The garage with the checkerboard floor

[Bob Marsh]

I don’t know about you guys and girls, but I have encountered a few individuals who spin you a yarn about going out the replace some windows in a widow’s house and when they get there they find a 1954 Corvette under a pile of junk in the garage, protective plastic from the factory still covering the interior panels and seats. Hell, there were at least five such prizes discovered in Lockport on a yearly basis, if urban legend is to be believed. And I’m going to spin you just such a yarn right now…the only difference is that this one just happens to be true.

 

When I moved from Lockport to Greensboro, NC I was sort of like a rudderless ship – really didn’t know what I wanted to do – Fact is I didn’t know what I could do. I lived with my Aunt Jaye and Uncle Jack for a while, but that got old when I started feeling a little constricted, so when one of Aunt Jaye’s friends offered me a job doing floorcoverings and tile work ( No experience needed – On the job training) I jumped at at the chance to get a piece of a car and an apartment where a man and a maid could talk about what a man and a maid talked about when they were alone.

 

Al Terzino owned Builder’s Supply & Tile Co. and his company did contract work – that is he didn’t replace stuff in peoples houses, strictly new construction work on a volume basis. He was a great guy and we got along tremendously well because he was really fond of Aunt Jaye and he knew that we were of Italian descent as he was. When the bottom fell out of the construction industry in the 80’s Al never laid a single man off – we knew that he wasn’t making money but he kept us busy doing repair work at all his friends’ homes, his place , his girlfriend’s place, shoveling snow ( When it snowed – once a winter) and when the industry hit rock bottom and he was forced to cut our hours back to 28 hours a week ( So we could get the remainder from Unemployment) Al literally broke down and cried when he told us – Even so, a week before Christmas he called us all into the back of the warehouse and passed out envelopes and apologies he couldn’t do more, and when business returned he promised he’d increase the hours and the bonuses. All of us thanked Al profusely but put our envelopes in our coat pockets unopened, so in case the bonus was small Al wouldn’t feel any worse than he did. So you can imagine how WE felt when we convened at the “Blind Tiger” for a little happy hour and looked in the envelopes - every man in the crew got 15 crisp, new $100 bills. It wasn’t until many years later when Al had a massive stroke and died that his right hand man Ray Sands told us that Al had lost about a quarter of a million dollars with the business that year and that those hundred dollar bills in our bonus envelopes came from his personal savings. That’s some boss..

 

The business eventually recovered and work started coming in and life was good, Al would sell us materials at cost + 10% and we’d do a little side work to pad out our ribs and the world was spinning in greased grooves ( That’s from John Steinbeck – he really could turn a phrase.)

 

One morning he told the two ceramic crew chiefs to load up an insane amount of 12” square ceramic floor tiles – frostproof, half black, half white, and ride out to this address in Oak Ridge, which was about ten miles from Greensboro. There we were to install a checkerboard floor in the owner’s new garage. We find the place and it’s this neat, well kept three story farmhouse on a hill and a path down to a barn that needed some repair , complete with a corral and a couple horses standing about, gazing serenly at us from their vantage point. And at the side of the barn, next to the paved driveway sat a brand new, 10 bay brick and steel garage complete with 5 double bay roll-up doors.

 

Steve Brewer who was a great ceramic installer but not really the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree took a look and declared:

 

“This must be the place”

 

So we unloaded the tile, mixed the thinset mortar and began scraping and sweeping the already scraped and swept concrete garage floor. We got rolling pretty good and were about a third done with the actual installation by the time the Sun God reached his Zenith – About this time a brand new Porsche 911 Cabriolet rolls down the driveway and stops behind our van and a sorta smallish well dressed man got out and takes a look at the work in progress – The owner, beyond doubt.

 

He complimented us and said that it looked great, and we were relieved as we always were when an owner showed up unexpectedly and said that they liked what they saw.

