I leaned back in an old horsehair-stuffed chair in the darkened office, my hands clasped behind my head, looking through the front window toward 12th Street, about fifty feet away.

The building had once been a gas station. Now it was a used-car lot and repair shop. The outdoor lights strung from pole to pole above the cars were off, but light from the building’s windows spilled across the lot.

Rain and sleet were blowing sideways.

Through it, I noticed somebody working on a car out in the street. I leaned forward. The car had stopped in a low spot where water had collected, and whoever was working on it was practically kneeling in the puddle.

I got up, switched on the lot lights, and stood at the window.

The guy was bent over the engine, trying to dry out his ignition points. Cars had those back then. Get them wet, and you weren’t getting any spark to the spark plugs.

He was soaking wet.

So was his dune buggy.

That’s what I said. A dune buggy.

It had a fiberglass body mounted on a Volkswagen chassis and a black velour bubble roof. No doors. No heater. Not even windshield wipers.

It was a dune buggy. It was not a rain buggy.

“Hey! Bring it in here!”

Once he was inside, I got a better look at him. He was around seventeen, maybe six feet tall, with long dark hair, a leather biker’s jacket, and jeans. He wasn’t dressed for the weather any more than the buggy was equipped for it.

I told him to let it dry out and have a seat in the office.

There was an intensity about him. But my first question was how he had wound up out there in the freezing Erie rain in that thing.

“Where are you from?”

I expected Erie. Maybe North East. Somewhere nearby.

“Pittsburgh.”

Now I was curious.

There was no way this kid had driven all the way from Pittsburgh that evening in a dune buggy.

Except he had.

As he told it, he had gotten into a fight with his father, taken the buggy, outrun police cars, gone around a roadblock, and kept going through the freezing rain until he reached Erie.

He also told me his father was abusive.

That part of his story mattered more than the dune buggy.

I told him he could sleep on my couch, but there was one condition: in the morning, he had to call his mother and let her know he was all right.

Somewhere in that conversation, I finally learned his name.

Bob.

Everybody called him Kookie. Spelled with a K, pronounced like Cookie. His mother had started it.

The next morning, he kept his word. He called his mother and told her where he was.

But the story doesn’t end there.

Kookie had decided to sell his father’s dune buggy.

Why not? He had the title, and his name was on it.

Technically, it was his father’s name. They were both named Bob.

Apparently, that was the risk his father ran when he gave his son the same name.

After the phone call, Kookie left Jack’s Garage in the buggy. Explaining all of this to Jack was an experience of its own, but that’s neither here nor there.

As the kid pulled onto 12th Street, I figured I would never see him again.

Several hours later, a car pulled into the lot.

Raised rear end. Cragar wheels. Shiny black paint.

I was busy putting the car I’d painted back together and cleaning it up so Jack could leave for the auction. Jack had been working on a customer’s car outside. He came into the shop wiping his hands on a rag.

“Hey, Jim, I think it’s that kid who was here this morning. You know, the dune buggy guy.”

It was.

Kookie had returned in a black 1965 Comet Caliente with a four-speed.

He had traded his father’s dune buggy for it.

“Your dad is gonna kill you.”

Kookie’s answer left no doubt about his opinion of that possibility.

“That was supposed to be my dune buggy.”

He figured he would stay in Erie for a while and let things cool off.

I figured his father would be coming to Erie to heat them back up.

His mother knew where he was. The dune buggy was gone. I didn’t expect his father to take either development particularly well.

My girlfriend and her roommates lived across town, about three miles away. I arranged for Kookie to stay with them.

He accepted the accommodations.

I also made it clear that he needed to work things out with his father. The girls weren’t looking for another roommate.

That evening, as expected, somebody knocked on my apartment door.

When I opened it, I found myself face-to-face with a man who struck me as a wannabe tough guy, although he was getting a little old for the role.

Kookie’s father. The other Bob.

“I’m here looking for my boy. I drove here with some guys to get him, and I’m not leaving until I see him.”

“He’s not here.”

I watched him, waiting to see what he would do. Before he could get started, I added, “I do know where he is, though.”

He wanted to know where.

“You know what? I just met your son. He seems like a pretty good kid. He told me you’re a mean man. I know a little about that.”

I let that stand for a moment.

“I’ll take you to him, but you cannot hurt him in any way. Okay?”

He paused, then glanced over his shoulder toward the three men waiting in his car.

“Yeah, okay.”

The answer was considerably quieter than his introduction.

“I’ll take you to him,” I said, “but you have to ride with me so we can talk.”

He agreed.

His car was facing one way on 12th Street. Mine, parked in front of my apartment, was facing the other.

What happened next had a little of the Keystone Cops about it.

I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.

“I’m parked right here.”

I pointed to my 1965 Buick Skylark Gran Sport.

With the modifications I’d made, that car was fast. The big 1970 Buick LeSabre carrying his three companions wasn’t going to keep up.

I like to say I timed it perfectly.

I climbed in, fired up the engine, and the moment Bob landed in the passenger seat, I launched down 12th Street like I was at an NHRA showdown.

Bob suddenly had quite a lot to say.

Most of it isn’t worth repeating.

He wanted me to slow down so his guys could follow us.

I kept it simple.

“That ain’t happening.”