5-4-2021 Marvel Column

The Jason of 1971, standing by the prow of his Argo. (DOLORES MARVEL PHOTO)

In the summer of 1971, I decided to see the part of the U.S. that I had missed, which was most of it. I paid $125 for a 1961 Chevy station wagon. The floor had rusted through, but I pulled the seats out, squeezed a sheet of heavy-gauge steel roofing in through the tailgate, pounded it into shape with a mason’s hammer, then bolted the seats back in. They bounced a bit, but didn’t slide around.

With a ¾ mattress in the back and curtains all around, it seemed comfortable enough sleeping and changing clothes in a space slightly larger than a coffin; I was more elastic then than I am now. There wasn’t much room for luggage except on the floor behind the front seats, so I kept a couple of changes of clothes on one side, and some camping equipment and canned food on the other. Tucking my .45 under the head of the mattress, I drove away to see America.

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