I found out about Rahn Harris’s cars on a recent visit to the Hyde Park Co-op, where Harris works in the produce department. He is arguably the most popular member of the produce department because of the big plastic baby rattle he keeps on the produce scale. Customers shake the musical rattle to get his attention when he’s away stacking vegetables, and you don’t wave a baby toy in public without lightening up a bit. On this particular day, Harris and I were chatting about the weekend.
Harris let me visit him one day at his main garage, a nondescript brown brick building marked most distinctively by whatever cars he has parked out front. When I visited, there were two 1962 Chevys, a Bel Air, and an Impala, plus the car that Rahn actually drives, a maroon 1964 Impala Super Sport. The garage’s front door has a faded sign in red magic marker taped to it that reads “Beware of Mean Vicious Ugly Pit Bull With AIDS.” “People laugh at that,” he admitted, adding “but then they look inside.” When they look, they see a leash and an empty collar on the cement floor.
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As we drove south toward a colony of his garages, I asked how he keeps track of his far-flung empire. “Every day I get off work, I have to go and check the streets where my cars are for street cleaning and vandalism,” he said. “I have no relationship with anyone, because who wants to be bothered with a car junkie? I can’t buy decent clothes because I spend my money on the cars. I’d rather spend my money to buy a car than have food in my stomach. You know what? I’m addicted, that’s what it is. It’s just like an addiction.”
We were driving through Chatham when Rahn did a double take and threw the car in reverse. “Ooooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh,” he said. “Oh, lemme see that.” We rolled back to where an old man was about to close a garage door on two old beat-up cars. “Excuse me? Would it be for sale? The old car?” Rahn asked politely while the owner eyed him sideways. “It’ll only take a second. I like old cars, as you can see.” The old man hesitated but finally figured what the hell, so Harris hopped out and danced into the garage.
