A Grease Monkey in Camelot​

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by Greg Shaw

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Camelot and Magnolia—idyllic places; and, I often think of Magnolia as my Camelot. But, both had undercurrents. Paul Muller and I were part of Magnolia’s.

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Paul owned Paul's Auto Clinic, located one hundred yards southwest of then Erickson’s Lawton Pharmacy (1), now the Seven Hills Running Shop, on West Government Way. I worked there. Working for Paul taught me lessons that have stayed with me all my life. Paul could be villainous, kind, gruff, wild, tough-love, and cantankerous. Learning to accept his harshness brought me close to others later in life who had hearts of gold inside their harsh exteriors. 

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Paul sometimes drank vodka during the day. He had a large, at one time blue overstuffed, grease-covered leather chair in the front office. Sometimes, he would fall asleep in it. The office smelled of garlic, salami, onions, and brownish-green car grease which had created a patina on the chair’s leather upholstery.

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Paul’s provided full-service when cars came in to purchase gas—checking the oil, water, washing the windows; and, of course, pumping the gas. One thing I learned through experience was finding where the gas tank was and how to fill the tank on some cars. Older Cadillacs, you had to push on a certain part of the taillight and the taillight would swing up exposing the gas cap. Some cars had the gas cap hidden behind the license plate. When I was not pumping gas, I would help with the mechanical repairs such as taking out transmissions, helping with brake jobs, and changing oil. The worst job was putting on tire chains in the snow. Old or young, this is an unpleasant job—laying in the snow fighting the chains with bare hands. 

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One day in the summer of ’65, Paul had nodded off, as was his practice, and suddenly awoke saying, "Let's go for a ride." He had just purchased a badly running Jaguar XK150. It was gasping along on less than its six cylinders. We headed northeast on West Government Way, passing the Lawton Pharmacy, making the long turn, and heading downhill towards what’s now the Midnite Mart on Gilman Avenue West. You could feel the engine missing; but, we were still going 80-plus miles per hour.

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Paul restored the car. During the restoration, at one point, the engine block was sitting in the office ready to be sent off, he said, for chrome-plating to reduce friction between the piston rings and cylinder walls. He sent it out to be painted white. Interestingly, he left the interior untouched saying that work could be done cheaply south of the border. I wanted to buy it, but I couldn’t afford the $1,000 price. Now, these cars go about $100,000, easy.

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Cars were part of American life in the 50’s and 60’s. Automakers introduced new models every year, incorporating aircraft designs with larger and larger tail fins. Growing up during this time was exciting and created a burning desire to drive my own car. When I was younger, I built two go-carts and a motor scooter. I couldn’t wait to graduate to cars. However, my parents wouldn’t allow me to have a car until I was a senior in high school. That created a pent-up desire.

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I would cross over the Ballard Bridge to get parts for Paul at Hill Auto Parts, next door to Ballard Auto Wrecking, now gone, replaced by a self-storage building. Driving past the wrecking yard on my way back one day, I spotted an affordable dream car sitting tempestuously on their parking strip, wearing a "For Sale" sign. A 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible, four-barrel V-8 with the original dark blue and light blue color scheme. I knew immediately this was going to be my first car. I bought it for two hundred dollars. It barely ran and needed an engine rebuild, which Paul guided me through. I also changed the worn-out two-speed Powerglide automatic transmission to a three-speed stick shift, then added a heavy-duty Hurst shifter on the floor. For good measure, I also changed the gears in the rear-end to a lower gear ratio for faster acceleration.

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Many days and evenings, I would drive a hundred miles around Seattle. Luckily, there were plenty of gas stations. I remember about seven just in Magnolia (2). Premium gas was 25 cents a gallon. I made $1.50 an hour, which would buy six gallons of gas.

The car was running great. But, I decided a suspension upgrade would be a good idea. I changed the rear three-leaf springs to stiffer five-leaf station wagon springs for better cornering. I was testing out my cornering ability on 29th Avenue West, between West Elmore and West Thurman Streets, where there was a block-long sweeping uphill curve when a police car passed me going in the opposite direction. Before the police could turn around, I was gone.

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The next day, fate drew us back together. I had just passed the Magnolia Theater heading north on 34th Avenue West. I was shocked to see the same police car going south. Both of the officers’ necks "rubberized" as we passed. I immediately made the first left hand turn and then turned right again onto 35th Avenue West. In my rearview mirror, I would catch glimpses of the squad car as I zig-zagged down the side streets. When I could see the officers in my mirrors, I would slow down; but, as soon as they were out of sight, I would apply a little power, maybe all of it. Finally, I saw flashing red lights as they fishtailed through the corner. 

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I pulled over on West Barrett, close to the stop sign on 34th Avenue West. One of the first things they said when they pulled me over was: "What do you have in this thing?" Of course, that was high praise to my ears. Thinking about it now, I should have answered, "A little bit of Paul." 

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I was asked/told to get out of the car and put my hands on the roof. I was about to learn about the concept of "good-cop/bad-cop." They searched me, then the car. There was no horn rim on the steering wheel, just a doorbell button stuck on the steering column with friction tape. One officer was lying on his back on the driver's side floor, looking under the dash while grasping the steering column for support. His hand accidentally found the horn button, causing a loud, alarming blast; then, a loud thud as his head flew up into the underside of the dash. The thud didn’t help my cause. His partner asked me to open the trunk. The car had a few other flaws, among them, a missing trunk key. A convertible, it was minus the back window and the piece of canvas that usually covers the inside opening to the trunk where the top goes down. He accessed the trunk by crawling through the tight opening. It was a tight squeeze, no thud was heard; and, no contraband was found. 

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"You know we could take you to jail," said the one playing "bad cop". Instead, the "good cop" handed me two tickets, one for a defective horn and another for no backup lights. Another one of the cars few flaws. Luckily, that night though they certainly knew I had been speeding and might have defined my driving as reckless, they did not witness that. The second I saw them in my rearview mirror, I lifted my foot off the gas pedal and drove like an angel. Once they disappeared from view, I hit the gas again and unleashed my rebuilt engine and station wagon springs. 

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Thanks to all my performance upgrades, that car ran so well that I managed to get my license suspended for thirty days for an accumulation of tickets (no front fender, loud exhaust pipes, and other small infractions) before moving on to different life adventures. I’m grateful to the police for being there and eventually teaching me what not do while driving in my formative years. I haven’t had a ticket in forty years. And, I don’t drive a hundred miles around Seattle anymore—that would be torture.

Magnolia and Camelot—still, to me, almost idyllic.

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