Detroit Steal
Every day on my way to school, I'd pass this house. In the yard, a Mustang slowly decayed beneath pecan trees. After I graduated, I stopped at the house and knocked on the door.
I asked why the car was there, as I'd heard rumors.
Mr. Conner himself relayed the below story, and he proudly showed me the keys in his pocket.
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Jimmy graduated high school in 1966. He wasn't a wonderful student, and he barely squeaked by with passing marks in Algebra.
He was a great son, though, and a good athlete.
His father made a bargain with him, and it was simple:
Get a diploma, and he'd get him a job at the lumber mill after school...
and he'd buy him a brand new Mustang.
His dad liked to pretend that it was the promise of a job that got his boy to focus, but he was a realist. He knew it was the car.
Summer came, and with it, a green Mustang. Exactly seven miles were on the odometer when it left the dealership.
Mr. Conner made good on his other promise. Using his pull as a foreman, he got his boy a job working first shift.
Life was good. The younger siblings were all excellent students, and Jimmy was a decent kid. He was a typical young man; he sometimes drank, he sometimes fought. He had a girlfriend, he went to church.
He drag raced, and usually won.
The sheriff himself came knocking on the door one night with reports that he'd spotted Jimmy over on 24, racing again, and he asked Mr. Conner if he couldn't see to it.
Jimmy, almost a man but still under the Connor roof, was grounded. The car was parked under a tree, and Jimmy was relegated to catching rides to work with his old man.
Jimmy resented these rules, and he felt that he was grown and shouldn't have to put up with such foolishness at 19.
His father explained to him the truth of the world, and Jimmy replied that he'd be moving out. Mr. Conner just smiled and nodded, calmly stating that if he left under those conditions, he could leave the car right where it was. Jimmy went off in a huff, and stayed gone for two days.
On the third, the sky fell when Jimmy came home to find his draft letter.
His father, through tears, gave him the keys to the car, and mumbled apologies. Jimmy hugged him and handed back the keys with these words:
"No, dad. You were right."
On that day, he became a man in his father's eyes.
No one ever drove the Mustang again.
In the Hau Nghia Province of South Vietnam, Jimmy met his end on November 16, 1967. He did not linger, he did not suffer, and he died whole; a single 7.62 millimeter round stole everything that he would ever be.
It was eight days before his 20th birthday.
His father fell on black days that never ended. The Mustang became more than a car; it became a symbol of a father's love for his son. It was left parked under the pecan tree, and the keys stayed in the elder Conner's pocket. For thirty-seven years, the car never moved.
For thirty-seven years, a father mourned.
In 2004, Mr. Conner was reunited with his son in the Memorial Gardens.
He was buried with the keys still in his pocket.