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John Lago and his '62 Bus
INTRODUCTION
Bus Love: Stories of Life & Adventure with the VW Bus
Introduction
I’m a late bloomer. I didn’t get a driver’s license until 1981, when I was 30 years old and living in Boston. That year, I was offered a barely-running 1962 VW Beetle for $250 with the words “They’re so easy to work on. You can fix anything yourself.” I bought it, but I didn’t have a clue how to fix it. After spending $1500 with a local foreign car mechanic—who joked to my roommate when he called to say my car was done: “I know he wants basic transportation, but this is ridiculous.”—I finally had a car that worked. (After that kick in the wallet, my do-it-yourself mechanical knowledge went from 0-60 in short order.) With learner’s permit in hand, I learned to drive with that Bug. After about a year-and-a-half, the already rusty Bug had even become even more rusty—I could see the road beneath my feet as I drove. So, I spent another $250 for a ratty (but fun!) 1963 Beetle convertible, and stripped the ‘62 of all usable spare parts. (Owning an old car, I learned that having available spare parts was a Very Good Thing.) At this time, I earned my living as a furniture mover, and occasionally friends asked me to help with their moves. After a crazy experience using my convertible Beetle to move a couch balanced precariously over the back seat with the top down, it occurred to me that there must be a better way: What about a VW Bus?
In the early ‘80s, there were still quite a few old VW Buses in and around Boston, but having dealt with rusty Beetles, I wanted something better than the rusty ones for sale around town. It was rumored by my co-workers that good Buses were to be found in California, and for $2000, which was exactly my budget, I could do very well. In October of 1984, I flew to San Francisco, stayed with friends, scoured newspaper classified ads, and wandered the streets looking for a Bus. I only found beat-up Buses that would need a lot of work to even drive, or very nice ones that weren’t for sale. I gave up. On the last day of my two-week sojourn in California, I rented a car and drove to the Napa-Sonoma wine country. On a whim, I bought a local paper to see if anything was to be found in the classifieds. There it was: a 1966 Deluxe! For $2000! It turned out to be a European-market, blue-and-white sunroof model, brought over to the States from Switzerland in 1974. The VW emblem on the front was removed and the logo of the owner’s shop was painted on it: The Sugarhouse Bakery, St. Helena, Calif., with a picture of a baker rolling out dough. It was almost love at first sight: “How do I figure out the kilometer speedometer?” “Why are there no bumper guards?” “Why doesn’t the radio play FM?” (It was an original Blaupunkt European radio made for European frequencies, including short wave). Even the headlights and taillights were European spec, and different. I didn’t realize what an unusual and cool Bus I had. It brought appreciative comments everywhere I went (“Nice Bus!” A), and the first hitch-hikers I picked up were two young women from Germany traveling around California (I interpreted this as a good omen). On my way back to Boston, I visited my parents in Illinois and brought them together via the Bus (divorced many years, they had not seen each other in over two decades). Our lunch was awkward, but this gathering went a little way to healing a wound in my life, and hinted at an inkling that this vehicle brings people together.
In the early 1980’s, old VW Buses were cheap and at the bottom of their depreciation. In fact, once I had bought my first Bus, people would stop me to say they had one to get rid of—to take for free. I was given five or six in the space of just a few years—usually running, but sometimes not. I found new homes for these Buses, and the new owners were delighted to have them. On the streets of Boston (and, I’m sure, almost everywhere else in the world), there were still Buses driven by passionate-about-their-ride folks as “basic transportation,” and the camaraderie was alive and well. We would wave to each other as we passed on the roads. We would stop and chat with other owners whenever we found them getting in or out of their sometimes raggedy, but still running, Bus. It was a unique fellowship.
A local Bus owner placed an ad in a national VW magazine about his wish to get nearby Bus owners together, and I jumped at the chance. On a February day in 1986, I met with five other enthusiasts to share stories and exchange spare parts. That was the beginning of our club, NEATO: Northeast Association of Transporter Owners (the term “Transporter” is one of the official VW terms for its line of passenger, commercial truck, and van-like vehicles). We soon started a newsletter dedicated to ownership of vintage VW Buses, and as one of the editors of Old Bus Review, I met and corresponded with hundreds of enthusiasts in the US, Canada and overseas. Many of these folks became close friends as we experienced the joys of owning and operating these storied vehicles.
As letters, stories, and photos for the newsletter poured in every month from the far corners of the globe, I began to realize that there may be no motor vehicle better suited to motivate people to enjoy life on the road. Certainly none have appeared to inspire so many owners to write paeans to their motoring experiences. As contributing author John Lago writes, “experiences that would not have happened while driving any other vehicle.” Writer Dan Proudfoot adds “No other vehicle can match its power in producing smiles among passersby of all ages.”
