The Last Remaining Stutz

Looking down from my dormitory window, I watched Larry Stout prowl my car. He moved slowly. Hands in his pockets. Sometimes reaching out to touch the curves, the chrome. The heroic hood ornament captured him, that was obvious. He examined it again and again from all sides, stroking the sweptback curves of a woman in flight, her breasts piercing the wind, her hair streaming.

Long gone from today's padded, belted, and air bagged safety coaches, hood ornaments ruled in 1937, the art deco year of my proud Cadillac. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if the hood ornament and the car's big curves were intended to defy those years of unending depression. That car was long, black and equipped with dual side mounted spare tires slotted just behind the front wheels. Each side of the long tapered hood hinged up to reveal the massive iron of the big V8 engine. Her soon to be extinct running boards hid clever radio antennas. We especially loved the car's rear suicide doors, the forward facing back doors that allowed easy access to the thick mohair upholstery.

That's where Larry always sat during our meandering motoring trips. When sun finally broke the early Spring gloom, Larry climbed to my room, knocked as he entered and stood close and imposing above books and notes until I agreed to go motoring. Joined by Stanley Harris, our fellow pre-med old car nut, we wheeled away from campus into the 1950s hinterlands assured by Larry, that this, finally, would be the day we found the Stutz.

I had never seen a Stutz and doubted that Stanley had either. We knew they were a top luxury car some 30 years back, but no one drove cars of that vintage on our streets. Larry, coming from a larger city, claimed he had seen Stutz cars, more than one. So he knew what to look for.

And look we did. Skidding to stops beside sagging barns, we peered into gloom and squeezed past rotting doors. We found many cars, almost all of which were dismissed by Larry as special interest cars, a category we recognized as worth a look but hardly classic. We floated along behind the purr of the big V8 in an air of discovery, vaguely irresponsible toward our physician futures. We were freshmen after all, largely dateless, unpledged by any fraternity, overwhelmed by the University and in Larry's case, slipping into academic failure.

Pre med in my case pleased my mother and seemed like a good idea. Larry and Stanley had different pressures, coming, as they did from medical families. In Larry's case, both mother and father were doctors. In order to improve his grades, Larry had moved away from the distractions of the dormitory that Spring to live in a sleazy motel. While he did his homework and stacked his organic chemistry worksheets neatly beside the door, he never handed anything in. We kidded him about that but he had little to say in reply. I can see the wisdom of his actions now - no grading = no failure!

Both Stanley and Larry had 1930s cars of their own, although we'd never seen Larry's three cars since they were "projects" moldering in garages and sheds back home. Stanley, however, had been blessed when a friend of his mother had passed away leaving, among many treasures, a 1935 Chevrolet Coupe with 27,000 miles sitting in a long locked garage. While Larry frequently pointed out the ordinariness of a Chevrolet, it was clear he was jealous of the car's flawless condition. Stanley's easy acquisition of a near perfect car was often cited by Larry as solid proof that great lost cars did indeed exist, locked behind doors, covered with dust and spider webs.

So we searched, Larry in the back seat where he claimed he could experience the true spirit of motoring. It was fun and much easier than Organic Chemistry and sometimes even better when we managed to obtain a six-pack of beer. I think that Stanley actually counted up the number of times we stopped, and while I can't remember the figure, it seemed a lot, even then.

At the end of an especially bucolic afternoon, somewhat lost, we passed a plywood building, more a shed than barn, an architectural style very common to that rural country. Larry shouted from the back to turn around and go back to check it out. We did, even though I knew it would contain junk or a defunct logging truck. Peering in the crack between the chained doors we were amazed to see what did look like a 1920s open touring car sitting isolated in gloom and shafts of sunlight.

Stanley quipped, "There it is, the last remaining Stutz, that's it." And we laughed before Larry said, "Hey, it may not be a Stutz but it's a classic and we need to get in there." While we were trying to separate the doors for a better look, a man appeared around the building's corner. He was what we would have labeled an "old" man and he was missing an arm. While he didn't look especially angry, some of our past encounters with property owners had made us edgy about these meetings.

He asked us what we were doing and we laughed that we were looking for the last remaining Stutz. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, "Well, you've just found it." Yah, sure, we thought as he unlocked a big chain pulling the doors back to reveal a 1926 Stutz phaeton touring car gracing the dirt floor. It really was, complete with the unique Stutz radiator cap and other details that Larry had told us to look for.

