From the seller's description:
Its come time to sell my 1974 Charger. Its Collector and Adult owned, Garage kept, Clean title, Well taken care of, Maintence up to date. It has a powerful 318 v8 that goes to a smooth 727 automatic trans. The car looks and works perfectly just as it did in 74'. Has power steering, Brakes, Numbers matching, As you can see from the pictures, No rust, Very Clean, Clean title, Rare options like Ice Cold A/c, rear defrost, Mint White interior, Mechanically runs 110%, New tires and brakes all around, Completely tuned up and ready for a new owner. Car was professionally repainted a rare gorgeous Orange factory color Sienna Metallic (Kt5) Has 78k all Original Miles. Asking $18,900 Or best offer possibly some interesting trades.
1974 Dodge Charger
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Photo: Jefferson Bryant
We started by removing all the plastic trim and shifter from the floor pan. Make sure you keep all the hardware organized so the rights fasteners go back where they belong.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
Using a piece of cardboard to keep the floor and carpets clean, each piece was sprayed to the edges with the contact cement.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
Then we placed the carpet onto the floor, positioned it, and then used a rubber roller to smooth it out. You can use your hand, but the roller doesn’t give you carpet burn.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
The door sill carpet has a rubber channel seal that slides under the metal channel lip. You can pry this up carefully with a screwdriver or spatula to make installing the new rubber edging easier.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
We carefully sliced away the opening for the vents and reinstalled the originals. You need to use a pick to locate the two screw holes before trying to install them, This is a Berber style carpet, and if the screw snags the carpet, it can pull a long run out.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
Then Josie used a panel popper tool to carefully remove the panel at each push-pin.
Photo: Jefferson Bryant
The new TMI panels snap right into place. You do need to take care to ensure each pin is lined up; if not, you could damage the cards, putting a buckle in your new panels.
Source
TMI Products • (888) 460-0640 • tmiproducts.com
Photo: Provided By Author
I had been into cars since childhood, so this was a magical job. I was part of a crew of six or seven that worked for tips, and we wore orange coverall uniforms so that we were easily seen at night. We routinely parked and returned more than 400 cars on a busy Saturday, with parties in the afternoon and then again at night, together with public dining.
Jockeying cars for position in shrinking lanes during return rush times made me a better and more precise driver. Another benefit was that I developed a higher appreciation for well-designed dashboards, budding smart controls, and quality upholstery. I preferred gauges to warning lamps, and I intensely disliked the flashing green and yellow dashboard fuel economy indicators that seemed unwelcome in luxury cars. The only way to make the annoying indicator stay green was to coast.
As a crew, we elbowed each other to park the hot imports, such as BMW’s 2002, Datsun’s Z variants, the first Honda Accords, Toyota Celicas, and less frequently, Volkswagen Sciroccos. These were all well-equipped, light, quick, and easy to park. It was also possible to shift them into higher gears for test drives by taking the long way around to the lower back lot. As far as I knew, none of us ever got a Porsche 911 out of second. Our boss knew the joyride risk, so we had to keep numbered dashboard tickets in sequence for assigned spaces that discouraged long drives around the property.
Photo: Hemmings Archives
I have many fond memories of the job. To start, the things people left in their vehicles were nothing short of amazing. There were open bills with private information in plain view, and mail of every other conceivable variety, as well as checkbooks, laundry, arts, and crafts in all stages of non-completion, sticky food wrappers, and other trash. I also quickly learned that a tip amount didn’t always correspond to the expense or condition of the car after one guest left a caged guinea pig in his 1967 Pontiac Le Mans when he arrived late for a wedding reception. Aside from needing to be washed and vacuumed, that car was quite fragrant. It was a dry day, so I lowered the side windows, and we took turns checking the pet as we ran to and from other vehicles. Later, the guest told me he was glad the party was over and was eager to reunite the guinea pig with his young daughter. Having noticed us checking on the pet, the car owner gave me the biggest tip I ever got to fetch a car.