Although relatively few of these vehicles are still driven daily, more are being resuscitated and restored every year. A large community has bonded over their shared love of vintage Type 2’s (another official name that Volkswagen gave them) at shows, campouts, through scores of clubs, and via the internet. Buses that would have previously been sent to the crusher years ago, are lovingly resurrected. Times have changed from the days of cheap, even free, VW Buses. Restored or original specimens now command prices of many thousands of dollars. It’s even possible to build an almost perfectly anatomically-correct Bus from entirely new reproduction parts and sheet metal. The current economics of owning and maintaining a Bus have pushed them well beyond the “basic transportation” category.
The VW Bus in popular culture often shows drivers and passengers as carefree hippies. Though there’s an element of historical truth to the stereotype, the deeper story of VW Busing is well beyond that: Bus Love reveals the VW Bus owner as resilient, creative, resourceful, mechanically-vigilant, patient, and philosophical—and with a vehicle like this, you’ve got to have a sense of humor!
In the first section of this book, Microbus Memories, several authors recount childhood or first experiences with Buses owned by family or friends in years past. Busing Today reflects the trials of finding and keeping a VW Bus. In The Shape of Busing to Come are stories of conjecture: what will the VW Bus mean in 25 or 50 years? And in the section, Bus Phantasmagoria, are tales on the edge, imaginings that could be plots for The Twilight Zone. The final article “The Origin of the VW Bus,” reveals details of the inspiration and design of the Type 2 not previously published in English, giving credit where it’s due. Most of these stories appeared over the years in Old Bus Review, some have been published elsewhere, and a few have never been published before.
My alternative title for this book was The Varieties of VW Bus Experience, Volume One. “Varieties” because you’ll hear a wide variety of voices in the stories ahead. “Volume One” because as long as these vehicles still roam, the adventures and stories will keep coming. All but one of the stories in this collection feature VW Buses 1967 and earlier, before the major body style changes of 1968 and 1979. That was the original focus of the club and newsletter. I hope that Bus Love, Volume Two will contain stories of more recent Type 2’s—and with the new-fangled all-electric ID. Buzz now on the market—perhaps a new generation will have new adventures and write new stories.
Meeting and corresponding with the authors and artists in this book, and many others at shows and gatherings, my life has been enriched beyond measure. The VW Bus, indeed, brings people together.
As I mentioned in the first sentence of this introduction, I tend to be late with things. This book, for example, was first suggested in the 1990s. Since then, a lot of life happened, and I realized it was now or never . Though much of the book is of a “time,” I hope the timelessness of the stories show through.
Ready to ride? Then hop in, get comfortable, and enjoy this collection of stories of life and adventure with the VW Bus.
Tom Brouillette
Night of the '54 Barndoor
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My Childhood
Flash qFiasco
So, you think you’ve heard a good story about a mint condition VW bus that’s been parked in a garage for 30 years and hardly ever been driven? And it’s for sale cheap! I’m about to tell you another one. But before I do, I have to tell you a third one. It’s about my miserable childhood in Disturbia, a meaningless succession of decades filled with asphalt, TV, and small appliances. Our respite was a ’64 VW Camper, pearly white. We drove it over the Rockies. We drove it across the Great Plains, over the High Sierra, through Death Valley, around Lake Tahoe, over the Golden Gate Bridge. Yes, we were intrepid campers. I loved that car and I loved the good times we had in it. But all things must pass . . .
Suddenly it’s 30 years later. My father still drives VW buses, newer versions and farther afield. He’s thrashing around Alaska in a Syncro these days. . . but that would be a different story. Meanwhile I live in Germany and have become—shudder—an adult, though I cannot for the life of me recall when it happened. No more childhood frivolities. Until . . .
One day, my friend Marco the Mechanic spots a VW bus for sale, mint condition, cheap. He doesn’t have the cash. I do. Well, I don’t really. But I get it after I’ve seen the bus. It’s a 1963 one-ton, Type 21 F (fire truck), for sale by a factory fire brigade—first and only owners. It has 9,345 km on it. It has the original tires on it. They have the original air in them. Original paint, you ask? Not only on the outside: the brake drums still have the original paint on them too; the fire brigade never got them heated up. On the shelf under the ash tray that’s never seen butts is the dealer’s warranty check-up booklet for tune-ups and lube jobs and stuff, with half the coupons unused. The bus slept every night in the heated fire engine bay. After 30 years of faithful service, it is being retired. They want 3,000 D-Marks for it. It is worth five times that.
How often does a grown man regain his long lost childhood—the Idyllic Childhood he wants to remember, Childhood as it ought to have been—in time-warp condition, with a full tank? Not very. When opportunities like that arise, there is only one question a man with more than half his wits about him (or where he can get them on twenty-four hour’s notice) would ask: “Do you have any more?” Alas, they did not, so I settled for just the one. Marco and I drive My Childhood to his workshop to prepare it for the German TÜV.
