In the fall of 1975, a high school dropout was walking along a Brown University hallway in Providence, Rhode Island when he was inexplicably drawn to a hand-written file card tacked to a bulletin board. It read:
1956 Porsche 356A 1600S For Sale.
Without any logic or good sense the fellow decided he had to purchase the car. He had been living above Duke’s Poolroom, sleeping on the floor in a tattered black raincoat he had bought in a general store on Isleboro, Maine for a dime. He had been near starving, scouring the bleak windy streets for lost change, hustling pool when he had any money to hustle with, too proud to beg. He was seventeen years old but would turn eighteen on December 1st.
“I’m going to buy that car. I know I am.”