So old Steve Brewer ( Who, as far as I know hadn’t gained much more intelligence in the interim) strolls over to the gentleman and said:

 

“This sure is a nice Ga-rage – Got some cores to keep in heyayer?” (Notice that authentic NC Country drawl?)

 

And the man told him that, Yeah, he had a few old clunkers he had been fixing up for a while and that they were down in the barn, and further, if we liked we should feel free to take a look. He added that they weren’t anything special but we might find them mildly interesting.

 

So being about lunchtime and time for a break the four of us walked down the driveway to the barn whose door was held shut by a piece of nylon rope and pulled the door open – At first we were sort of Cave-Blind, coming from the dazzling summer sunshine into the dim, unlt interior of the barn. When our vision returned we looked around the barn.

 

There were cans of house paint on shelves,, an old roto-tiller, his childrens’ bicycles scattered about the outer edges of the huge room – Hay for the horses was crammed in the loft, and light filtered feebly through the cracks in the siding. And there, in two neat rows, were ten vintage Ferraris……..

 

I can’t speak for the rest of the guys, because I wasn’t looking at them, but for my part my jaw fell like an egg dropped from a tall chicken…

 

There were convertibles and hardtops – four seater sedans, the few that I recognized held me enthralled – there was a 1968 Daytona coupe just like the one Clint Eastwood owned at one time, the low, sensuous hood concealed the ferocious 12 cylinder engine, A fierce, efficient looking little “Dino” that resembled nothing so much as an earthbound flying saucer, and had been named for the son Enzo Ferarri had lost to childhood leukemia. And the last one I could name was a model named the “America Superfast” named so because the lightweight aluminum bodywork allowed the rather anemic 390 horsepower V-12 to move the auto down the road at a rate that Enzo Ferarri thought acceptable.

 

Hanging on the walls in relatively organized disarray, like some giant had trapped huge, ornate fiberglass butterflies and pinned them haphazardly to a board for display were several body shells from retired Formula One and LeMans style racing Ferarris, complete with all the factory team decals and, in some cases the original crash damage.

 

Steve Brewer muttered a single “ Hot Damn!” and there wasn’t a man in that barn who didn’t have a lump in his throat, along with one in his netherregions. There wasn’t a man, that is, except the owner who had strolled in behind us to enjoy the inevitable reaction when we finally realized what we were looking at.

 

“These are my clunkers…The ones I drive….I keep a blanket insurance policy on all of them, and a couple more I have out back – If I want to drive one for a weekend I call my agent and have him turn on that VIN number.”

 

He led the way around the insanity that was gathered in the center of this unguarded barn – no alarm systems, no locks, No watch dogs….Astonishing! We exited through the rear door and walked around the side of the barn and weren’t really surprised , but were flummoxed nonetheless to find two Lamborghini Countachs sitting side by side in an old empty chicken coup whose roof was comprised of a tattered canvas tarp stretched over the coup’s framework with a few old bungee cords.

 

“Yeah, these are more clunkers – look there – Pacino ( One of his horses) kicked that one a real good one in the driver’s door and caved it in – gotta get that fixed sometime… Come on in the house and I’ll show you something that’s really neat.”

 

And so, like a cadre of mindless automatons the four of us who, in all probability wouldn’t be worth a homeless wino’s droppings for the rest of the day followed this "Walter Mitty" out of the gate and up the hill to his house. On the way he explained that his name was Steve Barney and he was the owner of Foreign Cars Italia – Greensboro’s exotic Automobile dealership, and that he and his wife, who was Italian and well connected to the families of substance in and around Rome, spent their winters in Italy visiting all of Regina’s friends and relatives and Steve would poke around in their garages and occasionally found an aging Ferarri falling into disrepair and he’d offer a sum to the owner, the bargain would be struck and the old Ferarri would presently find itself embarking on a long sea voyage to America where Mr. Barneys crew of artisans would restore it to it’s former glory either to be sold off to a wealthy buyer, or , if particularly nice, to join it’s Paisans in the rickety barn in Summerfield.

