At 15 years old, my 1960s Chevy had a mind of its own

It went where it wanted and dragged me along.

Bosses eyed me oddly when I claimed I had been kidnapped by a car.

I bought the car from a gas station when I was it rusting at the curb - a flat-finned four-door from when fins were still in fashion.

It was the kind of car that made us go ga-ga as kids.

My purchase came when old cars were still considered junk, rather than classics.

I barely had bucks enough to support its insatiable appitite for gas. Still it ate better than I did, reveling on high test while I ate Burger King

It was a loyal beast - always getting me to where I was going, and back.

When long trips were beyond it, the car dragged me to work before giving out in exhaustion, then later, back the exact same distance home.

Before it expired entirely, I had cash enough to purchase a compact car and sold the Chevy to a collector.

From time to time, I saw it come and go from show to show, and I wondered if it still had its tendency to wander, or hat its new status cured it of its wandering ways?