I got the call to tow a '96 Chrysler Concorde near Okolona and Pierce. I don't usually do sunrise runs, but Pat said he'd throw in a case of MGD if I picked this one up. The car was easy enough to find; it was 25 feet overhead, halfway up the willow tree.
The car had been a pet project of his for about four months. He bought the original vehicle from some retired couple, then started hunting and trading for parts. His intentions were to replace the factory speakers and add some vanity lighting, as well as add some engine modifications of questionable legality.
He'd taken the V6 out of the frame by the time that Mr. Retiree re-entered the picture. I'm not sure which version of the tale is true: either Mrs Retiree (before she passed) sold the vehicle without Mr Retiree's knowledge, or the details of the vehicle transaction had been lost in Mr Retiree's dementia.
What's undisputed is that Mr Retiree came to visit the garage of the Aspiring Mechanic, to demand the return of his vehicle. He was distraught at the sight of the partially-assembled Concorde; he attempted to assault the Mechanic, but became detatched from his oxygen tank, and left, demanding that the car be ready to leave when he came back for it. The Mechanic tarped it.
The next morning, the Concorde was in the tree. It was resting on a particularly strong fork of branches, with one branch protruding across the backseat, through the rolled-down windows. It was actually first called in by a patrolman shortly after sunrise. The Mechanic was awoken an hour later, and escorted to his vehicle.
They were still looking for Mr Retiree when I got there. No one had a clue how the vehicle had been raised into the tree; any tools or machinery used had left with the old man. I climbed up the tree to examine the car. It was in pretty condition, under the circumstances, but still didn't offer any clues.
The tree's reach extended past the sidewalk. I took a rare glimpse of the town horizon, then down at the street below. Rubberneckers - both with and without badges - were converging on the scene. People were parking on both sides of the street, snapping pictures and waiting for a resolution. I started feeling vertigenous, so I turned my eyes to the top of the tree.
And that's where I saw the piece of rope.
The barter value of a case of decent beer cannot be overestimated. Mr Retiree had two underage nephews with an F150 and nothing better to do on a Saturday night. The cops caught up with them before nightfall; the kids gave up the truck, the winch, and the entire scheme. Their uncle had enticed them into it, with little provocation. Their three-man operation had bent the willow tree downward long enough to push the Concorde chassis out of the garage, and into the tree's embrace. Once the prank was complete, the boys dropped their uncle off and went home with a case of Coors each.
When the police entered Mr Retiree's home, they found him on the couch, passed away, key fob in his hand.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Salvaging the Costa Concordia"
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