For the benefit of those who may not know what the TÜV is, I shall explain. Every vehicle registered in Krautland is required to undergo a certain ceremony every two years, called the TÜV (rhymes with roof). It is looked upon by Germans with as much relish as a visit to the dentist or the tax auditor. It consists of a rigorous inspection of roadworthiness. Technically, they can flunk you if the license plate bulb fails to light. If anything of a graver nature, such as questionable brake lines, should be discovered, you might as well call a tow truck right now. They can seize the vehicle to prevent it from being a menace to navigation if they deem it not roadworthy.
Part of the ceremony involves insuring that the vehicle meets the original technical specifications. Modifications, such as fat tires or bigger carburetors or flared fenders, are not tolerated. That’s the theoretical part of it. The practical part involves driving the vehicle over a pit. Down in the pit is a gorilla with an assortment of screwdrivers. His sole purpose in life consists in attempting to pound the pointy end through any body part or frame member which looks like it might yield, and he pursues this purpose with the single-minded thoroughness we both admire and fear in the Teutonic race. This last part of the ceremony is the one which causes most cars to fail eventually, for rust never sleeps.
In anticipation of this, Marco and I check all the light bulbs. Underneath it’s clean. He is confident My Childhood will pass muster. But you never know. Thirty years is a long time for a car; rubber and gaskets and hoses and things deteriorate, even when it sleeps in a heated garage.
On the appointed day, when I and My Childhood arrive at the TÜV, we are pleased to note that the inspector is having a light day and appears to be in a good mood. He is pleased to see such a fine old car in such apparently fine condition.
“Turn on the headlights, please.”
I do. He can barely see them—6 volt—and makes a note on his clipboard. “Turn on the windshield wipers, please.” I do. They swish painfully slowly—6 volt. He makes another note on his clipboard.
“Turn signals.”
Another black mark on the clipboard. I might mention that it still meets 1963 specs, so, technically, it ought to pass—but I bite my tongue. Rule Number One: never volunteer information to the government; speak only when spoken to, and only in monosyllables. They will only misinterpret it anyway, if you volunteer them the truth.
“Horn.”
H-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-T!! He starts. The fire brigade wanted you to know they were coming. The inspector is impressed. No black mark this time. We go round to the back to inspect the engine. It’s not a chromed concours d’élégance winner, but there are no precious bodily fluids leaking out anywhere and no crud caked on anywhere. Moreover, it idles like a purring kitten, no suspicious ticky-ticky noises or colored smoke. The inspector begins to think he might just be able to overlook a slow wiper motor.
“Drive over the pit, please.” The gorilla grimaces expectantly, brandishing a halogen lamp with which to peer into every crevice where a speck of rust might hide. He picks out a prize screwdriver. I drive over the pit, switch off the motor, and wait.
Remember The Fall of the House of Usher? Vincent Price buries his sister alive in the family crypt, but his supernatural hearing picks up her pounding and scratching inside the coffin and he goes insane. So there I am over the pit, having surrendered the soft underbelly of My Childhood to an insane Vincent Price.
In my mind I hear the pounding and scratching. The inspector with the clipboard however, does not. Normally, he expects to. He looks round from behind his clipboard and peers slantways down into the pit at the gorilla, awaiting his verdict.
“LIEBER GOTT!!” the gorilla cries—for the love of God!. He has not struck a single blow. My Childhood is pronounced roadworthy. The inspector and the gorilla congratulate me. “I wish I’d had such a nice Childhood!”
The registration papers declare the top speed to be 105 kph. Remember, this is the one-ton version, with low gear ratios. It hauls cargo, but not ass. I strongly suspect that the only time this bus got up to 105 was on the freight train from the factory in Hannover to the fire brigade in Mannheim. On my way home from the TÜV, at night, with 6 volt lighting (more like dimming), cruising at nowhere near the imaginary top speed, I nearly lost My Childhood, again. A careless driver came up from behind on the Autobahn—where there is no speed limit—perhaps drowsy, and severely misjudged our speed differential. He registered my dimly lit rear end too late to brake. He did the only thing left to do: swerve. He passed me in the other lane still swerving—spiraling like a whirligig, all four tires squealing and smoking. I thought we were done for, but he saved it.
Next day Marco and I decide to convert My Childhood to 12 volts. I also reflect that if you try to hold onto something fluid, like time, it runs through your fingers like water. So I add a bit of wisdom to the tailgate window. I am reminded whenever I look in the rear view mirror, and others are reminded when they come up behind me: all things must pass.
More stories from Flash can be found at: http://www.crumplezone.de/
So, you think you’ve heard a good story about a mint condition VW bus that’s been parked in a garage for 30 years and hardly ever been driven? And it’s for sale cheap! I’m about to tell you another one. But before I do, I have to tell you a third one. It’s about my miserable childhood in Disturbia, a meaningless succession of decades filled with asphalt, TV, and small appliances. Our respite was a ’64 VW Camper, pearly white. We drove it over the Rockies. We drove it across the Great Plains, over the High Sierra, through Death Valley, around Lake Tahoe, over the Golden Gate Bridge. Yes, we were intrepid campers. I loved that car and I loved the good times we had in it. But all things must pass . . .
