Champ
Our tiny tin home on wheels goes by the name of Champ, derived from the fact that she’s of the Champagne Edition VW Buses, and apparently her chocolate brown interior (such as on the dash and oh sh*t handles) was part of a limited edition that only happened for about 6 months in 1978. I could be wrong, as that is heresay.
You can read about the restoration process, as it is an ever-evolving pursuit, here.
A Bit of Prose on the Ol’ Girl
With what most men might not even as much as consider a beard he sat there, an old pair of secondhand boots, leather brown of course, on the other end, the sometimes painful comfort of which left him pooling in his chair, nearly dripping out of the seat, with nothing more than cigarettes and coffee in the moment. Sure, he was balding past the point of no return, but though he figured himself a shorter man, he noted that most people looked him right in the eyes, so a patch of chrome here and there could serve as a trophy rather than some silly shameful flag of surrender. Besides, the tingle of an eternal, mild sunburn feels good come October, not to mention the fun of hats!
If the sky would have been so clear and blue as midnight just to serve as his background, he couldntve been bothered to notice. Every ounce of focus, now that coffees had been tested for taste and temperature, and that wild Indian turquoise tobacco held a cherry, was focused on her.
She sat or stood there, like some thick wild animal, he couldn’t be sure what kind, but something both scant and massive, white eyes ready to glow and spare tire nose darting to pounce at morning’s first light. If you’ve ever seen a scrappy old leather dress hang from a cowgirl, you’ll know how he saw her. Her top popped like a beetle’s shell into wings, so mocca brown, and darker as you worked your way down.
Sure, she needed some work done on the front end, but the blackened bruises around attempts to fix whatever busted the old girl up tell me she was hit hard, and took it. End of story.
His boy lay in the big girl’s belly as he leaned up on his heels into a tightened hoodie stance, his hat pulled tight across that crevace wrinkling forehead and walked her up and down. Her hookups were adequate, nice tires, missing the back right hubcap but hey, you can’t expect everything from a woman.
Thoughts of money waved over him, of the multitude of repairs and manual reading and busted bloody knuckles and permanently greasy fingernails he’d soon be amassing, and he smiled and considered his next long while to be mostly teaching his boy to teach himself, making money out of his afternoons, and evenings back on the project, back on her. It would be a devotion requiring much time and attention and ridding the mind of time for idle wandering, for listening to music, and then sleep. Food would also be required, or so he eventually decided.
The climb into her belly, all bossom and cozy, left no time for sheets, boots were left on and he, she and the boy slept through the first part of that Sunday evening. Breakfast is always in the morning.