Letter From The Editor: Type A with a Q-Tip

Robert Ross

02/01/2005

There exists within the car fraternity a certain neurotic subspecies that stands apart from the majority, the enthusiast whose lot in life is one of service to a vehicular monster called The Garage Queen. He assumes every role from chamberlain to chambermaid, and in this respect is not unlike his insectile equivalent–the fascinating drone–which devotes its existence to feeding and fanning a helpless creature with insatiable needs.

During the late 1970s, long before hot rods were cool for anyone but genuine hot-rodders, I worked with a likable mechanic named Dick Horton. Dick was the genuine article, and he’d built a couple of really nice cars without the advantage of today’s turnkey kits, fat parts catalogs, or boundless cash. My favorite of his creations was a clean, black ’32 coupe, and every time he drove it to work, it got a careful wipedown with a chamois during Dick’s lunch break. “This is nothing,” Dick modestly admitted. It was at shows where he pulled out all the stops, the most formidable of which was Mrs. Horton, who would dutifully clean between the tire treads with a Q-tip.

Working in my office at that time was an attractive young woman with a lead foot and a ferocious Cougar. One day, she complained to Dick that her convertible was running a bit rough, and, suspecting the carburetor, I removed it and brought it to him for a rebuild. He recoiled from the greasy four-barrel in disgust and exclaimed, “She must have a filthy engine. I didn’t think she was that kind of girl.” I imagined Mrs. Horton keeping a can of Gunk in the shower.

Not long ago, I was reading about events at Monterey in my favorite enthusiast publication, Sports Car Market. Along with reporting the high-profile Pebble fest, the editors did a photo essay with snapshots of cars and people encountered throughout the weekend. Some of the folks were impeccably dressed, others less so, but they all seemed to be having a good time enjoying the cars and camaraderie. I noticed a picture of a guy in jacket and tie–on all fours–his head jammed halfway under the rear end of a Ferrari. He was clearly possessed. “Look at that jerk,” I thought to myself, “with nothing better to do than count the exhaust hangers.” A second glance at his blazer brought with it a sinking realization, as I recognized that–caught in flagrante delicto–the jerk was me.

It is generally acknowledged that certain behaviors are inherited. In her later years, it was not uncommon for my mother to alphabetize her junk mail before putting it into equally well-organized trash. By way of psychoanalysis or physical torture, a complex explanation might be extracted from persons exhibiting such rabid type A characteristics. The true reason, I fear, is damningly simple, having everything to do with an incurable case of perfectionism. Such “focus” can make us difficult to live with, especially when car show time comes around. But ever hopeful, I know that out there, on a concours lawn somewhere, my own Mrs. Horton awaits–willing and able to use a Q-tip as its makers intended.