Suddenly it’s 30 years later. My father still drives VW buses, newer versions and farther afield. He’s thrashing around Alaska in a Syncro these days. . . but that would be a different story. Meanwhile I live in Germany and have become—shudder—an adult, though I cannot for the life of me recall when it happened. No more childhood frivolities. Until . . .
One day, my friend Marco the Mechanic spots a VW bus for sale, mint condition, cheap. He doesn’t have the cash. I do. Well, I don’t really. But I get it after I’ve seen the bus. It’s a 1963 one-ton, Type 21 F (fire truck), for sale by a factory fire brigade—first and only owners. It has 9,345 km on it. It has the original tires on it. They have the original air in them. Original paint, you ask? Not only on the outside: the brake drums still have the original paint on them too; the fire brigade never got them heated up. On the shelf under the ash tray that’s never seen butts is the dealer’s warranty check-up booklet for tune-ups and lube jobs and stuff, with half the coupons unused. The bus slept every night in the heated fire engine bay. After 30 years of faithful service, it is being retired. They want 3,000 D-Marks for it. It is worth five times that.
How often does a grown man regain his long lost childhood—the Idyllic Childhood he wants to remember, Childhood as it ought to have been—in time-warp condition, with a full tank? Not very. When opportunities like that arise, there is only one question a man with more than half his wits about him (or where he can get them on twenty-four hour’s notice) would ask: “Do you have any more?” Alas, they did not, so I settled for just the one. Marco and I drive My Childhood to his workshop to prepare it for the German TÜV.
For the benefit of those who may not know what the TÜV is, I shall explain. Every vehicle registered in Krautland is required to undergo a certain ceremony every two years, called the TÜV (rhymes with roof). It is looked upon by Germans with as much relish as a visit to the dentist or the tax auditor. It consists of a rigorous inspection of roadworthiness. Technically, they can flunk you if the license plate bulb fails to light. If anything of a graver nature, such as questionable brake lines, should be discovered, you might as well call a tow truck right now. They can seize the vehicle to prevent it from being a menace to navigation if they deem it not roadworthy.
Part of the ceremony involves insuring that the vehicle meets the original technical specifications. Modifications, such as fat tires or bigger carburetors or flared fenders, are not tolerated. That’s the theoretical part of it. The practical part involves driving the vehicle over a pit. Down in the pit is a gorilla with an assortment of screwdrivers. His sole purpose in life consists in attempting to pound the pointy end through any body part or frame member which looks like it might yield, and he pursues this purpose with the single-minded thoroughness we both admire and fear in the Teutonic race. This last part of the ceremony is the one which causes most cars to fail eventually, for rust never sleeps.
In anticipation of this, Marco and I check all the light bulbs. Underneath it’s clean. He is confident My Childhood will pass muster. But you never know. Thirty years is a long time for a car; rubber and gaskets and hoses and things deteriorate, even when it sleeps in a heated garage.
On the appointed day, when I and My Childhood arrive at the TÜV, we are pleased to note that the inspector is having a light day and appears to be in a good mood. He is pleased to see such a fine old car in such apparently fine condition.
“Turn on the headlights, please.”
I do. He can barely see them—6 volt—and makes a note on his clipboard. “Turn on the windshield wipers, please.” I do. They swish painfully slowly—6 volt. He makes another note on his clipboard.
“Turn signals.”
Another black mark on the clipboard. I might mention that it still meets 1963 specs, so, technically, it ought to pass—but I bite my tongue. Rule Number One: never volunteer information to the government; speak only when spoken to, and only in monosyllables. They will only misinterpret it anyway, if you volunteer them the truth.
“Horn.”
H-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-T!! He starts. The fire brigade wanted you to know they were coming. The inspector is impressed. No black mark this time. We go round to the back to inspect the engine. It’s not a chromed concours d’élégance winner, but there are no precious bodily fluids leaking out anywhere and no crud caked on anywhere. Moreover, it idles like a purring kitten, no suspicious ticky-ticky noises or colored smoke. The inspector begins to think he might just be able to overlook a slow wiper motor.
“Drive over the pit, please.” The gorilla grimaces expectantly, brandishing a halogen lamp with which to peer into every crevice where a speck of rust might hide. He picks out a prize screwdriver. I drive over the pit, switch off the motor, and wait.
Remember The Fall of the House of Usher? Vincent Price buries his sister alive in the family crypt, but his supernatural hearing picks up her pounding and scratching inside the coffin and he goes insane. So there I am over the pit, having surrendered the soft underbelly of My Childhood to an insane Vincent Price.
In my mind I hear the pounding and scratching. The inspector with the clipboard however, does not. Normally, he expects to. He looks round from behind his clipboard and peers slantways down into the pit at the gorilla, awaiting his verdict.
“LIEBER GOTT!!” the gorilla cries—for the love of God!. He has not struck a single blow. My Childhood is pronounced roadworthy. The inspector and the gorilla congratulate me. “I wish I’d had such a nice Childhood!”
