly. Wes played the fun-loving Will Parker. Dale, an over-sized friend, fit the role of the gloomy villain, Judd Fry, perfectly. In fact, he sometimes appeared downright scary.

         After rehearsal, the three of us slid into Sophie’s seats for a drive to the local A & W for refreshment. Wes and I wore our cowboy kerchiefs, plaids and denims – Wes’ waist girdled by a gun belt holding a cap pistol. Dale, towering over us, wore dark clothes to match his dark character. Sophie cruised along in third gear when Wes downshifted for a turn. Grind! Scrape! Crash! The scream of ripping metal tore the air. Sophie’s engine still revved, but provided no power. Had Sophie given up the ghost?

         Dale and I pushed Sophie to the side of the road. Since Wes couldn’t shift her any more, he turned off her motor. Dale leaned down and picked up a two-foot shaft of metal from the edge of the roadway -- part of Sophie’s driveshaft. That explained the terrible rending of metal and told us Sophie’s driving days were done.

         But the drama played on as a car pulled up behind us. Thinking it might contain friends from the school production stopping to help, we walked toward it. Dale still hefted the remnant of Sophie’s drive shaft; Wes twirled his cap pistol like Wyatt Earp. Suddenly the car accelerated spraying us with gravel as it sped away into the night. Puzzled, we retreated to Sophie and debated the reason for the sudden flight. In a few moments we witnessed a flashing red light growing larger and brighter. As the police car screeched to a halt, we heard the command, “Hands on the car! Now!” We obeyed – Wes holstering his toy, and Dale dropping the severed shaft.

         As the deputy approached us, shotgun ready, he noticed our outfits. Then he questioned, “Who are you guys, and what’s goin’ on?”

         We explained about the rehearsal and the car problems. The deputy then relaxed, lowered his shotgun, and explained, “I just received a report from a motorist who claimed he was approached by three males carrying a club and a gun.” He examined the chunk of drive shaft and the cap pistol. “It looks like it was a big misunderstanding. Can I call a tow truck for you?” Wes said he’d appreciate that. Then the deputy suggested, “You know . . . if I was you, I wouldn’t carry a cap pistol or a club in public any more. Some folks might misunderstand.” We nodded in unison knowing exactly what he meant.

        Soon we sadly watched the tow truck arrive at the scene, give Sophie the hook, and drag her off to Swan’s Wrecking Yard.

         We never discovered exactly what happened that night. It’s really anyone’s guess what caused the broken drive shaft.  Had Wes missed a gear when he shifted? Or was it time for Sophie’s final role?  She certainly did not go gentle into that good night. She went out with a bang. Then she created another scene worthy of melodrama. That night the curtain fell on her final act – Sophie’s last hurrah.