From my desk at the Gallery, I see people as they come through the front door. Nine of ten times, smiles light up and they walk right past the supercharged Jaguars and Mercedes; they walk straight toward the only car we own that is not for sale. A 37-year-old Pontiac Trans Am.
Many of our customers, perhaps most of them, were not even born when Smokey and the Bandit gave the slip to Sheriff Buford T. Justice. Yet it reminds us all of times we now, rightly or wrongly, believe were simpler and better.
But were they? Certainly the cars of the seventies were nowhere near as good as we have today. These cars were far more dangerous, far less reliable and used gasoline by the barrel. Just walk by this car and you get a faint smell of gas.
To the Trans Am I have to say, “Thanks for the memories, but I believe I’ll stick with my new Charger RT.”
My name is Robby Melton. I’m old enough to qualify for a “senior coke” at McDonalds and don’t have to work anymore, but find myself here on the lot most days because that’s where the cars are. That advertising slogan, “We sell cars for fun,” is not far off-base for my brother and me.