The registration papers declare the top speed to be 105 kph. Remember, this is the one-ton version, with low gear ratios. It hauls cargo, but not ass. I strongly suspect that the only time this bus got up to 105 was on the freight train from the factory in Hannover to the fire brigade in Mannheim. On my way home from the TÜV, at night, with 6 volt lighting (more like dimming), cruising at nowhere near the imaginary top speed, I nearly lost My Childhood, again. A careless driver came up from behind on the Autobahn—where there is no speed limit—perhaps drowsy, and severely misjudged our speed differential. He registered my dimly lit rear end too late to brake. He did the only thing left to do: swerve. He passed me in the other lane still swerving—spiraling like a whirligig, all four tires squealing and smoking. I thought we were done for, but he saved it.
Next day Marco and I decide to convert My Childhood to 12 volts. I also reflect that if you try to hold onto something fluid, like time, it runs through your fingers like water. So I add a bit of wisdom to the tailgate window. I am reminded whenever I look in the rear view mirror, and others are reminded when they come up behind me: all things must pass.
More stories from Flash can be found at: http://www.crumplezone.de/
Kombi at the Crossroads
Tom Forhan
Back in the Sixties, Bert Roan bought his 1959 Kombi for deer hunting. It still helps him fill the freezer today, though things have changed a bit . . . but I am getting a little ahead of the story.
I’d first seen the Kombi while bicycling along a wooded country road. It was an archetypal find, sitting among some scrub and vines, behind a metal-clad pole barn and a faded pink and white trailer. Out in front, a stocky man with dark gray hair was tending a small, smoky fire built inside an old truck rim.
I left my bike by the road, walked back, and introduced myself. I offered pleasantries, and I told him I had an old VW bus and had noticed his.
Summarily, he looked up. “It’s not for sale.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m out here on vacation, nowhere near home. Got one kind of like it; I just wanted to take a look.”
He poked at the fire a bit. “People don’t stop here often, but the only reason they do is ’cause of that bus. Years ago, a hippie parked his old VW bus on the road, and walked up the drive with a bag of tools on his shoulder. Told me he needed the generator. Didn’t ask, didn’t offer to pay, just said he needed it to get back home. I told him to go to hell.
“Last year someone just helped themselves. Messed up the dashboard, took that VW thing off the front. Really made me mad, since when I drove it back and parked it there, everything was there and everything worked.”
“So it was running when you parked it. When was that?” I asked.
“Well, I bought it for deer hunting. That ground clearance and traction were great on the sandy two-track roads around here. But then the government started buying up all the hunting lands for the park. Closed all the trails, so I changed my plans. Musta been around 1975 when I stopped driving it.
“Lately, my wife’s health has been kind of poor; we only get up here weekends now, and not everyone at that. We bought this place in 1950; still try to get here when we can. Since folks have been messing with that bus, I like to walk back and check on it each time I visit.”
Straightening out of his crouch, he said, “Let’s go have a look.”
We walked around the back of the barn. My first good look was from the rear, and I saw original (and desirable) round taillights and a rectangular rear window. Not ancient, but a respectable age. The body was the lovely Dove Blue, but worried with lots of surface rust, especially on the roof. A long time ago, someone had made a quick job of repairing the rockers with galvanized sheet metal. “With all the problems you’re having, why don’t you take those taillights off and stop tempting people?” I asked.
Bert did not want to talk about parts. He pointed up the hill to the right. “There are two deer runs there, one coming down each side, then they join up and pass us over there, twenty feet from the cargo door. On the other side, deer come into the pasture from the south, walk along the edge, and then move across in front of the bus. So there are three natural deer runs on my property, and that’s why I parked it here. It’s right at the crossroads! Of course, they’ve been walking past the bus all year, and it’s only in late November when I’m sitting out here,” he chuckled.
He focused on the Kombi again, and opened up the engine lid. It looked like the proper 36 horsepower engine, #2646017, with the cast-in generator stand and funky squashed fuel pump. A six-volt battery to the right, daylight visible below it, held up only by the battery cables. To the left was an Eberspacher gasoline heater.
I took a close look at the heater. He whispered conspiratorially, “That heater is what makes the whole thing work. I charge up the battery, put some fuel in the tank each fall, and I have my own heated deer blind!”
“It still runs?” I asked, trying not to sound overly amazed.
“Yeah, sure. The heater, anyway. I bring out a big pot of goulash, too, put it under the rear seat by the heat outlet, and that damn heater warms me up, inside and out!”
At this point, he lifted the rear hatch. A mass of insulation, seeds, mouse dung, and other assorted detritus fell out. There was strong aroma of musk and urine. “The rest of the year the raccoons call it home,” guessed Bert. “I don’t mind it much in hunting season. The cold keeps the smell down.” I looked beyond the accumulation. The radio cover plate looked pristine, and the dome light lens was intact and perfect.
That was about all the good parts.
Bert moved around to the passenger side, and showed me how he had carefully greased the hinges over the years. The cargo doors opened beautifully.
