I drove my Contour to work today. It’s been a while since I drove her last, and I haven’t driven her reguarly since June. As we zip along Hamilton Road with my A-tag dangling on the rear-view mirror, I hope that she isn’t mad at me for what I am about to do. At noon, I am going to hand over the keys for a cashier’s check. I am going to sell my baby.
This is from the linked post of July 8, 2004. That was eight months ago — to the day. I never would have thought it would take this long for us to sell my car. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as the expression goes. At least Steven and I learned something about ourselves from the whole car-selling experience: WE WILL NEVER SELL A CAR ON OUR OWN EVER AGAIN.
After all, it did take us eight long months to finally find a buyer. All the moving and job-hunting that has gone on over the past fall and winter didn’t help any, either. An advert on cars.com only brought in uninterested callers and one smartass car salesman from Mississippi. We never could get the ball rolling until I posted some car ads around the University last month. Proof again that the best advertising is of the free sort.
I’m proud of this advert; I am told it amused many people.
By the end of the week we had two guys lined up to test drive the car. The car had other ideas — she refused to start that morning. After much cursing and gesturing, all we could do was apologize to the first interested party and say, “I’m so sorry, but the car won’t start this morning.” It was a very humbling moment, but surprisingly we were able to fix the car with five good dollars spent at AutoZone — this was the climatic finish to a whole ‘nother battery story — and made it to the next appointment.
Soon we had three offers for the car. One was a low-ball pitch after a grand exaggeration of petty faults, one was from the very forgiving first party for whom the car wouldn’t start the first go-around, and one that just drove off with my car today. He promised he would take good care of my baby.
Bye, Raspberry Beret. I close my eyes and see us parking outside of my dorm window. I check my watch: it’s exactly two hours and twenty-two seconds from Alabaster to Auburn. We didn’t know it was illegal to park there.
I see us driving to Fort Payne that first time; the morning DJs are debating during their review of Ice Age. I quite liked that movie. We’re driving through the cut in the mountain.
I see us driving from Scottsboro with a very tiny Renton in the passenger seat. I tell him that he’ll like my apartment and that I love him. He mews. You fly across Sand Mountain towards home.
I see us driving in circles at the Thompson High School parking lot; it’s pouring rain and I don’t have my contacts in. We’re on a test drive. I’m thinking I like you. The song is playing on the radio.