Wheel Heeled

I worked at Kmart for two years pushing carts, mopping floors and stocking shelves, and finally had enough to buy this Oldsmobile Cutlass. The car was maroon with red pin stripes, wire hubcaps with white letter tires, and It was sitting in my driveway. I stood with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge, washing it even though it wasn’t dirty. I vacuumed it, even though there was nothing on the mats.

I drove my brother and me to the high school for the first time, liberated from bus purgatory. Parked in the student lot, I put the key in the door, turning it to lock it. As I walked toward the school, I couldn’t help but keep looking back over my shoulder at my car. My car!

Then Craig pulled up in his blue pickup.

“Hey, Allen!” Craig said.

“What?”

“Nice grandpa car,” he said, as he and his passenger cracked up.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Only grandpas have wire hubcaps,” Craig said.

I walked into the school while I felt my ears burning, without looking back again.

***

Christmas morning looked like usual, and sounded the same, too. Dad had a collection of LPs, and put “Tijuana Christmas” on the turntable. Christmas classics by trumpet set the festive atmosphere. Our tree was a real blue spruce, dad’s tree of choice. A modest collection of gifts were carefully staged around its skirt.

The gifts were typical. I bought a jewelry box for my mom with my ten percent Kmart discount. My parents gave my brother and me our own oscillating fans, as we didn’t have air conditioning. I had worked with my grandpa to make an address sign for my dad. He was moved: I made something for him. Mom gave Dad a bag of red-dyed pistachios, her tradition.

Things were wrapping up, everything reduced to a pile of wrapping paper. The stockings had been emptied. I was sucking on a peppermint candy cane when my dad spoke.

“Wait, we missed something,” Dad said.

“Oh?” Mom replied, a bit surprised.

“Just a minute,” he said, springing to his feet and heading to the garage with my brother.

They came back carrying four large boxes, unwrapped.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Take a look,” Dad said, setting them in front of me. The tops of the boxes were held closed by the overlapping flaps tucked under one another.

I opened one, and looked inside. It was a car rim. A very crusty car rim at that. But I saw the center cap, which was chrome and had an Oldsmobile emblem on it.

“What’s this?” I asked, a little confused.

“They’re Olds Rocket rims for your car,” Dad said. “I thought we could paint them up and they’d really sport up your car.”

“That sounds awesome Dad!”

The other boxes were opened, revealing four Rocket rims, one black, two white, one lime. All well used, mix-matched, but complete.

***

Dad made a trip to Murray’s Discount Auto with me, and he suggested a gunmetal paint color would look sharp for the wheels. As we set up the garage to be our paint booth, the rims looked like a sad set, rusty and chipped under a layer of dirt.

The process was going to be basic: remove all the trim, then prep the surfaces with soap and water, then sandpaper smooth, then paint with the gunmetal Rust-Oleum. Dad showed me how to take care removing the trim, using a screw driver to slip the trim tabs off the rim without bending them.

He also showed me how to make light passes with the spray bombs to prevent runs and drips in the paint. The rag tag set of rims began their rebirth. I couldn’t believe one coat of paint could make these old rims look like a matching family. These were going to look incredible on my Olds. Definitely not grandpa-style.

The next day the rims were well cured, and we put the stainless trim back on them. They popped. We loaded them in the trunk of my car and went to the tire store to have my tires taken off the wire wheel set and mounted to the Rocket rims. I sat in the tire shop lobby, waiting expectantly.

The technician lowered the hoist to the ground, I could see the roof lowering to earth, but the wheels were out of view. As he pulled my car out of the bay, I could see the change in appearance immediately. The car was no longer a boulevard cruiser but instead exuded real street cred. It looked ready to roll down Woodward Avenue.

“Dad, thank you,” I said, at a loss of words.

“My pleasure, son,” Dad said, patting me on the back as we walked to the car.

***

The Oldsmobile is long gone, and today I am closer to a grandpa than a teenager. I own a grandpa car now, a black 1951 Pontiac dripping in chrome. It’s a beautiful car, but the hubcaps are rather pedestrian. Browsing Facebook Marketplace, I found a set of dog dish caps for thirty-five dollars. I have always been fond of dog dish wheel covers, with slim rings along the bead of the rim.

ACE Hardware had what was needed to compliment the dishes; four spray bombs of apple red Rust-Oleum paint. Once the rims were roughed with sandpaper, the tires were masked off.. Just as Dad showed me, I made brief passes over the dull black rims with the paint spray, until they were a vibrant red sheen. No drips, no runs.

The dishes and trim rings were snapped on apple red rims and white wall tires. Standing back, I marveled at the difference the right wheels can make on a car. They popped.

Now I chauffeur weddings in that Pontiac, and the wheels are the single most complimented thing about the car. Every time someone gushes over them, I transport back to Christmas Day in my parents’ living room, and the gift my dad scoured countless junk yards to put together.