Inside, a three-passenger middle seat faced the rear, and a small makeshift table sat between the two. The seat color was strange, a light yellow green. “Those aren’t the originals. The seats that came with it were shot and I got these off a guy who was making his bus into a dune buggy or some such thing.”
“Those middle seats are hard to find,” I said. “Everybody took them out and threw them away. A three-passenger seat like this is what I need for my project . . .” But he didn’t rise to the bait.
Next, we moved up to the front and he opened the passenger door. I reached in and lifted up the seat back. “Yes, it still has the spare,” said Bert. But I was looking for the production plate, and I found it:
13 11 8
372 13 175
UF 231 BLUE 409913
I majored in anthropology in college, even did some graduate work. I had wanted to decipher the Mayan hieroglyphs. I would imagine myself at an archeological site in the Yucatan, walking up to a fallen stele, just unearthed from the humus of the jungle floor. The carving, not having seen the light of day for twelve centuries, would be surrounded by a cluster of scholars and Mayan workers, anxious to hear the words of the ancients. I would consider the inscription, decode the words and numbers and finally make a pronouncement. Something like: “On June 8, 756, the Butterfly Lord ascended the throne, celebrating the passing of his mother, the Lady Ix Chel.”
Instead, I found myself with yet another Splitty moldering away in the back woods, and I was doing the decoding for Bert Roan:
“Built November 13, 1958.”
“That guy who sold it to me ripped me off—he said it was a 1959!”
“Well, November would put it in the 1959 model year. 372 — that’s a bit of an unknown, probably US export equipment. 13 — middle and rear seat, and 175 refers to the bumper overriders. UF: we know U is a USA designation, but the scholars are still working on the meaning of whatever letter follows the U. 231 — that means it’s a Kombi model. BLUE is the color, or course, Dove Blue I think it was called.”
“Cripes,” said Bert. “I mean it’s pretty obvious it’s blue, right? Why would they stamp it on a damn plate?”
I let that one go by. “. . . and the last number is the vehicle serial number.” I retreated from the front seat, noting that the steering wheel — black, of course — had no apparent cracks.
We moved around to the front. It was clear that the VW emblem had been removed in the not too distant past, the paint underneath still clean and bright. I took a picture of Bert and his bus.
As we walked back to the trailer, Bert appeared pensive. Reconsidering the issue of the middle seat perhaps? My hopes were quickly dashed.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if I would just smash those taillights, I’ll bet no one would ever bother my bus again.”
Daily Driver Delusions
Everett Barnes
It all started on a Saturday. I had decided to look for a new Bus to use as a daily driver and was perusing the local Auto Trader classifieds when I saw it:
“1958 Bus, Kombi model, 7 doors, sunroof, all original, complete, needs paint, lowered, $2000.”
Whoa! A ’58 Double Door Kombi?!? It was all a daze as the phone seemed to spring into my hands and dial itself. The owner’s mother answered the phone and indicated her son was not home but he would call me back when he returned.
A few hours later, I got the return call. He began with what seemed like a prepared speech: “It’s a ’58 Kombi. All the parts are there. It has been primered with the good stuff and is almost ready for paint. The only body work it needs is a little bit of welding on the passenger front floor, the windshield was leaking when I bought it and there are a few holes. Right now it is at a local shop. I took it there because it was overheating and he repaired it. I had some money trouble and could not pay for the repairs. Now I need to sell it because I owe the shop over $1000 for repairs and 3 months of storage fees. The $2000 price is firm.”
“Does it have all the seats?” I asked.
“The front seat is there. There are no rear seats.”
“Well, maybe it didn’t come with rear seats. . .” I mumbled under my breath, then replied “Okay, I would like to come see it. Can I get the VIN number?”
He was quick on the reply. “I don’t have the pink slip in front of me but the number of the shop is KL5-3346. They know I am selling it and can give you more information about it and any work they did. I’ll try and find the pink slip in the meantime.”
“The Bus is in your name, right?”
“Oh yeah, I’ve owned it for about a year, just haven’t driven it much.”
“Okay, I’ll call them. When can I come see it?”
“I have to go out for the rest of the day, but call me tomorrow and I can meet you at the shop.”
I called the shop, and they were closed.
Sunday:
I woke up early, excited to go see the Bus as early as possible. My wife, Jen, convinced me that I should wait until at least 9:00 a.m. to call, so I did. I got his machine and left a message, then continued trying to call him at various intervals throughout the day with no luck. Finally, I got a call back late that evening that he had dug up the pink slip. I retrieved the VIN information and consulted my reference books. Damn, it's a ’63! I really wanted a split-case era Bus, but man, a complete and original Double Door Kombi? I had to at least see it!
“Can I come see it today?” I asked.
“No, I found out the shop is closed today. Call me tomorrow and we can meet over there after work.”
“Okay.”
By this time, I’ve decided I want the vehicle. A complete ’63 Double Door Kombi in excellent shape for around $2000? Sounds like a deal!
