By Mike Eberlion
PEACHTREE CORNERS, Ga. | I have been a “Car Nut” since I was 12 years old. In my 80s now, I have owned over 200 cars. My fascination started with my first paid job at Dollar Auto Wrecking in Glendale, Calif. It was owned by my 20 year old cousin, Tom, and I blame him and the yard for the craziness.
First day on the job ($1 a day) I was told to harvest the batteries out of the 300 or so junked and wrecked cars, spread over some six acres. I was told to simply load the monsters into the trunk of one of the running cars and then stack them in the battery shack.
Talk about excitement…12 years old, me, driving a car. I didn’t dare tell Tom I didn’t know how to drive or that I really didn’t know what a battery was.
In desperation, I asked one fella who was separating the body of the car from the frame with a huge acetylene torch. He showed me where to look for the batteries and then how to unbolt the the tie downs and battery cables. The battery was nestled into a steel frame and as I went to unbolt it, the wrench, now carrying 6 volts of electricity, came into contact with the inside of the fender. Sparks flew! And so did I. I dropped the wrench and ran.
I was young but not really unaware of electricity, from then on I carefully avoided any contact with metal while I was unbolting the cables.
The first battery I removed weighed, I think, as much as I did, but through sheer will-power and full body exertion I wrestled it out so I could carry it. Instead I dropped it. When it landed, upside down, it cracked the case and I could see it leaking. I hoisted it first onto my thighs…then walked/dragged it to my car. The thighs of my Levis were sopping wet. I was on my second battery when I felt my legs starting to burn; a minor irritant at first, but very soon, my little legs were screaming at me.
I didn’t dare drive to the office—too slow: I ran. Tom, my cousin, was sitting at his desk. When I hit the door I shouted, “Help—my legs are burning.” Tom asked what I had done. In as few words I explained I had spilled some of the battery water on myself.
Jimmy supplied the answer, “You little idiot! That’s not water, it’s battery acid.” Russ, the tow truck driver, was now at the door and heard the exchange. He ordered, “Come with me. I’ve got some baking soda in the truck.” We went to a water spigot at the side of the office and he mixed some of the soda with water in a hub cap. “Drop your pants!” he commanded.
What? Drop my pants? In public? The burn in my legs convinced me to do as commanded and Russ slathered the paste onto my thighs. Almost immediately the pain was extinguished and that was my second lesson of the day: Car batteries are full of acid. I finished the first day in a pair of Levi shorts.
Upon reaching home I learned another: Never pour battery acid onto your new $6 Levis. Another new pain, this one on the backs of my little legs after mom saw that I had ruined the first new pants she’d ever purchased for me. (She was a power sewing instructor.) I remembered that lesson. But that’s where the crazy fascination with cars was born.
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