Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall Episode – 1

The sun sank low over the horizon in the summer of 1989 when Johnny B. Whiskey slid behind the wheel of his first car—a 1968 Dodge Dart, black with red steelies and a 340 that rumbled like distant thunder. He was 19 (almost 20), full of fire, and this wasn’t just a car—it was a dream wrapped in metal, chrome, and the scent of old gasoline and hope.

Johnny had been working nights at the local feed mill, stacking bags and fixing busted conveyor belts to save up for this moment. He’d first seen the Dart sitting lopsided on flat tires behind an old mechanic’s garage just outside town. It was rough, beat-up, and half-covered in leaves. But Johnny didn’t see rust—he saw potential. He saw long two-lane roads, late-night street races, and a little bit of rebellion.

He’d struck a deal with the old man who owned it. The car didn’t run then, but that didn’t stop Johnny. He worked on it every free hour, scraped his knuckles, bloody replacing the timing chain, swapped in a junkyard Holley carb, and rewired most of the engine bay with a flashlight between his teeth. And when that 340 finally roared to life for the first time, it felt like the whole town should’ve heard it. The windows of the garage rattled. Johnny just laughed, wiped the grease off his hands, and patted the cracked dash.

Now, the title was in his name, the keys were in his hand, and he was about to drive his Dart home for the first time.

He twisted the key.

That small block fired up like a beast waking from a long nap—growling, burbling, alive. The glass pack mufflers popped at idle, the tach danced like a barroom jukebox needle, and Johnny sat back with both hands on the three-spoke steering wheel, his heart thumping in rhythm with the cam.

The clutch was stiff and unforgiving. The floor-mounted shifter had some play in it. But Johnny didn’t mind. As he eased out onto the road, gravel crunching beneath the BFG radials, he felt like he was leaving behind more than just the garage—he was leaving behind being a kid.

The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and warm pavement. The bench seat springs squeaked beneath him. There was no radio—just the song of the engine, the whine of gears, and the occasional metallic rattle from somewhere under the dash. Johnny didn’t care. It was music, and it was his.

As he pulled onto the main road that led back into town, the Dart leaped forward with a bark. He let it wind out in second gear, listening to the exhaust echo off the trees. Every throttle blip was a reminder: this wasn’t his dad’s Oldsmobile. It was something else entirely.

He passed a group of kids at the corner store, their heads turning in unison as the Dart rumbled by. One of them raised a fist and shouted, “That you, Johnny B.?” Johnny grinned, gave the wheel a quick yank to the left, and let the rear tires chirp. Not a burnout—just enough to say yeah, it’s me. He kept rolling.

Downtown, he caught every light. It didn’t matter. He sat there, motor loping, watching people cross the street. An old man gave the car a slow nod, recognizing it for what it was. A woman in her thirties turned and smiled. Maybe she remembered her first ride—her version of this moment. Johnny soaked it all in.

The last stretch of road was wide open. Four lanes, long and straight, the kind of road that begs you to see what your car can do. Johnny gave it just enough gas to make the Dart squat and roar but not enough to tempt fate. Not tonight. Tonight wasn’t about speed; it was about the arrival.

He pulled into his parents’ gravel driveway as dusk turned dark. The porch light flicked on. His little brother came running out barefoot, eyes wide. His dad stepped out onto the porch, arms crossed, trying not to look impressed. His mom opened the screen door and peeked out with a smile that said, “Well, he finally did it.“

Johnny shut off the engine and sat there for a moment. The ticking of the cooling headers, the faint smell of oil and warm rubber, the slight creak of the bench seat as he leaned back—everything felt exactly right.

He stepped out, shut the door with that unmistakable thunk, and turned back to look at the car.

It wasn’t perfect—not even close. The paint was faded, the trim was mismatched, and a crack ran through the passenger-side taillight.

But it was his.

That ’68 Dart, built in a different decade, born again under the hands of a determined 19-year-old with a dream, had just taken him home.

And Johnny B. Whiskey knew, in that exact moment, that life would never be the same again.