Called the guy multiple times Monday and Tuesday, always got the message machine, which was full. My mind was racing. Is the machine full of potential buyers? Is the Bus sold already? Why isn't he calling me back?
Wednesday:
Because of my inability to contact the owner, I decide to call the shop to see what information they have on the vehicle.
“Hello, I’m calling about the Bus stored at your shop that’s for sale,” I began.
“My Bus? I want $1500 for it.”
“Oh, I thought it was just in storage at your shop, waiting for the owner to pay his bill.”
“No, it’s mine, I’m submitting the paperwork today to get it put into my name, and I’ve had a lien on the vehicle for three months. The owner is in jail in San Jose anyway,” he replied, as if that was a common occurrence.
Now I was getting frustrated. What the heck was going on? Had he been in jail the last few days? That’s why I haven’t heard from him? Okay, calm down, typical thing that would happen to me now that I’m seriously interested in the Bus. Just play along . . .
“Oh, really? Well, I am interested in it. When will it be in your name?”
“I’m going to the DMV tomorrow.”
“I would like to come see it this weekend.”
“Call me Saturday morning and you can come out.”
Now I’m just nervous. Does the seller even own the Bus? Well, I have the VIN number. I call the Department of Motor Vehicles to see if he is the registered owner. They were polite but informed me they could not give me that information. Fine, I’ll call the police station.
“Hello, I am interested in purchasing a vehicle I have found and wish to verify the ownership of it.”
“Why would you need to do that?”
“Well, the supposed owner may be in jail right now so I just thought I would check.”
“Go ahead.”
I relayed the ownership information to the police and they verified he was still the owner, at least for now. I then decided to call the San Jose jail to check his release date. You’d think the information might be private but no, they came right out and tell me he’s not getting out, the charge is fraud and with his priors, he is being held until his arraignment. Well, maybe the shop owner’s lien will go through and I can just buy it from him.
Thursday:
The owner calls me back! Says he was just off visiting his friend for a few days and couldn’t get back to me. Uh-huh, either that or you were in JAIL! It’s getting pretty obvious that fraud is in his veins but I’m determined that I have got to see the Bus, if only to have a complete story about it. I tell him I’m going to see it on Saturday at the shop and ask him again if he has a pink slip in his name.
“Yes, I have it right in front of me. Just call me after you go see it and make me an offer. I’ve got to sell it ASAP so make me an offer.”
Righhhht, now he’s just trying to rip somebody off when he knows he’s losing ownership of the vehicle. I decide to call the jail again, to make sure he didn’t escape or something, to see if he had a bench warrant out for his arrest, and to find out why he was he even let out. Maybe I got his name wrong. . . I call the San Jose jail again to see when he’s getting out.
“Oh, it looks like we let him out on his own recognizance. We needed room for a bunch of drunks and DUIs we arrested Wednesday night. His court date is in two weeks.” What? Nice legal system we have here, they let someone with multiple counts of fraud out to let some drunks sleep it off?
Saturday:
I wake up early again, ready to go see the Bus. I’m a little distraught at the circumstances and am wondering if this is just a big waste of time. I set up the time to go over there and call my brother, relating to him the story so far. He decides to come with me, if only to see what should be a nice Bus. Jen, Dave, and I pile into Jen’s car and make the one-hour drive across the Bay to his shop.
We arrived at what looked like a normal repair shop: big drive-through double doors in front, six bays inside, all with various vehicles up on lifts having work performed. A medium-height, medium-build sleazy-looking man seemed to be supervising one of the vehicles. That must be the guy. I walked over.
“Hi! I’m Everett, here about the Bus.”
“It’s out back, go through there. The keys are in it.” He points out through the back double bay doors of his repair shop. As we walk outside, I ready myself for the inspection. My hopes were up. I guess they shouldn’t have been by this point but I was still clinging to the belief that the seller wasn’t that bad, and the Bus would make up for all the hassle I had to go through to get it. There it sat, squeezed in between an old MG and a crappy Olds that had obviously been in a fatal accident. The gray primer looked fairly new, and the body appeared straight, at least the upper half. I walked up the side to the cab for a look at the interior. This is it? You call this all original? Black vinyl interior panels dumped into the walk-through partition? Highback seats grafted in from who knows what, obviously not any sort of VW. What sort of radio requires you to cut a hole that big in the dash? Okay, calm down, the body looks straight. Check the passenger side floor. Damn! I wouldn't describe that nightmare under the passenger side of the front floor mat as a few holes to be welded up, more like a few pieces of metal are left holding the floor intact! I’m not even sure a passenger could put their feet down without going through the floor! Is that rust at the bottom of the cargo doors? I bend down for a closer look. Are the rockers supposed to look wavy? I prod a little with my finger and a piece falls inward. Oh man, talk about your serious Bondo job. . . Well, it runs nice, right? Let’s check out the engine. Yes, I see why it could be overheating, there are no heater hoses coming off the fan shroud and no engine seals in sight. What exactly did the repair shop fix for that $1000?
