Club Machine : Hobby: A few hundred enthusiasts crowd into parking lots to show off their vehicles. Critics complain that they block sidewalks and are noisy.
At an Arby’s on Reseda Boulevard, the hottest things aren’t on the grill. They’re in the parking lot.
They get better mileage too.
Every Wednesday night dozens of car clubbers--with names like “Strictly Hard Bodies,” “One Bad Creation” and “Art of Noise”--congregate at the fast-food restaurant to show off their machines--from Cadillacs with sparkling paint jobs and shiny chrome to mini-trucks with tinted windows and wild paint jobs.
It’s a weekly ritual that, beyond car gazing, may lead to hooking up with a new love interest and, the clubbers say, is nothing more than just clean fun.
“It’s better that the kids are out here, instead of getting into drugs and gangs and that crap,” said Ethen Allen, 30, vice president of Familia Life Car Club in San Fernando.
But good clean fun, said Allen, a roofing contractor who was sued a few years ago by the corporation that owns Ethan Allen Furniture stores (“They thought my company was a fictitious name. We won the case.”) is getting harder to find.
“The cops are discouraging us,” said Allen, who has been fixing up and developing new tricks for his trucks, like remote-control hydraulic lifts, for 10 years.
The tension between the car enthusiasts and the police was evident on a recent cool Wednesday night when a bright green, ‘70s vintage lowered-to-the-ground Cadillac “hopped” down Reseda Boulevard. Bright yellow sparks flew as the car bounced and dragged on the asphalt.
The few hundred car clubbers and spectators who had shown up just to look at the cars stopped talking to stare admiringly as the Cadillac made its entrance into the lot, followed by a hopping mini-truck, which turned into an alley behind the eatery.
Hydraulics make the cars “hop” on their chassis. But hydraulics, say Los Angeles traffic officers, are against the law.
Seconds later, a police car, warning lights blazing, followed.
“He’ll probably get an unsafe vehicle ticket,” said Angel Ocasio, shaking his head and grinning.
“It’s the altered suspension. I got a ticket like that once. Cost me $361,” he said while standing next to his Toyota mini-truck with gleaming rims.
The cat-and-mouse game between cops and car clubs began well before Arby’s became a hangout about five years ago.
“That’s why things went to hell in the ‘80s when the cops stopped the kids from cruising on Van Nuys Boulevard,” Allen said.
Wednesdays were also the nights that two generations of car clubbers would cruise the boulevard. After complaints from merchants and local residents, the streets were blocked off to keep the cruisers away.
No one is really sure why the Arby’s on Reseda between Sherman Way and Vanowen Street was selected as a hangout. It might be the owner’s tolerance that makes it so desirable.
“In the past, there had been problems, like drinking in the parking lot, but it hasn’t disrupted business,” said Ken Davis, the owner of the Arby’s since 1986.
Meeting at Arby’s “is good for business,” said Rafael Gallo, one of the managers. Gallo said he’s seen as many as 300 people crammed into the small lot but has never seen a fight or accident.
“They chase off the normal customers,” he said. “But only on Wednesday nights.”
On this night, as they do every Wednesday, the clubs began gathering about 8 p.m. A group of six car clubbers standing in a semicircle held burning sticks of incense, which left a sweet, gardenia-like smell in the air. They stood near their cars, which were all lowered Hondas with tinted windows, grooving to the hip-hop blasting out of the boom box installed in one of the vehicles.
Suddenly, the beat turned Latin, and “Oye Como Va” wafted through the incensed air. A thin young man wore a T-shirt with the message “WILL WORK FOR SEX” emblazoned on his chest, and held a thin cigar in his mouth while eyeing the vibrating speakers.
“We’re just here to have fun, show off our cars. We don’t have hassles. Everybody tries to get along,” said Eric Heavens, the 20-year-old president of the car club Generic.
A Pierce College student, Heavens purchased his 1991 Acura Integra for $18,000 with the help of an inheritance. He has put about $3,000 into it so far, lowering the car, installing hydraulics and adding blue and green headlights and taillights.
He said his lowered car draws mixed reactions from the police. “The cops drive by and say, ‘Cool car,’ ” he said. “And some cops think we’re in a gang. It depends on the cops, and what area we’re driving in.
“A lot of cops say if you keep to the speed limit, they don’t care.”
This night, as the Arby’s lot was beginning to jump, a beige monster truck made a U-turn in the middle of Reseda Boulevard. Two police officers caught the pair in the truck, and as the crowd looked on, four patrol cars swooped onto the scene.
One of the patrol officers started issuing orders from a bullhorn: “Your vehicles will be towed unless you remove them.” So one by one, flashy rides rolled out of the lot and moved in a caravan to the Pic-n-Save lot a few miles away.
“These kids are insolent,” said Officer Victor Martin with disgust. “They block the sidewalk.”
“This is an open business,” Martin continued. “The people can’t walk by. The cars block pedestrian traffic. Look how they litter, and leave trash.”
Martin said that when he pulled over the truck that made the U-turn, he called for backup patrol cars.
Police say the crowds are generally well behaved and not connected to gangs, but Sgt. Roger Ferguson of the West Valley Division likened large crowds to a dormant volcano “that’s all right until it erupts.”
“When they start to fill up the Arby’s lot they start to spill out into the street,” he said. “They start double-parking, parking in driveways. That’s when people start calling police.”
The biggest complaint is about noise, said Ann Kinzle, executive director of the Reseda Chamber of Commerce. Residents of a nearby neighborhood often say their sleep is disturbed by racing motors.
She added that the complaints have decreased in the last six months because police are arriving on the scene earlier.
While some view the Wednesday night car club scene as a nuisance, the club members see it as a night out for the family, immediate and extended.
One of the distinguishing features of Edgar Pineda’s 1984 Chevy Blazer was an infant car seat, all in red velvet. The car seat matched the blood-red, plush velvet upholstery. Even the wheel was covered in velvet. Pineda, 25, said the upholstery alone cost him $2,000.
His wife Sandra, 25, comes out every Wednesday night, and sometimes she brings their 2-year-old, Claudia.
Rachel Torres, one of two women in Pineda’s club, called Neu Exposure, is spending some of the money she earns as a medical assistant to accessorize her white 1991 Chevy Blazer.
So far she has lowered the chassis a few inches. “Little by little, I’ll fix it up,” she said. “Next, I want to get different rims.”
About 10 p.m., six police cars showed up at the Pic-n-Save lot, and ordered the crowd, which numbered about 200, to vacate the premises. The exodus began again.
Pineda slowly walked to his car, which was 50 feet away. Suddenly, the ignition turned over.
“Remote control,” he smiled. He sank into the driver’s seat, as his wife buckled up the velvet-covered seat belt. They drove off, unceremoniously, out of the lot and home to San Fernando, as the police watched, shaking their heads.
