“Don’t buy this car.”
In 1977 I bought a 1959 VW Beetle. It was ragged inside and faded outside. The folks that sold it had owned it for 9 years and were the second owners. They had a 9 year old daughter.
In the daylight the next day I could see the message inscribed in the paint. “I love this car. I’ve known it all my life. DON’T BUY THIS CAR. If you do, I’ll be mad.”
I nervously checked the bushes for small persons with pink assault rifles, but there was nobody.
I didn’t care about the scratches. I was going to have it painted anyway. But I called the sellers because I thought they should know. They made their daughter write an apology letter - the most insincere apology I ever received, but it was all good. Poor baby.
In 2008, I bought a new Yaris. I loved it. It was my cozy blue sneaker. By and by I gave it to my daughter.
In the end, she gave it back to me, although the title stayed in her name.
By 2020, unaware that there was something wrong (or wrong-er) with my brain, I realized my driving was deteriorating. I stopped driving after dark and a few months later I stopped driving at all. The Yaris stayed parked at my apartment.
Finally the complex manager casually asked what I was going to do with it, mentioning there were no more available parking spots. I can take a hint. I asked my daughter if she had plans for it. She didn’t and decided to sell it. For $50. I guess it was a vehicular version of a shelter charge for pet adoption.
I passed that information to the manager, and told her if she knew anybody interested, to give them my number. She texted back: “$50? Fifty dollars?” I said yes, fifty. She bought it immediately. I told her it wouldn’t start and would likely need tires and certainly a battery.
Then for six months it still just sat there. Status quo.
Yesterday things changed. There were jumper cables stretched from the Yaris to another car. It didn’t work. They brought and installed a new battery. It involved hours of people swarming OUR car (from my dog Chloe’s perspective) and she fumed and growled and barked the whole time.
Who WERE these people messing with OUR car?. Didn’t I care? Wasn’t I going to do anything about it? What on EARTH was happening?
Then they drove the car away. I felt a twinge myself. I think the little girl scratching a message on the VW Beetle would’ve understood.
In the daylight the next day I could see the message inscribed in the paint. “I love this car. I’ve known it all my life. DON’T BUY THIS CAR. If you do, I’ll be mad.”
I nervously checked the bushes for small persons with pink assault rifles, but there was nobody.
I didn’t care about the scratches. I was going to have it painted anyway. But I called the sellers because I thought they should know. They made their daughter write an apology letter - the most insincere apology I ever received, but it was all good. Poor baby.
In 2008, I bought a new Yaris. I loved it. It was my cozy blue sneaker. By and by I gave it to my daughter.
In the end, she gave it back to me, although the title stayed in her name.
By 2020, unaware that there was something wrong (or wrong-er) with my brain, I realized my driving was deteriorating. I stopped driving after dark and a few months later I stopped driving at all. The Yaris stayed parked at my apartment.
Finally the complex manager casually asked what I was going to do with it, mentioning there were no more available parking spots. I can take a hint. I asked my daughter if she had plans for it. She didn’t and decided to sell it. For $50. I guess it was a vehicular version of a shelter charge for pet adoption.
I passed that information to the manager, and told her if she knew anybody interested, to give them my number. She texted back: “$50? Fifty dollars?” I said yes, fifty. She bought it immediately. I told her it wouldn’t start and would likely need tires and certainly a battery.
Then for six months it still just sat there. Status quo.
Yesterday things changed. There were jumper cables stretched from the Yaris to another car. It didn’t work. They brought and installed a new battery. It involved hours of people swarming OUR car (from my dog Chloe’s perspective) and she fumed and growled and barked the whole time.
Who WERE these people messing with OUR car?. Didn’t I care? Wasn’t I going to do anything about it? What on EARTH was happening?
Then they drove the car away. I felt a twinge myself. I think the little girl scratching a message on the VW Beetle would’ve understood.