Larry was quiet. He walked around the car. Smiling. While Stanley and I listened to Mr. Jensen's story of the car, Larry circled and looked, not even touching the car. Mr. Jensen, it turned out, was Larry's soul mate. He had grown up in the University town, dropping out of school to work as a blacksmith and then as an automobile mechanic. He loved cars, especially the high end ones like Morgans and Cadillacs and Franklins. One day he spotted the town banker driving down the street in a cream colored brand new Stutz touring car. An immediate and fatal attraction occurred. It was, and remained, the only Stutz touring car ever in that town and Mr. Jensen kept track of it. He finally bought it at great cost, even after it had been sitting for years in a dreary cow field.

The Stutz had not been restored. It had rust and torn upholstery. The paint was chipped, the tires flat, the whole thing covered in dust and bird shit. But it was a classic and we had found it. Larry closed in, caressing the deco Rudolph Valentino radiator cap, it's proud badge of identity. Mr. Jensen must have polished it at some point for it shown brilliantly even in the gloom. I loved the Stutz badge set midway across the chrome hoop bar supporting the huge headlights. On it, STUTZ was pasted across big golden wings with a large number 8 placed below. A Stutz V-8, ten years older and much cooler than my Cadillac. There were other details to enchant us. The wonderful spoke wheels with just a small curve at the end of each spoke. Small running lights were mounted on the cowling just behind the long hood. That one light dangled broken and rusted mattered not at all. Cracks and tears ran throughout the leather interior long home to mice. The cloth top was missing but the oak frames of the phaeton top were all there. I could tell that Larry was dying to sit in the drivers seat but he never asked.

Mr. Jensen went on to tell us about his son, a local hotrodder I had heard of, and how a motorcycle accident had taken his arm as he sped into town to bail his son out of jail. The son now lived out in the country with his father developing a business nearby building and racing dragsters.

Other than a few "Wows!" and "wasn't that something!" and "that radiator cap was exactly like you said it would be" and finally, "we really found one! "we didn't talk much driving back. It was enough that we'd had luck we'd never known.

The Stutz discovery and the looming threat of finals week ended our motoring. We had summer jobs in different towns and it looked like Larry was going to flunk out since he had quit attending class. We did take one more trip out to see Mr. Jensen and the Stutz. We shouldn't have, for when we turned onto what we now called, "Stutz Row," we saw only the sad remains of a burned building. The Stutz was still there I guess, but it was hard to pick anything out of the twisted and blackened metal. The hot fire had even charred the surrounding fir trees.

We couldn't believe it. We got out of my Cadillac and stood in silence. Finally, Stanley said we should go and find Mr. Jensen and get the story but Larry said, "no, we're going back." And we did, discovering through the hot rod grapevine a week later that Mr. Jensen's son had been using a cutting torch and somehow set off some old gas cans. The son had been badly burned and was not expected to live.

Stupefied from an all-nighter and a four hour exam, I drove out to Larry's motel during finals week and found him sitting in the one and only chair smoking his pipe reading a newspaper. I noticed that his Organic Chemistry papers were still neatly stacked and that all of his textbooks had been placed in cardboard boxes. We talked for a while and he told me that he was catching the bus back home the next day. We ran out of words and I knew I had a hellish amount of studying to do, so I said goodbye, climbed in the Cadillac and was surprised that Larry followed me swinging the suicide door closed and sitting in the middle of the back seat, his raised arms spread across the seat top.

He said, "Now, you hear how that door closed, how solid it is?" "Uhn, yea, I do." I replied. "Well" Larry said, "That's a classic sound. That's how you can tell. That's what's worthwhile."

Then he got out, shut the car door firmly, reached over and shook my hand and turned back to his motel. I didn't see him again for nearly 35 years. Visiting friends in Larry's city I attended a party where everyone was graying and gaining and drinking lightly. One conversation led to talk of old cars and I told a short version of the last remaining Stutz story. A man asked me if I ever knew a Larry Bensen at the University and when I replied, "Yes, he's the Larry in the story," the man told me that Larry still collected old cars and lived nearby.

The next day I drove by the address the man had given me. I probably could have found the place on my own. The house, if it was Larry's, was a crumbling Victorian surrounded by cars - old cars. Some were covered with tarps; others were crammed onto what was once a lawn. A "project" appeared to be underway in the messy garage. As far as I could tell, none had been restored. But there they were, safe and protected. And I noticed that one was a rare 1950 Lincoln convertible, one of the last cars ever built with rear suicide doors. As I pulled away, a man about my age came out of the garage, lifted the edge of a covering tarp and opened, and then slowly closed the Lincoln's rear door.