Captainkirk's Duster project

It was a Saturday, I think. Dave had gotten a notice in the mail that there was a care package from home waiting for him at the post office. I had to work that morning and he picked me up from work; we headed out to find the Post Office. It was way the heck across town somewhere; we had no idea where. We'’d stopped to ask directions probably three times and been given three different answers. You gotta understand Okie to translate; “"Fust ya go dayown theyahh, then make a raaaat…..”" We knew what the address was, just not how to get to the road. After about an hour of driving in circles we finally found it; Dave picked up his package and we headed back. We immediately got lost again in some sprawling subdivision full of ticky-tacky, boxy, look-alike pre-fab homes. Dave made a right turn into a cul-de-sac to turn around, when….
“STOP THE CAR!!!!!!!!!!!”
He slammed on the brakes, panicky, confused, and looking for a three-year-old on a tricycle in the street; seeing none, he turned to ask me what the hell I thought I was doing, but I was already out of the car and in the street.
There, in one of the nameless mundane lookalike driveways of the subdivision of ticky-tacky homes sat the Holy Grail of Mopar, sunning itself under a brilliant, robin’'s egg- blue sky that was so bright it hurt your eyes.
The Holy Grail.
A '’72 Duster.
The sun danced off the silver-blue finish; blinding spears of sunlight shooting off the Argent Silver wheels with their brushed-aluminum trim rings; at that particular moment I saw it; it sucked the breath from my lungs.
I was all over it.
Peering through the windows, I saw a nicely-kept black vinyl interior with high-backed buckets and a manual tranny. The top of the hood and fenders had been blacked out, save for the narrow wedge down the center of the hood, the black on the fenders continuing back along the tops of the door skins and curving around the rear windows like licorice candy canes. It was a nice touch. It had the ’'72 'Shark Tooth' grille I liked so much on the li'’l red minx, also.
Now, normally, this kind of activity in a stranger’'s driveway would get you on a first-name basis with an 870 Remington before you could say "boo". All was strangely silent, though. Not seeing anyone about, I quickly stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered, but I could hear a dog barking inside from deep within the bowels of the house. Trying again with no response other than Rex Live! in Concert, I knocked on the screen door. Finally I heard stirring from inside the house and the grating sound of a deadbolt sliding back. The door opened a few inches, and this (Native American) Indian dude poked his face into the opening between the door and the jamb, his chin resting on the still-attached security chain.
“Yeah?”
How. You sell-um motor-wagon?
“"Uhhh, is this car for sale?”"
Geronimo pondered a moment, blinking owlishly in the bright October sun, then unlatched the security chain and opened the door.
"“Could be”."
The guy was huge. Not fat, mind you; all muscle, with no shirt or shoes on and raven-black hair down to his waist.
I rather hoped he wasn'’t low on his quota of scalps for the week.
He stepped out onto the stoop and walked over to the car.
We walked; we talked. He popped the hood to show me the motor; I didn'’t need to ask if it was a 340; it was. It was old and dirty, to be sure, but at that point I wouldn'’t have cared if it was a slant six; Dr. Frankenstein had other ideas. Strangely enough, I noticed it was topped with a Carter AVS instead of the standard Thermo-Quad, and was dumping the spent gases through early-style 340 Hi-perf. exhaust manifolds. Strange. The color of the intake and valve covers was off, too; more of a Ford Blue than Mopar. He unlocked the car and I opened the door and stepped in; I sunk down into the high-backed buckets, as they wrapped their tendrils around me…..and had a strange feeling I belonged here. I worked the shifter through the gears; yup, four speed. I'’d swallowed the hook now; just waiting for him to set it.
I could feel my heart pounding. I managed to croak out, "“How much?”"
Geronimo pondered a bit more. Perhaps if I offered him a peace pipe…..
“"Nine hundred”."
Nine hundred. Geez, and I was only short six hundred! A mere bag of shells!
“"How about six hundred?”"
He looked at me with these unwavering coal-black eyes as if I’'d just offered to buy Manhattan Island for a handful of beads……...
“"Nine hundred”."
Right. Had he been in on the original Manhattan deal, I’'d be going to school in a London suburb.
"“OK; nine hundred."”
It was Custer'’s Last Stand all over again, and I was old Yellow Hair himself. ( I did have long blond hair at the time…. This was getting scary.)
Now all I had to do was find six hundred bucks.
Custer never had it so good.