This will always be exactly what I think of when I think of the Chevrolet Corvette: the 1970s-style boulevard cruiser, T tops removed, in some sparkly color. I’ll forever imagine a manly man at the helm, mustachioed, thick hair by The Dry Look, shirt unbuttoned wide to his sternum. Gold chain optional.
I suppose I’ll always also think of Marilyn, the rail-thin middle-aged woman who managed the Dairy Queen where I worked during the summer of 1985. She owned two C3s, one in black and one in a dark blue not nearly this luminescent. She sat deep in her Corvettes; as she pulled into the parking lot all you could see of her through the windshield was the bob of gray-tinged hair piled upon her head and the top rim of her plastic-framed glasses. How in the hell could she afford two Corvettes on her pay?
I’m sure it’s because I’m a product of my time, but oh my God does this cockpit ever feel like sex to me. Cheap sex, fueled by Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. But, as they say, even bad sex is pretty good.
I did a little sleuthing to settle on 1977 as this Corvette’s year. This car wears the pre-1980 front end but post-1974 tail. The sugar-scoop backlight was replaced with a bubble fastback rear window in 1978. Finally, Stingray badges went away after 1976; for 1977, flags appeared in their place on the body.
What a life, to pilot the old Corvette out for dinner on a full-sun summer evening.
Geist Reservoir, Fishers, Indiana