Well, maybe I can talk the guy down once I explain all the stuff that is wrong with it. I may as well drive it, what else could be wrong? After much maneuvering and Jen and Dave flashing various hand signals, I get the Bus out from the back of his shop and into the interior of the repair bay. Sure doesn’t feel like a stock engine but maybe I’m confused by the 1700 lb. pressure plate and the fact that it has Type 3 axles and no reduction boxes. I get it through the repair bay and out to the front entrance to the shop, scraping the dual quiet pack exhaust on everything possible along the way. It does seem like the engine has a lot of power, even at low rpms. Maybe it’s a 1776cc—it did have some funky Weber carb on it. Doesn’t look like there’s much chance I will be buying it so might as well have a little fun. I rev the engine up and drop the clutch as I exit his shop, spinning the rear tires and sliding into a right-hand turn going south. Whoa, this Bus is fast! I unintentionally accelerate on the four-lane main street to 50 mph, getting a little scared as I notice the steering wheel has wayyy too much play in it to drive safely. I downshift to second on the next turn, making sure I can handle the steering, and then punch it into the straightaway, rising back up to 55 mph quickly and effortlessly. Okay, enough fun, I’ve gone a mile or so, better turn around and head back.
I begin to head around the block, making a right turn, then another right turn when all of a sudden, the shifter goes slack. The gear shift is in neutral and won’t go back into gear! And why is the idle so high now? I pull up the shift boot to check the shifter bolts; no, they are tight, the shifter couldn’t have moved. Maybe it’s the shift coupler. Well, if the Bus wasn’t so low I could take a look. Forget it, I’m only about a mile away from the shop now, so I’ll just park it and walk back. So I got out, went to push the Bus to the side using the door jamb. What the heck? I can’t even move it! Okay, okay, brakes must be binding a little, crank the steering wheel, go to the back and really push. Damn, I can barely get it to move. Crap, there’s a fire hydrant nearby, can’t park it there anyway. Okay, there’s a spot about 20 yards up the street. Ugh, how can the brakes be this tight?!? Did I put the e-brake on? Nope. A few passers-by notice my predicament and help me push it over to the side by the hydrant. Forget it, I’m leaving it right here, and if it gets towed, that’s his problem; I’m heading back to the shop.
Meanwhile, Dave and Jen are back at the shop, wondering what happened to me. The shop owner keeps coming out to the front of his shop and looking around, checking to see if Dave and Jen are still there and making little comments under his breath. By this time, they’ve both decided he is a serious a**hole. Jen convinces Dave to head out in her car to look for me. He catches me walking when I’m about halfway back and we cruise back to the shop.
“Where’s the Bus?”
“It broke down.”
“Oh, s**t.”
“My words exactly.”
I enter the shop to find the guy talking on the phone. He takes his time finishing the conversation and hangs up.
“The Bus broke down,” I say.
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. The gearshift was in neutral and I couldn’t put it into gear . . .” I begin to explain the steps I tried but he just cuts me off.
“Oh, yeah, that happened once before. I just gotta adjust the shifter cables.”
“Uh, there aren’t any cables.”
“I’ve been working on cars for 20 years, YOU don’t tell ME about them.”
“Okayyyy.” I glance at my brother and he has the same “this guy’s insane” look on his face that I have on mine.
Well, I decide to see if he is now the legal owner, so maybe I can cut a deal.
“When will the Bus be legally in your name?” I ask.
“It is now,” he answers as if he owned it all along.
Oh, really? I think to myself, but say, “Do you have the paperwork from the DMV?”
“Well, it’s at my house but I’ll go get it if you REALLY need to see it.”
“Yes, I will, if we can arrive at a price. It seemed to run real strong before it broke down. What was your asking price again?”
“It’s $1500.”
“Well, that would be fair but most of the parts on it are not ’63. It needs a lot of welding and bodywork. A lot of parts are missing, plus now it’s not drivable. So, what’s the lowest you will go?”
“Make me an offer.”
“$400, since now I’ll have to pay to get it towed home.”
“No way, I could paint it and sell it for at least $2500. I just want it out of my shop. The owner owes me over $1000 in storage charges anyway.”
I hold back a laugh and just smile. “We both know storage charges are bull; I’d pay you more if I could drive it away.”
“I could fix the shifter problem,” he offers.
“Okay, when would you do that?”
“Today works. My labor rate is $55/hour.”
I am stunned. This guy is definitely insane.
“Oh, I thought you meant you would fix it in order to sell the Bus.”
“You’re not going to pay me to fix it?”
At this moment, I finally decide to give it up. Apparently, this guy thinks he’s some sort of brilliant scam artist. It’s apparent that no deal will be made.
“Bye.”
“Wait, I thought you wanted it.”
“Not for more than $400. I doubt it is even in your name. Call me if you change your mind, you have my number. Bye.”
We left.
I feel sorry for his paying customers . . .
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