 

We followed him into the house, through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement, along a hall to a regular looking door . Now, I don’t know what I expected to see, but I didn’t think anything could top the Barn and it’s contents, and of course I was wrong. In the middle of a windowless room with no other door except the 30 incher we had walked through sat, on axle stands, a 1957 Testarossa Factory Racer. It looked to be brand new, impossible of course, but there it was nonetheless, It’s fluid lines curving and twisting like some incredible metal serpent frozen in time and space, the paint so red that there was no red you could compare it to, and the unmistakable yellow and black hood badge – The Prancing Stallion of Marinello.

 

This now had become a near-death experience for me, suddenly I felt a little lightheaded, and scarlet and yellow specks danced before my eyes – If I had crossed over right then I’d probably be late getting in because I would assuredly babble this entire improbable tableau to St. Peter. But something he said brought me instantly back to reality:

 

“,,, is one of six made, probably the only one to survive the racing circuit of the fifties. Certainly the only one in this shape. The last time I had a fellow from the DuPont Registry look at it he conservatively appraised it at around 7 and ½ million…”

 

$7,500,000 sitting there in the middle of a basement in Summerfield, NC… Suddenly my intestines began to churn, and for one awful moment I feared that I would overamp and dishonor myself in front of this man who was, on the face of things talking about an unbelievably unique and priceless piece of automotive history like it was a riding lawnmower.

 

What saved me was taking a closer look at Barney’s eyes – If you looked closely they sort of reminded you of Mr. Toad from the child’s tale “The Wind In The Willows” who went just a little crazy whenever a new and wondrous machine caught his eye – almost like pinwheels circling in his pupils. And I knew then that despite his façade of coolness, this unbelievable display of English Gentleman-like understatement, Barney was as astounded as we were that this mythical beast was somehow magically here in our presence. Perhaps even more astounded because he realized that in fact, he was the master of the beast.

 

Finally, lest you think I'm blowing smoke here's a photo of Mr. Barney at his new dealership in Summerfield, NC.

[Beaver Creek]

Good story Bob.

 

Particularly interesting because I am writing this from just a couple miles from Summerfield, in Stokesdale.

 

Been by that dealership many times, and it is interesting to hear the backstory.

 

Thanks for the post.

 

Lee

[Bob Marsh]

Hi Lee,

 

Small world - my son Eric lives in Stokesdale and plays guitar in a thrash metal outifit named "Born Again" sound familiar at all?

 

Thanks for the kind words!

 

B

[davidl]

You're a fine story teller/writer Bob.

I thought it was going to end with seeing a whole wall of 59 and 60 original LP's.

I guess the cars will do.

You never know what you'll see on the other side of any given door.

 

Dave

[Beaver Creek]

Hi Lee,

 

Small world - my son Eric lives in Stokesdale and plays guitar in a thrash metal outifit named "Born Again" sound familiar at all?

 

Thanks for the kind words!

 

B

 

No, that does not sound familiar...but I don't get out much.

 

Do you play?

 

Lee

[Bob Marsh]

Thanks Dave! No - no LPs in this one but that would certainly top my tale - Something close is my boss's shop - vintage goodness wherever you look.

 

Lee,

 

I play a little - mostly 60's rock and blues but advancing age and arthritis in my hands and wrists makes me less than a virtuoso. At least I can keep my hand in building and repairing at the shop.

 

Cheers!

 

B

[Beaver Creek]

Lee,

 

I play a little - mostly 60's rock and blues but advancing age and arthritis in my hands and wrists makes me less than a virtuoso. At least I can keep my hand in building and repairing at the shop.

 

Cheers!

 

B

 

Bob,

 

PM me if you want to hook up and play sometime. I live in Madison, but could bring the guitar down to the office in Stokesdale if you want.

 

I'm not a virtuoso either, but I enjoy playing.

 

Lee