Cadillac buyer on the road

Brunflo Saturday, October 10th at five in the afternoon. Bengt Andersson from Sveg is  refueling and is about to stretch out on the road again.

Bengt Andersson is on the way home. The car he has  owned for one hour. Followcar, a Volvo with driver is  standing some distance away waiting.

– I dared not trust the fuel gage, he said.
The Cadillac is large at the parking lot and Bengt is the same on the front seat. With lumberjack shag no one you want to wrestle with.

The rough has a smile on his face. One can see the moped rider in him. The 429 muffled rumbling under the hood and the heat works. What more could you want on a Saturday just before winter?

I’ve been craving all summer, says Bengt.

The Cadillac, he had seen on the add on the net , but no one has answered.. The weeks had passed. Bengt had returned to the Cadillac add  and called repeatedly but without success.

Model year is 1964. On the front seat is a unopened Coca Cola. Dash  lighting works and the ignition key sforeign keychain is dangling homely behind the gear selector. Bengt’s Krantz Jacket looks clean. He has not had to crawl under and screw yet. Just south of Brunflo he shall turn right, away from the E14 and into the woods towards Sveg at dusk. In about  two hours, he should be at home.

He  called again on the ad. No answer. Now it had been sitting out so long that it threatened to disappear. Then he came on …. maybe it is a wrong number in the ad. He tracks the license plate  number on the computer, get the owner and call another number.

-Hello …….. Someone says.

-Yes, Ehh I am calling on the ad on the Cadillac, it’s still there?

-Jepp, It has been no interest in it, it is well the late season, I guess..

-Bang, it said in Sveg, a following car and driver was digged up and a few hours later, he was the owner of a beautifully patinated battleship from the good sixties earlier half. A California car with black plates.
– I bought it in, …. do not remember what it was called, Lillhansjön or something, says Andersson browsing folded paper in the glove compartment.

I comment on his pure jacket.
– I have two of them, he says. This is the newest. Serial number 883. 
He has been riding much 66 in the past. That he has sold to Örnsköldsvik . Today it was a 64. He only speaks years. The brand is obvious.

-What , are you driving a Lincoln , he says incredulously at me. Are not you a Cadillacman?
– Well, yes, I defends rapidly arguing that I also have a Cadillac conv in my garage, though I do not tell that it’s my  son’s.

-It smells gas, I say.
– Quick, he answers. I filled up to the lid. I do not trust the  gauge.
He puts it in  drive and the lighted wings on the rear fenders  are swinging out from the service station’s safely lit ceilings. He flashes a left into the darkening landscape with a faint odor of gasoline, new sounds and new experiences.

-Is there anyone who recognize him self?