Intimations of synchronicity in two smoldering automobiles
by Jack Neely
Last week, when I was looking into the mysterious dirigible that floated over Knoxville in January, 1910, I ran across another peculiar incident that same week.
It was the Wednesday night before the sighting. A clothing salesman named William Kohlhase had been watching a new play at Staub's, a mystery called The House Of a Thousand Candles. When the show was over at about 11 p.m., Kohlhase walked out into the chilly night to his car parked near Gay and Cumberland, and started his engine. Few Knoxvillians had cars in early 1910, sure enough. But what made this car newsworthy was that when Kohlhase started it, it burst into flames.
That's a scene you don't see in those Thompson photographs of Gay Street framed in restaurants. A horseless carriage parked on the street, on fire. Kohlhase and his companion escaped unhurt. It roused a scene; the police took an interest in it, and a fire engine showed up. "The damage will not exceed $15," the newspaper reported, "which is covered by insurance."
I nearly included that story in last week's column for its oddity value alone. Nine decades of automotive technology has produced cars that don't burst into flames when you start them, unless you do something stupid. Or are the victim of sabotage.
Last Wednesday evening I'd just left the brewpub and a bracing discussion about the justice center and the true identity of Sean Pitts, the impish photocopier who attempted to expose me and a few dozen others as citizens who might have criticisms about the siting of the mammoth jail. My e-comments, mild top-of-the-head remarks from several weeks ago questioning some pro-jail posturing in the daily, were handsomely organized behind the tab marked "Outing the Pulse."
Anyway, the philosophical question for discussion at the bar was Don't you have to be inside somewhere before you're outed? Over the last three years, I've written at least four columns, one editorial, and one feature story questioning the justice center's siting.
I pondered that paradox as I walked to my car on Central Avenue, adjacent to the controversial demolition site. It was cold that night, down in the teens, but I figured my 15-year-old Saab was up to it. Just last weekend, I'd marveled at how well it navigated the icy roads, deftly avoiding the stranded ATVs.
I started it up and drove down Central. Something sounded amiss. I figured she just needed some warming up, and steered onto Neyland Drive. But the car only seemed to lose power. Puttering along at 15 mph, I watched other cars pass me. Some drivers looked annoyed; others seemed a little alarmed. "Okay, okay," I said. "So it's an old car, and it's cold." Near Thompson-Boling Arena, I pulled over, and was surprised when another car pulled in right behind me. It was a pleasant-looking 40ish couple, looked like they'd been to church. The woman in the passenger seat had a big plastic cake box in her lap.
"Are you all right?" they said. I wondered if my nose was bleeding.
"Sure," I said. "Just a little car trouble."
"Don't you need to call somebody?" They offered me their cellphone and, of course, had to show me how to use it. I called my wife and told her I'd broken down and, well, the car might need some work. I wasn't sure I could drive it all the way home, and wondered if we might just limp it over to Kenny's shop and leave it there.
I handed back the cellphone back to the couple and thanked them for the use of it. "Thanks for stopping," I said, a little embarrassed. I probably wouldn't have done the same thing for a stranger who just pulled over to the side of the road.
"We just couldn't help but notice the flames," the driver explained.
It was then that I ascertained that my car was on fire. Underneath the engine, a pretty good blaze just like the ones you see beneath phony logs in Gatlinburg chateaus. Now that they mentioned it, I could even smell it, the aroma of burning oil and paint and floorboard carpet resin.
"Don't you think we should call the fire department?" they offered. I indicated that might be a pretty good idea.
While we waited, I paused to read the historical marker. "West Wing of Federal Lines," it said. I'd never slowed down to read the marker and picture the situation as it was in those chilly days in 1863 when Knoxville, nearly surrounded by Confederate troops, was being shelled. I was grateful for this opportunity. The pall of black smoke from my car added to the effect.
The scene attracted a curious policeman, though the fire seemed to be dwindling. By the time the big fire engine arrived, of course, it had gone out, in the same way your rash always clears up just before the doctor's appointment.
"It was burning, really," I said. He believed me, observing that the engine block was pretty badly scorched. The tow truck showed up, and suddenly we had quite a little soiree. "Smells like barbecue," the tow-truck driver said.
"Have any enemies?" someone asked. "No," I said, but then corrected myself. Beneath my breath, I muttered, Sean Pitts.
I half-expected I'd find telltale clues back at my parking space on Central. A lighter inscribed S.P. A crumpled receipt for a half-gallon of kerosene. A sinister footprint in the snow.
It turned out to be a complicated series of problems ranging from an over enthusiastic cold-start valve to a disintegrating catalytic converter. No foul play; just a fouled exhaust line.
Kenny fixed it for just $285. On a hunch, I checked that in 1910 dollars; it works out to right about $15. It's one of those mysterious constants: downtown automobile fires on cold Wednesday nights. Except that insurance no longer picks up the tab.
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