Another unusual thing happened while parking a 1975 Buick LeSabre sedan. Two people got out and went inside for dinner and as I got in immediately noticed the aroma of freshly baked bagels emanating from two gigantic bags that took most of the rear seat, nearly reaching the headliner. After parking the car, I was spooked by a low voice from the far-right of the back seat that asked, “Howee doin’?” I had not seen the slight fellow partially hidden by one of the tall bags, and all I could ask was if he intended to go inside. He said he didn’t want a fancy dinner, just a nap. He offered bagels to the entire crew, which were delicious, and stayed in the car and slept for two hours.
Rare cars would roll up on occasion, including one almost everyone guessed was a Maserati, though I recognized it as a Facel Vega. The exhaust growl of the Chrysler Hemi V-8 was positively rhapsodic, and the grand tourer had polished wood throughout its interior. We parked it in a special spot on an outer aisle near the front door and overheard customers speculate what it was while waiting for their own cars. When the tweedy owner eventually came out, my boss, Ray, was determined to sound smart and amuse himself. He conspicuously and formally signaled, “Christopher, the Facel Vega, please.” Seeing where we placed his pride and joy, the owner gleamed. He may have enjoyed that moment more than his dinner.
Another story involved a regular customer’s Cadillac Seville during lunch hour, when Ray often let me work alone so he could get a break. Two County Sheriff’s detectives stopped to tell me they were looking for two inmates who had escaped from the local penitentiary wearing–what else–orange coveralls. They were last seen running on the neighboring golf course. Of course, we always left keys in the ignition of parked cars. The detectives asked how many cars remained from lunch, and whether I could account for each. To my dismay, the Cadillac (one of only three cars left in my charge) was gone! The owner was very classy when the detectives needed his license plate number and unselfishly said he was glad I had not run into the thieves. Luckily for me, the car was recovered unscratched at a nearby shopping center, but we never heard if the thieves were caught.
I rarely drove a car onto the open road, but one exception was a permanent resident’s 1976 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. The luminous dark red sedan was overdue for its annual state inspection and the owner’s wife “volunteered” me to drive it to the inspection station in the next town. The engine was so quiet and vibration-free that I had to concentrate to hear it. The interior was beautifully appointed with the finest leather I had ever seen or touched. Intuitive controls were set in burled walnut. In my opinion the steering wheel was somewhat primitive and too hard for an ultra-luxury auto, but it was a minor nitpick since the car was a magic carpet. It literally floated when put in drive. As expected, there were no buzzes, squeaks, or rattles. It handled well and predictably with adequate road feel, despite its considerable weight. Power came immediately at the slightest touch, suggesting ample reserve, and the Rolls-Royce stopped on a dime.
Photo: Hemmings Archives
Admittedly, I was very nervous driving it, even when it seemed other drivers stayed out of the way once I reached a multi-lane avenue. The inspection station was in a not-so-nice area on a narrow, bumpy street, and being near closing time the station was busy. I had to get in a line that snaked around the block and all I could do was hope nobody hit the darn thing.
As I crawled to the entrance, the inspection staff was laughing and pointing at me, still wearing my orange coveralls: “Hey kid, how did you get out of jail and where did you get that car?” Fortunately, my uniform sported a company crest. Seeking mercy, I said it was the boss’ car. Then the Rolls failed its emissions test. Adding to the insult, the dented, oxidized Volkswagen Beetle behind me passed with flying colors. In those days, a sticker with a big red circle signifying failure was affixed to the windshield’s lower left corner. You couldn’t miss it.
I finally relaxed when I pulled the Silver Shadow into the familiar driveway without incident. To my surprise, the owner’s wife was happy to see that the car failed, because now she could get it tuned up without further debate. Apparently, her husband was always working and neglected his cars. We were reminded of that later when we had to jump the battery in his seldom-driven Jaguar XJ12. The next time I saw the Rolls it had a proper inspection sticker.
After parking cars for eighteen months, I transferred inside to become a bartender as my college days progressed. I missed handling the cars, but not enduring cold winter nights or donning those orange coveralls. Over the years I have almost always insisted on parking my own car, but when valet parking is unavoidable, particularly in a city, I tip in advance. It’s remarkable how a few dollars will often gain a spot close to the attendant’s booth, sometimes with a safety cone next to our car.
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