A Warm Summer Night in Northport

 

                                              A Warm Summer Night In Northport

This memory was sent to me by Mike Maloney, Class of ‘70. Thanks, Mike……..

I remember large crowds of kids up there near Carvel on Friday nights, a vibrant throng of restless undirected energy. On one particular night, hundreds of kids from barely teens to young men in their early twenty's, filled all the space around the stainless steel clad ice cream store. My future brother-in-law appeared this one time in his sleek white 1965 Pontiac GTO. He used to race it at the Drag Strip further out the island on the weekends. He was then a large fellow, and there were all sorts of joking, shouting and commotion going on in the crowd; with him at the center. Tight pants and pointed shoes by those with slicked back hair added to the heightened sense of danger. This was well before the "beloved" Fonze emasculated the greaser's tough image. It all seemed very exciting, like a touch of the seething city's menacing atmosphere in little old Northport. It could have been a scene out of American Graffiti, Grease, or even West Side Story. A nice combination of fear and excitement for young teenagers like us. Our small port town didn't usually afford a teen the electrified feeling an unsupervised youthful crowd this size could deliver. I moved over nearer to the action, and upon being recognized, raised my hand in a small gesture of greeting. My soon to be brother-in-law nodded and smiled slightly in return, and then was immersed again in the riotous crowd. He was, for that moment, a larger than life character. He stood next to his gleaming ride, his big blond haired head, with its' broad face, alternating a wild-eyed smile with a certain threatening look. The outlines of large arm and chest muscles were clearly visible through his snugly fitted white tee shirt and his great size dwarfed most of those around him. He need only fear a cowardly attack from behind, so great was his towering physical presence. He kept his vulnerable back near the car he so loved, and like a faithful servant, it protected him in return. I watched closely from a short distance and heard the attendant bragging about whose car was faster, who was tougher, and the like. I heard the challenge to anyone that he would place a hundred dollar bill on the dashboard, and he bet that you sitting beside him could not grab it, while he rapidly accelerated to over a hundred miles an hour! A bet he never lost.

The bored-out 389 cubic inch engine, with a six-pack, (that is, 3 two barrel carburetors), building to 400+ horses was fast; very, very fast. He once out-ran a police cruiser, my sister sitting beside him, by negotiating at high speeds through a Dairy Barn drive through, and then disappearing into the distance. She advised him rather sternly to never do that again, at least while she was with him.

This all took place on a warm summer's eve in front of the Carvel Ice Cream stand, and in the parking area there that bordered 25A. Other driver's of "hot" Pontiac's, along with Camaros, Mustangs, and Vettes; would cruise by and offer a challenge or an admiring look, as they leaned out of their highly polished vehicles, slowing down the traffic on 25A to a crawl. This stretch of asphalt was the border, the crossroads, the tracks, which we felt, in our own arrogant way, separated Northport from those who lived elsewhere, in seemingly lesser towns and villages. Then after some more shouting, and a little pushing, my brother-in-law hopped in the wide tired and brightly chromed hot rod. The engine fired up with a deep, throbbing rumble. He stomped on the pedal of the immobile vehicle and the engine roared fiercely; instinctively forcing everyone nearby to take a step back as they would when a great beast bellowed! The sound was all about power; a raw and primitive power. He backed the car up carefully, and turning the wheel, pointed it eastward down 25A. Then, observing the coast was clear from both other traffic and the police, the engine again emitted a throaty howl. The pent up power of the highly charged engine caused the still motionless car to dance slightly on its splendid wheels, while he held the powerful clutch in. Next the Hurst shifter moved slowly and smoothly into first gear. His fingers flexed as his large hands tightened on the smooth wooden steering wheel. Finally the clutch was popped, and the front of the car lurched forward, rising slightly, as the now ferociously spinning rear tires started to catch hold of the warm tarmac. Those violently turning tires heated instantly and smoke rose quickly along with the rapidly spreading pungent odor of burning rubber. Loose gravel was rocketed rearward and all unfortunate enough to find themselves aft of the departing vehicle raised their arms and turned their heads to protect themselves from the flying debris. The young crowd stood breathless, awe-struck, with many believing owning such a car was most of what life had to offer. In a matter of seconds he was gone, over the slight rise of the curving road, speeding into the dark night. The sound of the still clamoring engine was audible even after the speeding car had disappeared from our sight.

A memory from a long time ago.... He still owns that car; it sits poised and motionless in his garage upstate. But each time I visit I take a look in that small garage, with car parts and equipment dusty and strewn about. It remains a past thoroughbred held in the timeless grip of a youthful memory. And in an instant I am transported back to the excitement of a youthful crowd on a warm summer's night, and that shining car, with the deep sound of that darkly powerful engine....