One Good Turn...
Words and photos by Cliff Gromer
5/8/06
leaning off my desk in my once-a-decade cycle, I found it under an agglomeration of crumpled Beeman's chewing gum wrappers, bent plastic coffee stirrers and a 1992 calendar. It was an old picture of a bunch of guys I used to work with at the New York State Employment Service. That job went south one Christmas when I dressed up as Santa Claus and delivered the grab-bag presents to the staff inside the office. On my motorcycle. The state took a dim view of my creativity, and eventually I was asked to turn in my badge and my Uzi. Hey, finding jobs for the unemployed in New York City can be dangerous work.
 1965 Plymouth Sport Fury, similar to the one owned by Jay Zuckerman |
The thing about this picture was that it showed a tall skinny guy named Jay Zuckerman. Jay owned a 1965 Plymouth Sport Fury with a modified 426 wedge motor and a 4-speed. The Plymouth was lowered and rode on a beefed suspension. It had chrome aftermarket wheels and fat tires. Jay really loved that car, but he was the type of guy that you just couldn't resist playing a practical joke or two on. At least I couldn't.
Jay considered himself "Mr. Cool" driving around in his hot rod coupe. So one day, I tied a bunch of old sneakers to his back bumper, so they'd drag behind him on the ground, and I stuck a "Just Paroled" sign above the sneakers on the back of his car. Jay felt pretty stupid when he discovered the sneakers and the sign after driving home 20 miles in rush hour traffic and wondering why people were pointing and waving at him.
Jay wasn't above pulling a few pranks of his own—minor league stuff, mind you. He used to pick up the State Employment Service office manager, Max Golodner, on his morning drive to work. Max was a middle-aged, conservative, civil service type who owned something like a full-size '63 Chevy 4-door with the smallest engine imaginable. Max didn't know performance. He knew about K-Mart seat covers and cane-type steering wheel locks. He would get very upset if he saw corrosion on his battery terminals. Max would get even more upset when Jay would show him what his Plymouth could do. Actually, there wasn't much Jay could do in morning rush hour traffic— except in one spot. It was the on-ramp to the Long Island Expressway. If Jay cut the light just right, he'd be out in front of the pack with a clear shot to the on-ramp. It was one of those left-hand sweepers that tightened up midway through the corner.
Jay would hit the ramp in third, bang down into second and smash the accelerator through the carpeting. The Fury would dig in at first and then get squirrelly. Jay never got out of it, sawing at the wheel and dancing through the turn in choreography of screaming, tortured, smoking rubber. Max, of course, just about had a heart attack each time. He clawed at the headliner, or the window handle, braced himself against the dashboard, shouted obscenities and generally made a spectacle of himself.
In time, Max sort of got used to the ride and, while he wouldn't admit it, he secretly admired that hot Mopar. One day, when Jay stopped to pick up Max, he had a couple of other Employment Service staffers in the back seat. From the time Max got into the car, all he kept saying was "Wait 'til we get to the turn. Wait 'til you see how this car makes that turn." Max was so excited it was almost as if it was his Plymouth and he was going to blow those peoples' minds by hammering onto the Long Island Expressway on the verge of being out of control. The way he was talking, he seemed to be on the verge anyway.
Jay cut the light and was out in front of the pack. Max started yelling "This is it, this is it, this is it!" He was yelling and hanging onto the headliner and the window handle and he had his knees braced against the glove box. Of course, Jay just tooled through the turn at about 20 mph and oozed into the stream of traffic. Max never said another word all the way to the office.
Jay's Fury was eventually stolen, and Max got promoted up the civil service ladder. And, I went to work at Mopar Action. Because it was the nearest car magazine to my house.
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