As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I’ve stolen two cars in my life. The first one was a ’60s vintage pink Rambler. The second was a late model Ford — possibly a T-Bird or one of Ford’s other land yachts.
To be honest, I didn’t really get a good look at the car. It was dark, and I didn’t actually take the car. I was just an accomplice.
One summer night, I was walking down West Ninth Street in downtown Cleveland, headed to work at the lakefront docks. A guy sitting in a car with the hood up got my attention He told me he was stranded and asked if I knew how to hot-wire a Ford starter solenoid. I told him I did and he handed me a screwdriver.
I laid the blade of the screwdriver across the posts on the solenoid, which was mounted on the inside of the fender well. The engine turned over and started.
I handed him the screwdriver through the passenger side window. He asked if I needed a ride.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m just headed down the hill.”
Then I noticed the ignition switch dangling from the steering column.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.