I had to write about this. Just a fair warning, this is a fairly long read. If you drink coffee, make yourself a strong pot because just a cup won't do.
As I wrote in another post, I've only had three cars in my entire life (not counting the ones purchased since I've been married). My second car was my first new one—a 1983 Toyota Celica Supra. The car in this photo isn't mine (nor is the photo itself), but my car looked exactly like it. I do have some photos of my car, and someday I'll get them scanned into an electronical format.
In the '80s, these cars were quite popular. Nice looking, good performance (a fuel injected, 2.8L inline six-cylinder engine with 150 HP and a five-speed manual transmission that got you to 60 mph in about ten seconds was THE BOMB!). Many of today's cars perform much better (even my CR-V has 160 HP), but that was then, this is now. I suppose that you could say this car was a chick magnet, though at the time I wasn't thinking like that. To me, it was just a fun car to drive. However, the chick magnet part did come true. It was because of this car that I met the woman whom I would eventually marry. Read about that here.
At the time of purchase, I had not planned to purchase another car, let alone a brand new one. My 1975 Olds Cutlass was getting...old...and a replacement would likely be in the not-too-distant future. Here's how I came to buy this car:
My friend Bill Hackett showed up at my front door one fine Palm Sunday morning (March 27, 1983) and suggested that we "go look at new Supras" since I had expressed a like for the car. We headed over to Longo Toyota in El Monte because they were the largest Toyota dealership anywhere at the time (and still may be) and would be more willing to make a good deal. As always happens when you step onto a car lot, the sensors trigger an alarm that sends a salesperson hustling out to meet you. One such salesman showed up, right on schedule, and asked what I was looking for. I told him; he showed me what he had. He even suggested that I take one out for a test drive. Sure, why not? We didn't go far, just a few miles on what was likely a big, pre-determined loop that all prospective car buyers take. Tony (the salesman) was impressed with how I handled the manual transmission and got the feel of the car.
Back at the dealership, we went inside to start working out the details on the purchase. Wait—the PURCHASE? This was a $16,000 car (about $50,000 in today's dollars) and I was a 23-year-old drafter making $5.50 an hour at a small company in Burbank. How was I going to afford this? I had nothing to put down, but they did knock $2000 off of the price. Long afternoon and major headache later, and after having written my initials or signature on about a hundredteen thousand documents, I was handed the keys to my new car. Since I had not come prepared to purchase anything, Tony had to follow me back home to seal the deal. I've forgotten what I needed to give him. Time does that to you. That I remembered Tony's name is a miracle in itself. Bill followed us back to the house in my old car back since it was not suitable as a trade-in. That car went to my sister Barbara to drive.
The first time Mom laid eyes on my new toy, she gave me a look that would melt the sun. Don't know why, but so it goes.
On September 1, 1984, about a year after Lori and I had started dating, we went over to the Glendale Galleria to do some shopping on a sunny Saturday afternoon. We were in the mall less than an hour when we decided to head home. I know where I parked. We went up and down the aisles in the parking structure looking for my car. It had to be in there somewhere, right? We never did find it and went to the police sub-station in the mall. The officer told us that they couldn't file a report until they were sure that we didn't just forget where we parked (some people actually do that). About two hours later after security checked every parking space in Glendale (and probably Pasadena, too, because, you know, it's right next door...), it was clear that my car was indeed missing. No, really? A report was filed, and we called Lori's dad to pick us up for a ride home.
The next day, I called Mercury Insurance to fill them in and they set me up with a rental car. I drove that Plymouth Reliant K ("K" for "krud," no doubt, if you're familiar with those automoboxes) for almost two weeks. And then they canceled my insurance policy. Later in September, we took a day trip over to Catalina to visit my brother. When we got home later on, there was something very interesting in my mail from the Montebello Police Department. THEY FOUND MY CAR IN MONTEBELLO AND MADE AN ARREST!!! Eventually, I got notice that I had to appear in court and testify under oath that I did not give Mr. Jesus Isias permission to drive my car. By the way, according to my odometer reading, this guy and/or his band of merry men racked up some 1200 miles in their misadventures. I suspect that they went up to Reno because I found a matchbook from Circus Circus in the car later. In the meantime, I put my car in to make the minor repairs to return it to its previous state—a new starter and a couple of small things pretty much. But at some point, Mr. Isias and/or one of his cohorts made off with my bowling ball which was stored in the hatch. On the other hand, if you've ever seen me bowl, you'd consider this a favor.
An interesting plot twist, not too long after this, I happened to read in the local paper that Mr. Isias apparently walked away from a work detail while in jail. Seems that his infant daughter had passed away and he walked off to go make funeral arrangements. I don't know whatever became of him.
Everything was pretty much back to normal. In late April 1985, I was still going to Los Angeles Valley College to work on my Associate degree in engineering. On April 25, I went to school in the evening and parked in a small lot across Burbank Blvd. where some students parked. When class was over, I walked back to the lot to get in my car and head home. One slight problem...there were no Toyota Supras in the lot. You guessed it! Thieves struck again! I went to the fire station down the street to call the police and Lori to let her know what happened. In a repeat performance, I contacted my insurance company to let them know what happened. I got a VW Rabbit to drive this time so I could keep hopping to work. I was notified by LAPD that my car was found a few days later near North Hollywood Park, missing its front seats, stereo, and a couple of wheels. When I went to look at my car, there was a big paint can in place of the driver's seat. As for repairs, insurance again paid to restore the car because it cost less. I was a happy camper, despite no camping being involved.
In October 1985 I began a new job in Oxnard with a nice 52-mile commute each way from North Hollywood. I was still going to Valley College to finish my Associate degree. On the evening of October 28, 1985, I drove to school and parked in that same cursed lot that I parked in when Theft No. 2 occurred. And just like six months earlier, I left class only to return to a lot with no Supras parked in it. Theft No. 3 unfolds! Back to the fire station, a couple of calls later...
My car was found the very next day with pretty much everything gone except for the body, engine, and transmission (oh, and the steering wheel). Car stolen, rinse, repeat. I got a Mustang this time to keep me galloping to work (not very fast, though. It was only a four-cylinder model), but I had it an extra long time because once again, the insurance company decided that totaling the car was more expensive than putting it back together. They chose a shop near the Coliseum in L.A. for some reason. I guess they were the cheapest. But after a few weeks, I got my car back, good as used. I say that because in order to save money, the insurance company required the use of used parts wherever possible.
As I said, these cars were quite popular. Unfortunately, they were not only popular with drivers, but also with car thieves. There were two things that attracted the thieves: the Recaro-like front seats with a little squeeze bulb that inflated cushions in the lower part of the seat for lumbar support (bet that paint can didn't have this), and the trendsetting stereo system with a graphic equalizer—better than the basic bass and treble controls that most units have even now.
After that third theft, my car was never stolen again. One thing that I'm sure helped was getting out of the San Fernando Valley. I managed to drive that car another 16 years and reach about 250,000 miles before it finally quit for good.
Cars are stolen mostly for parts, though a few joyrides do take place. Hondas and Toyotas are prime targets because there are so many of them on the road, which means that a lot of them will need parts. So why not steal cars and strip them of parts so that you create a market, right? And how much heartache do these thieves cause?
I've always said that if they dealt with car thieves the same way that they used to deal with horse thieves in the Old West, then the problem just might go away...
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