My first Volkswagen Microbus was a 1960 Kombi. I purchased it in the spring of 1968 at an unlikely place. It was at the used car lot of Estes-Zipper, a Porsche and Ferrari dealership in Los Angeles. My wife and I were living in Westwood Village. I was working in Hawthorne at an aluminum manufacturing plant, a dismal job, trying to save up money to attend UCLA. I wanted to buy a new Triumph motorcycle and frequently ogled them at a local showroom. The model I wanted was about $1100 which represented more than our net worth at the time. We had purchased our 1967 Karmann-Ghia on credit the previous year and could not afford more debt.

One weekend while exploring, we saw some used sports cars at Estes-Zipper and stopped in to lust and fondle (the cars, not each other). The salesman was nice and friendly unlike the condescending snots I usually encountered at auto dealerships. They seemed to view me as a hippie freak with no money that would probably scare off the legitimate clientele.

I did not view myself this way. In beard, boots and jeans carrying a huge Samsonite hard case, I favored the image of a Massey-Ferguson tractor representative. In retrospect, I concede my reactive anger and hostility when confronted with real or imagined social prejudice undoubtedly contributed to others perception of me.

The salesman at Estes-Zipper looked and acted like a stereotypical Irishman. He was compact and wiry with movements that were athletic and graceful. At the turn of the 19^th Century he could have been a champion bare fisted boxer. He had a mop of red hair and a face full of freckles. He greeted us with a charming smile and no hint of underlying suspicion or the prospect of time wasted. I responded in kind. We wandered the lot while conversing enthusiastically about sports cars and the specific merits of those represented on the lot. He let us sit in the seats and smell the leather. We wiggled steering wheels, shifted gears and made exhaust noises with our mouths.

I mentioned wanting a motorcycle and his face became serious while tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He told me of his friend who had been a wizard mechanic at Estes-Zipper. A year prior he had been involved in a serious accident while riding his motor cycle. After sufficiently recovering from his injuries he returned to work with some debilitation. He was encouraged to give up the bike, but a few months later he went for a ride and was killed. Our salesman said I reminded him of his deceased friend. I took his admonition about 2-wheeled commuting to heart at the time. I did not project a few years forward when I would be lying on an emergency room table with doctors administering to injuries sustained in a close encounter between my motorcycle and a Jeepster. They marveled at my lack of brain or spinal injury and common sense. To paraphrase an old song: I fought the car and the car won.

After circumnavigating the extensive Estes-Zipper used car lot and having the salesman graciously admire our new Ghia, we were about to leave. Behind the sales office I spied a row of VW Microbusses. I asked about them and was told they were trades from a child care facility. It caused me to conjure an image of the wealthy little Beverly Hills rascals now being chauffeured around in a fleet of stretched Porsches painted national school bus yellow. There were five busses and they ranged in age from 1960 to 1965. The cheapest was the 1960 at $675. It was Dove Blue and I fell in love with it. We offered $500 and bought it for $600. After writing a check, I drove it away. It was the easiest and friendliest experience with a car dealership I have ever had.