Hidden inside the Florida deep swamps are farms that requires invitation. Camera watched, electric gates at the end of the winding gravel road leads you away from security, common values and laws. Inside, it’s you and the master and you are standing on his land. by Krantz
The signs began early. Lashed with a fire hose, they looked like sinuous threats.
It took the message. “Turn back, stranger.”
Private and Dead End.
I roll into the twilight and regret the timing. In an hour, it is pitch black here.
Stops at a gate. Waiting.
Slowly the gate begin to turn inward and I drive through. It closes immediately behind me. In front of me a narrow winding gravel road lined with trees in the swamp.
I pass car wrecks slowly consumed by the jungle. On the stems hanging signs. “Turn back,” it says again.
I roll slowly past. Behind a curve, a dragon, and behind the next a gigantic one. It sits under a mighty tree. Rolling on. Strangely, it didn’t followed me with its eyes did it?
More cars among the trees. Then the vegetation opens. A heart-shaped lake with a cracker shack and a water wheel dominates the impressions to the right and at the end of the lake a courtyard.
A house with a front porch is lazily to the left. A tall Cowboy loafing in the shadows in front. I recognize him. It’s JJ, the man who invited me.
The wind turns and a whole car swings around its own axis. I look instinctive to the right while shaking hand
-Ahh, That I built many years ago, he says. It goes nowhere. It is my weathervane. Everything I build is rotating. That explains the dragons, I think.
Inside a dark building stands Ruthie. A tall woman in iron with perky breasts behind a leopard-colored bra.
JJ lifts the bra. Have you read the Bible, he asks in the gloom?
-Y-Yes, I answer.
You know, Adam and Eve, he says, about to take the panties of and show that beneath it, from a small knob, a power cord is going to the brain.
– She freezes JJ, I say. He stops and hangs the bra back
I built her in eight hours anyway, she spins, he mutters.
We move on among the works of art and enters the garage where the Wango Tango houses. A portable light illuminates under the hood and re-emit the light from the chromed lung of the great Dart block. Along the walls are crowded car parts for real. Not put there as curiosities. Not exhibited.
They are just there in the Florida Jungle carefully saved on spikes in heavy timber. Kept for decades, just in case. Benches and floors smell oil and engine parts with names like Edelbrock, Holley, Hooker, Mallory, Scintilla, Isky and Mickey Thompson. JJ sees that I see and a wordless smile spreads across his face.
The 572 with 8:71 super charger is built to run full throttle for hours.
The silence is torn apart when the 572 c.i. motor with 8:71 Littlefield super charger starts to live.
The wheels are moving as the Chevrolet dig out of the garage. JJ shifts to reverse and drive and each time he puts the Powerglide in gear the rear wheels spins on the concrete Rupp – Rupp – Rupp – Rupp.
The enormous engine struggling to get air where JJ holds the birdcatcher closed in order not to end up in the lake with the car. The short-barreled exhaust pipes perforates the air, pushes the dust aside bouncing compressed fumes against the ground up towards flesh and blood, where they dig into the spinal cord and memory storage.
The giant mill stands snoring up and down in an idle from heaven balancing between zero and 800. So he turns it off.
I am the second owner of the car, he says, inviting me on the front porch and serves ice water.
Lizards rushing across the planks and the birds comes back in the trees. The wind has died down. The lake is black. Afternoon heat standing still. JJ tells in detail:
There I was in 1972, 16 years old doing things my own way as always.
I was in love. Ohh, I had girls and stuff but then came the 54! In the school parking lot was -55, -56, -57 Chevys when the -54 rolled into my life.
This was true love! I did enjoy the few months before disappearing in a flash. The guy who had it were older and appeared in a shiny Camaro instead. I asked about the 54. He told me it was his grandfathers and that he could possibly sell it for $ 350.
That was a lot of money then, so I asked my father. He said no but I was hopelessly in love. With 200 money I earned from mowing lawns of neighbors plus loaded with an additional 150 bucks I borrowed from my sister, I went to the old man. He then said he wanted 375 and the battery, he would have returned. I arranged in any manner the $ 25 and went home proud. Once home, I lifted the hood. Then came my father.
-And you do exactly as I tell you as usual, he said sarcastically.
I removed the battery.
– And the old jalopy’s electrical system needs attention at once I see.
– No, I must return the battery to the oldtimer, I said.
Dad looked at me as if I’d hit my head on something hard not learning anything from him.
I was in love. I drove my car all through school, cruised Cleveland Avenue and hung with hot rods every night. The slant six, I broke in a race and instead I put in a 327 V8 and raced until I sold the engine and the car was parked. Then I was hit again with the 54-fever. I’ve always liked the gasser style so after 40 years, with help from friends, I am here again with my car and I love her more than ever.
JJ has tried to build as accurate as he could making an early gasser as they were after the war. The straight front axle comes from a 1949 Chevrolet pickup. The wheelie bars in the rear is genuine stuff from the early fifties as they were built from the start.
Tires and rims fit the style. Not the disc brakes in front though but you want to stop sometimes too.
The rear axle is switched to a Ford 9-inch with reinforced 40 splines axles and a coil from Strange.
Original bench front and rear. The door hinges are unlubricated.
-I love that squeek, says JJ every time he opens the door.
The engine thing started when he saw the newly built engine on an ad for sale for $ 20,000.
He wanted it, but for various reasons he never called. So it popped up again.
Same phone number, but now $ 10,000. I must go there, he thought, but it went cold again.
So, the ad surfaced again now 9500 and shortly after 8500. Now JJ took the phone from his pocket and a voice said:
– Me and my brother don’t get it at all. We have put nearly $ 30,000 in this motor, but it just won’t sell?
Intercooler, says JJ. The bear can is filled with ice before competition. Fuel from the fuel cell is cooled down before it reaches the two carburetors.
JJ left at once and saw one of the biggest people he’d encountered. A giant.
– My brother is bigger, but he’s sick mumbled the man who got the money right away. The engine was strangely delivering only 795 horses but built to go super charged for hours on full throttle and that on 87 octane ???
The engine was built for a boat. For quick trips at night over the murky waters transporting chemicals for internal use.
JJ starts the car again, and every movement of the old Chevy gets the blood boiling in the veins.
The sun goes down quickly. The shadows getting longer. The words fewer.
Suddenly I feel the asphalt and traffic lights tempting compared to darkening landscape bordered by dragons, strange lakes, snakes, aligators, buried cars and mafia engines.
I roll out through cameras and gates and do not stop until I’m home. I step out and cast a glance over the shoulder. It is pitch black. Out there in the dark Wango Tango has her home and I’ve been there. . .
