After the test drive and the negotiations were through, there was one last piece of business that needed doing. I was only twenty years old. I was just a few weeks back from Vietnam, a buck sergeant, ten feet tall and bulletproof. But I couldn't buy a car without a co-signer. A few months later the same issue came up when I tried to get married...in California (in 1967) the age of majority for men was 21, for women it was 18. I had to get my mommy's permission to marry my 18 year old bride, who didn't need anyone's permission! But we got it donel. I digress.

I called the Chief and explained the deal and asked if he would come down to Hatch Chevrolet and sign the loan for me. He grumbled out a few Chief-isms then said he would be there shortly. When he showed up, I was anxious to show him the car I had fallen in love with. His first observation was, "It ain't a Chevy." Then he went on to highlight other obvious features of the car that were equally disturbing to him..."Bucket seats? Whaddya want bucket seats for?"..."How ya gonna make out with anyone with that console in the way?"..."Ahhh, lookit that motor...you can't afford the gas this thing will use..." ..."a floor shift?...is that a stick...everyone's getting automatics...and on the floor!! They quit doing that thirty years ago..." and on it went for a good fifteen or twenty minutes. It wrapped up with, "Are you sure?" I was and so we went inside and did the paper and a little bit later on I drove off that lot in my GTO, just like the one in the song: "Three deuces and a four-speed and a 389". I couldn't help it, I tore up some El Cajon streets that afternoon.

I had taken a three-day pass to come home and buy a car. I managed to wrap up the sale by early Saturday afternoon which allowed me some cruising time around home before I had to set out on Sunday to get back to Fort Huachuca, Arizona. It was a great weekend.

I got out of the Army in July of 1967 and went back to El Cajon. When I pulled up to the house, there was a 1967 Chevelle sitting in the driveway. It was the same green as my Goat, it had bucket seats and a console...but it was an automatic (on the floor) and it did have a more economical engine. I tried to give the Chief a little razz about it but his answer was that it was Mom's car, she wanted all that stuff. Mom just smiled.

My shot at civilian life was only three months long. There are lots of reasons why but suffice it to say that I don't like being a civilian. There were many times during that three months when my Goat seemed to be blocking the drive when the Chief needed to get a six-pack or a pack of smokes. I would try to protest and claim I could drive a truck around my car but he would put on a Chiefly grumble and say, "Just throw me your keys!" I would. And I would listen at the window as he crept down the street until he thought that he was out of earshot, then he would punch that little Pancho and rip up some street. Some of those beer runs would take a half hour to forty-five minutes...the store was only two blocks away. But in my mind's eye I could see him, tight-lipped, half-smile, eyes squinky, banging gears like a teenager. I kinda like that image