The Legend Of PB Blaster
Illustration: Jason Torchinsky/Blaster
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We lived outside Cleveland and were of humble means, which is a nice way of saying that our cars were crappy. And because those cars had spent their lives in the Midwest, they were rusty, too. Dad had a truly shitty Chevy Chevette for a while, a Plymouth Valiant from the Nixon administration at some point and a fourth-generation Chevy Malibu that lasted longer than you’d expect. There were at least three Volvo 240s, a Volvo 740 and even a Volvo 260. Somewhere in there was an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme.
And those are just the cars I can remember, as we cycled through used car after used car. My dad had gone to trade school as a younger man and obtained a certificate in automotive repair, which he hung on the wall in the basement laundry room. He never actually became a mechanic he couldn’t afford to buy his own tools, he would explain so instead he got a job at what used to be called the Welfare