The Minx

My Dad bought it sometime after Senior graduation. We had been limping along with the old tan Packard that I wrecked back in the Fall (it was never the same despite my Dad’s generous evaluation that it was as good as new) and the old blue and white Buick that had arrived at the house via Grandpa Christensen and had somehow forgotten to go home. It was a 59’ Hillman Minx, a “foreign car” as we called it back then. And it was foreign, but pretty, powder blue on the outside and the same blue in the tuck-n-roll interior.

Dad never said he bought it for me, but I drove it. The Ashton twins, by far the most attractive girls in the ward, said it went perfectly with my tan. I was trying for a Tab Hunter look – dark tan, hair sun-blonded – and the car seem to help. My sons writhe at the term “cute” and “car” in the same sentence, but the Minx was cute. There was a powder blue vinyl shelf under the dash (instead of a crude jockey box) and I painted “Sir Percival” on it. I don’t know why I thought this was witty, but I did and Percival and I charged forth into a new world – college, college girls, big parking lots, warm summer and fall nights.

The car had its strange side. In Britain the wheel was on the right side and had to be moved to the left to be sold over here. So they moved it – but the operation made it so the gear shift – on the steering column – was upside down. First was forward and down, second straight up, third was down half-way, back and down, and fourth was straight up from there. Reverse was knob out, pulling toward the driver and going all the way down. I had a couple of friends that drove it and got stuck because they couldn’t figure out how to back up. The engine whined pleasantly and liked the revs. But like most British cars, the car didn’t need an owner – it needed a mother – and therefore spent its fair share of time in the shops. It had one spectacular failure, but I forgive, because it was cooperating with God.

The failure came on a bright Friday when I was whining along at 75 mph down the San Bernadino freeway. It was after my mission and I had spent the week at Camp Irwin, situated in the midst of hell situated in the northeast of Death Valley. It was one of the few times that I blessed my whites that I was a cook – the mess hall was air-conditioned and we were spared the mouth blisters and salt tablets that were being enjoyed by the rest of the troops. The cooks were three days on – (4 in the morning until 11 at night) – and three days off. The three days off were spent in Downey, California with Carol, my sister, Carolyn, my girlfriend, and Carolyn, a friend who was there just to keep the names confusing. On my last trip down, the Minx gave a huge belch and the gear shift snapped to a position it had never been – I skidded to a stop. When I opened the door, parts were still tinkling and rolling. I had spread the transmission housing over a quarter mile of road. The drive shaft was snapped cleanly in half. I had it towed to someplace in Riverside, where they said that parts for this car had to come from England. Fine. Great. So I called my erstwhile girlfriend, got a ride back to Irwin, checked out and caught a bus back to Downey and started planning how to get enough cash to purchase the health and freedom of my little blue car. Things weren’t going well with Carolyn and me – but I doggedly persevered – until a movie on TV (“A Man Called Peter”, the story of Peter Marshall) prompted me to pray whether Carolyn and I really were supposed to stumble to the alter together. The response was sledge-hammer sized and started out : “You dumbell…” I called the garage the next day – a part which was unfindable had been found, the total price was just south of what I had, yes, the car could be picked up that day and by noon, Percival and I and Carolyn the Third were headed to Happy Valley. She had decided to pay for the gas in exchange for company and a chance to get home to Springville to see her folks.

Percival indulged me in my whims – he was just wide enough to fit on the BYU sidewalks and sometimes after my shift as fry cook at Rowley’s he and I would take a spin about campus. This I thought was harmless – it was late enough that they were uninhabited and cruising past the Eyring science center at 1:30 am was both pleasant and thrilling. One night the campus cops took notice of me and my little car and when I attempted to exit, I was blocked by a blue and white patrol car. So I turned around and headed for the exit over by the south end of campus. They were there too. I was getting a little panicked and hit 70 in a run to the exit by the student center. Nuts, they had that blocked as well. In those days there was a singular sidewalk over to married student housing where the Marriott Center is now. I hit that sidewalk at 50 and pushed the accelerator to full whine. A couple was out walking that warm summer night. I barely saw them as they each dove to separate sides of the sidewalk. When I came off the sidewalk in a cul-de-sac at married student housing, the bump was so hard that my head put a permanent dent in the roof. I drove a couple of blocks and pulled into a driveway between a couple of cars, turned everything off, lay down in the seat and waited while the cop cars circled for hours. About four, I sat up, swore off criminal activities forever, thanked the Lord that I hadn’t killed the couple on the sidewalk and puttered home.

Marcie knew Percival – all of our dates were in that car – one night we went to Salt Lake and he lost his lights. We blinked the hazards all the way home on that winter night. I fully intended to take him into our marriage, but Dad objected. Percival’s longtime habits of wandering to the nearest mechanic were legendary and Dad thought that the trials of the trip east to graduate school would be more than he or we could stand. And, of course, he was right. So Percival got traded for the dependable, determined, air-cooled white VW bug. I never knew what happened to him – he was gone when we returned to the Y to teach. He was like my youth – amazing, beautiful, transient. There has got to be a heaven for cars – given that, I fully expect to see him again.