Does Prowler Prove Chrysler Head Is Crazy? Bob Lutz Is Crazy Just Like A Fox; Which Is To Say That His Prowler Makes A Lot Of Sense, Says Writer

Lutz is nuts!

That’s Bob Lutz, second cheese at Chrysler Corp., doodler of cars on napkins, gear guru extrordinaire. Certified nut. Mrs. Lutz’s little boy Bobby has grown up to be a fender flake.

How else can you explain his championing a 2-seater hot-rod throwback to the ‘50s that barely - just barely - squeaks through the federal regulatory baloney (reguloney?) on bumpers, a car with vestigial front fenders that almost make this dreamboat an open-wheeler.

Only a nutcase would hope to sell a car with only enough trunk space for a neatly folded dishrag, no room in the cockpit for the driver’s left foot, and neither headroom nor visibility with the ragtop in place - and an armstrong-power rag roof in a day of one-button-touch-of-the-finger roof disposal and retrieval. Not to mention a suspension that gives evidence of having been constructed of brick as it makes an expansion joint feel like a tank trap.

Meet Plymouth Prowler, painted in passionate purple to look like a mechanical eggplant, a car built for the guy who thinks weekend luggage means a toothbrush in the back pocket. Lutz is really crazy…like a fox.

Prowler started life as a concept car-cum-technology testbed, an outrageous styling excercise designed to grab attention at a car show. It did more, if you were paying careful attention; it offered a look at how cars might come to be constructed, making extensive use of aluminum in frame and suspension, magnesium dash, and attempting new fabrication techniques.

Why not build a few and really gauge the practicability of the new technology? Why not, indeed? Why not sell a few to regain some of that techno cost? And why not dredge up nostalgia, stir the memories of chopped and channeled rods of yore? And in the process, why not rev up the stodgy image of Plymouth, the poor cousin of the Chrysler line? Why not all of that - and more?

That Lutz is nuts, all right. Nothing that Plymouth built has had this much attention since Volare was Car of the Year with the buffs and rustbucket of the decade with the consumer advocates. But the Prowler ink is all positive (except perhaps in the annals of the repressively responsible journals given to wringing of hands and whining about things that cause smiles).

Prowler started as a design exercise under the general guidance of Tom Gale, vice president for product development, a deceptively sober-appearing gentleman whose passion is hot rods. Lutz, we are told, spotted the initial drawings of Prowler (then unnamed) and, being who he is, gave it his blessing. This Prowler is a pure product of the new Chrysler, the smoke, mirrors, and derring-do company.

Prowler is not a car for young passengers, thanks to federal regulations: It has dual air bags. Although every kid wants to ride in it. It does not have antilock brakes. It does have air conditioning, keyless entry, leather, AM/FM stereo, power steering, and a host of other stuff those rods of yore never had.

It looks like a ‘50s rod derived from a ‘30s Ford or somesuch. The tachometer sits astride the steering column in front of the driver, an original-equipment installation designed to look like retro aftermarket. This is the ultimate retro car. It boasts a long, tapered nose styled like a high-heeled dress pump, and a ‘30s grille. Under the hood is a 214-horsepower, 3.5-liter, 24-valve V-6 with pipes tuned to a musical growl. The transmission is a 4-speed electronically controlled overdrive. The performance is impressive; the Prowler lives up to its look.

But it is tight inside, a car for the young and supple, a size 7, you might say, hardly suited to the size 11 body of the columnist. There is a storage bin in the console - it has more capacity than the trunk, which is damning it with faint praise. The glove box is pathetic. The roof latches are simple, and the whole shebang nestles under the rear deck out of sight - where you thought the trunk might be.

Driving Prowler is an experience. It’s not the bone-shaking ride on the expressway rubble nor the breathtaking acceleration away from a dead stop that really impress, nor the crisp clean handling - it’s the people who wave, whistle, shout, give the thumbs up and frequently veer toward you in their exuberance as you drive. At a toll booth on the Spaulding Turnpike, my money was returned by an admiring tolltaker. “This one’s on me, I’m paying,” he said - and I couldn’t persuade him otherwise.

Stop for gas and you are surrounded by the admiring curious, the inquisitive. You will stop for gas often, not that Prowler is a guzzler - it isn’t, having delivered an average 20.97 miles per gallon over 725 miles measured. But the tank is so small - 12 gallons - that range is limited.

I have been followed into my driveway by people toting cameras, offered cars and stuff in trade. I have been besieged by children, fawned over, drooled upon - it is my fervent hope that the gleaming testosterone paint is saliva resistant.

People take sides. The tree-huggers cluck their tongues disapprovingly, motorcycle packs seem to approve, libertarians smile indulgently - if that’s what you want to drive, so be it. Chiropractors cheer you on. Republicans look at it with a sense of longing, not for the driving but rather imagining what they could charge over list.

Cost? List is $39,000 delivered - plus whatever the dealer cares to tack on. After all, it’s a seller’s market; Chrysler is turning out but five a day right now, with only 3,200 cars scheduled.

In today’s economy, you could sell 3,200 dead cats. Prowler is in demand - big demand. It will stay in demand because, crazy as Lutz & Co. may seem, they know that to satisfy that demand is to kill the interest.

Millions will desire it, but only thousands may possess it. The millions will turn, it is fondly hoped at Chrysler, to other Plymouths to bask in the glow of the “Prowler Company.” Most of the thousands will be sorely disappointed - literally. But they will have a conversation piece - and the chiropractors will be happy to see them.

For the writer, I can do without the instant celebrity, the pool of drool in the parking area. I dread to think of those wide tires in a New England winter.

But, whenever the sun shines warmly, I fear I may be overcome with a sense of longing for the purple Prowler, top down, engine growling. … Good God, I’m contracting Lutz-o-mania!