Ohio dealer Bob McDorman gave me my first summer job as a teen in 1970.
In 1968, he had moved his Chevrolet store from a 1-car showroom with wooden floors and a leaky roof in Groveport, near Columbus, to a 33-acre (13-ha) tract on a busy highway in Canal Winchester, four miles (6.5 km) away.
His new location gave rise to an ad slogan, “Cars are like eggs. They’re cheaper in the country.”
I suppose I was predestined to follow an automotive career. My dad spent 41 years with General Motors and my mom’s father was a distributor of Peerless and Scripps-Booth automobiles in Ohio and West Virginia.
I had originally applied for a government position of scraping road kill off of highways. I was turned down for this shovel-ready job because the state of Ohio forbade offending the gentle sensibilities of teens with such work.
So, I turned to Bob McDorman Chevrolet. I became a lot boy, a jack-of-all-unskilled-trades worker that today’s more enlightened dealership culture calls a porter.
McDorman, a no-nonsense guy with a vision, employed a cast of characters worthy of a TV situation comedy. I mean no disrespect by saying that. You don’t stay in business for 46 years by hiring the wrong people.
Still, my co-workers were memorable. There was the salesman who parted his red hair in the middle and wore white slacks, shoes, socks, shirt and belt. He topped it off with a red-and-white plaid sports coat.
There was the stooped mechanic who spent his days under school buses in the back of the shop and teased the red-cheeked college kid, me, about newfangled “com-puke-ers.”
He wasn’t as bad as the scary parts-department guy who threw things when angry.
McDorman was the first dealer in Columbus to use a live auction, aired Saturday mornings on country music station WMNI, to thin out his inventory of less-than-desirable trade-ins.
The roughneck clientele snapped up those cheapo cars. “The auctions were successful, but they were hard to handle, because people almost came to fisticuffs over the cars,” McDorman recalls.
My job kept my 1970 Chevy Chevelle’s gas tank full, but there were also many intangible benefits, including the stripping away of my last layers of adolescent naivete.
The first order Bob gave me on my first day of work was to get a haircut. I was no hippy, but my hair reflected the style of the time. Bushy with mutton-chop sideburns, my hair resembled a Roman centurion’s helmet.
When I returned from the barber, the canteen truck had just pulled into the service department. As a kid, I was accustomed to getting meals for free at home. So, I thought breakfast was an employee benefit Bob provided. How thoughtful, I thought. I grabbed some food and walked away.
But I noticed other employees paying the driver. I sheepishly returned and handed over my money. It was embarrassing enough to be sent to the barber, but to be caught allegedly stealing a blueberry muffin would have been too much.
My daily routine at the dealership involved processing the new cars as they arrived: Corvettes from a St. Louis, MO, assembly plant (now closed); Impalas, Biscaynes and Camaros from a Norwood, OH, factory (now closed); and Vegas from a Lordstown, OH, plant (now building the Chevrolet Cruze).
Along with Jesse, a toothless fellow who was said to live in a truck in the back of the property, I’d gas the cars, log them in and park them in the lot.
Bob once sent me to the far reaches of his property where I shuffled up and down like a plow mule for a week, feeling with my feet for partially submerged rocks, and loading them in a wheelbarrow.
This is not standard dealership work today, but Bob was thinking long-term. He had big plans to erect buildings on that land to house his awesome Corvette collection. My preparatory role was to rid the soil of unseen hazards.
Such grunt work was offset by occasional glamorous duties unknown to most teens. Bob specialized in Corvettes, and he flew me to Mississippi and New York to bring back shiny new Stingrays as part of dealer trades.
On the way home, I “tested” their power on the freeways. I tried to appear modest as people looked at me with envy and curiosity as to why that kid was driving that car. But at least I had a nice haircut.
My first dealer trade was not so smooth. Bob asked me to drive a 1969 Camaro Indy Pace Car replica (with a $37 orange-stripe option) from Columbus to a dealer in Cincinnati.
The car had a 3-speed manual transmission. At the time, I had just driven cars with stick shifts around the car lot. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I headed south, never realizing I needed to advance beyond second gear and wondering why the shift knob got so warm.
A friend later suggested the episode prompted auto makers to add the “up-shift” light on instrument clusters. He said many people had contributed their names to the automotive lexicon over the years, including Monroney, Wankel and Diesel. Why not the “Beaman idiot light”?
I was promoted to the parts department during my last summer with the dealership. I had no problem identifying a quarter-panel or a quart of oil, but locating the correct points, plugs and condenser for a ’67 Nova while impatient mechanics waited across the counter?
Think of facing the thirsty crew of “The Deadliest Catch” in a seaside saloon, but having skipped bartending school.
Bob McDorman became very successful, despite my misadventures as one of his employees.
In what Chevrolet officially considers an underperforming market, McDorman delivered 1,267 new and used cars through July 2011, up from 904 in the same time last year.
His famous, multimillion-dollar classic-car collections have included a 1960 Corvette once owned by Burt Reynolds and a rare 1953 Buick Skylark.
His annual Corvette and Classic Chevy Show, now in its 38th year, has provided over $250,000 in donations to Nationwide Children’s Hospital in Columbus.
So thanks, Bob, for my first job, as well as the mentoring and training. I didn’t become a dealer, but found a rewarding 31-year career in public relations with General Motors.
I’ll leave the car-selling thing to experts such as him. But at least I can now drive a manual transmission. And I no longer steal food.
