“I’m Frosty. I’m gonna introduce you to my homeboys. They used to be knuckleheads like me, messing around with gangs, drugs and guns. Now we’re into the lowriders, man. Old Memories Car Club. That’s how we kick it”
Frosty is a poppet. He dangles an arm, etched with gang tattoos, from the window of his Dodge and dives towards East Los Angeles with the silk-wrung confidence of someone that knows every inch of these streets. When we arrive at a park in the San Gabriel Valley, the Listerine-blue ocean and valet parking of beachside LA hang lost in the rear-view mirror. There’s a Chevrolet Fleetline Aerosedan parked under trees limp from the sun. Its running boards are an inch from the ground, and it’s involuntary-noise spotless. Like it’s passed through a Stargate from 1948.
“Welcome to the hood.”
Pictures: Robert Yager
This feature first appeared in Top Gear magazine