By Jimmy Ewing
My first car was a 1978 Ford Bronco. It was primer gray when I found it. Not the color “Primer Gray”—just primer. It played host to a variety of rodent families through multiple generations of full and successful lives and had no carpet. Also, it did not work. Any of it. None of it worked. The 8-track worked. That is all—and also very consistent with what I know about 8-track players, or really anything that you don’t want to work anymore, it always does.
This giant 6,000 lb steel anchor for my romantic life was my dad’s idea for how to keep me close to home and not procreating and my grandfather’s idea of “a fun project”. He rarely actually did these “fun projects” himself, but he had a real knack for identifying problems and pointing out solutions for other people to deal with.
In short, it was fantastic. Everything broke—all the time. I broke down back-to-back days at the same intersection for unrelated problems. That is a statistical impossibility of such proportions that it made me question my faith for a time. I lost drive shafts and alternators, power steering pumps and radiators—several of them. The power steering bracket sheared off, clipping the overflow hose on the radiator and the engine overheated—which is not a thing, but it happened. I replaced brake calipers, boosters, and solenoids. The transmission exploded in a girl’s driveway. The tow trucks came for my car, but they left with my dignity.
The rear end and wheel bearings all went out—never at the same time. I approached every ignition sequence with a mixture of fear and elation. “Would it start”? “What would happen next if it did?”
I loved it.
Then one day, we broke up. I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t mean to say the thing that I said; it just came out. But words were said. And, it was over.
My friend, who had coveted it for years, bought it from me for $4,500 and a broken motorbike which made my Mom angry, then immediately exploded, which made her glad. Later that year, my Bronco caught on fire in a K-Mart parking lot.
“Attention K-Mart Shoppers, would the owner of the green Bronco that is on fire in the parking lot please report to customer service?”
I now know that it was punishing my friend, an innocent bystander, for my disloyalty and, like so many men in unhealthy relationships, he was enthralled—rendered perfectly helpless by the siren song of that sweet, sweet long block 351.
Like all mythical creatures with magical powers that defy all reason and imagination, it could not be vanquished by ordinary means. This creature could only be sold and passed on to the next hapless fool. And so it was.
One day, much later in life, I saw it. It had nerf bars, a lift kit, and giant tires, it had a roll bar and a ragtop—all the things my parents would have none of, but more importantly—all the trappings of love that a man could bestow upon a 1978 Bronco—one of only two Bronco year models in history that have absolutely zero collector value.
I was not sure if it saw me, twenty cars deep in afternoon traffic, an innocuous gray two-wheel-drive explorer lined up in shame like every other two-wheel-drive peon in the city, but as it turned, surely to disappear from my life forever, I saw the right rear taillight was out.
And I was glad.
