9781422278208

INTRODUCTION

T here was an odd phenomenon in America in the 1950s that motorists of a lesser sort, say those driving Detroit iron, probably missed. Every once in a while a split- or oval-window Volkswagen Beetle would be traveling down a road when it encountered a similar bug being driven in the opposite direction. The drivers would flash their lights almost simultaneously or shoot an arm out the window and flash the victory sign. The more subtle driver might give a palms-up wave without his hand leaving the steering wheel. It was silent acknowledgment that these two drivers shared something special. This is perhaps commonplace today, when someone driving, say, a thirty-year-old car sees an identical one coming up alongside; but in the fifties, when sameness was all but revered—with numerous men dressing in the same gray flannel suits and driving Chevrolet Bel-Airs and Ford Fairlanes—it was almost subversive. Postwar America was flush with wealth. The car- buying public had been deprived of new cars for nearly four years and they hungered for anything new. It was a seller’s market. In the years immediately after the war, waiting lists for new cars were long and prices were high. Anything sold. Studebaker, long the perennial underdog in automotive sales, was having banner years in sales. President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s administration was friendly to business, particularly the automotive industry. Production was high, labor strife was minimal, and people had disposable income. Detroit responded to these boom years with big cars bedecked with lots of chrome. It reflected the country’s position in the world: fat and happy. Engineering took a back seat to design. Harley Earl, the design chief for General Motors, took his styling cue from jet aircraft and, later, spacecraft. Chrysler’s design guru, Virgil Exner, focused his energies on

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