c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-25)
The events that upset our family household on Maple Avenue, and rewrote the paradigm of my gainful employment, would have been magnified by dumping the Chevette. But just before that seismic shift occurred, I tried to work a deal with Lawson Ford, a local dealership on the north edge of town. It was a bad idea, and one that came at the wrong time.
Friends like Tim had sleek, capable vehicles of all kinds. His Bronco II, an Eddie Bauer edition, made my plain, beige hatchback look like a pile of recycling cans waiting to be scrapped. This disparity left me feeling unworthy at every turn. I was a car guy at heart, raised on Floyd Clymer manuals, and road tests written by Tom McCahill for Mechanix Illustrated. So, the idea of driving around in a bland box on wheels made my stomach ache. Whenever we went out for local music events, or carefree drinking, I always ended up looking foolish. Though being at the wheel of a thrifty sedan made lots of sense.
Many neighbors and workplace contacts had trucks, Jeeps, or other SUV varieties. That caught my attention as someone with rural roots. My father had been born in Kentucky, and my mother, in West Virginia. The thought of owning a rig that could haul freight seemed undeniably appropriate. And it fit the minimalist, practical mindset preached to me by members of the brood.
While my compadre from Big Wheel was getting a warranty checkup for his 4x4 hoss, I saw a blue, bare-bones Ranger in the showroom. This product line had only been marketed in America for a couple of years, so it was still something fresh and new at the time. I reckoned that it was a choice which would fit my lifestyle. And a salesman saw that glimmer of interest in my eyes, immediately.
“Hey kid, you like this thing? Tell me what you’re driving now. We’ll give a good trade-in allowance here, on anything in decent shape!”
I coughed and cleared my throat. What I really wanted was a cigarette break, outside, to think more clearly. Yet I tried to sound confident.
“I’ve got... umm... a 1981 Chevy Chevette. The four-door type, you know, without air conditioning...”
The dealer representative reeked of cheap cologne. He had the appearance of a minor-league hustler, someone who had written thousands of loan applications and printed out many invoice statements. There was little genuine emotion in his voice, other than the zeal for conquest. But the mention of my car visibly rattled his nerves.
“A Shove-It? I mean, Chevette? Yeah, those were popular a few years ago. Our Escort is a much better option, in my opinion. But I can work with you! Let’s sit down and I’ll crunch some numbers!”
We went to his desk, in a far corner of the room. There were telltale coffee rings around its perimeter, and lots of paperwork stacked everywhere. I saw award plaques on the wall, behind his seat, indicating years of competent service. It gave me some hope that a deal might actually be possible.
“I’ve got a few bucks saved, not much. My Chevrolet is in great condition though...”
The sales hound tweaked his thin mustache, and tapped at an adding machine.
“You’ve paid off the balance, right? That shouldn’t have cost much.”
I had to confess that my bank obligation wasn’t yet satisfied.
“Well, no actually...”
He shrugged and spun in his roller chair.
“What kind of down payment were you considering? Five thousand? Four? Three? Or maybe two thousand?”
I held my breath before answering. My black, Harley-Davidson T-shirt had turned damp with perspiration.
“Umm... five hundred is all I’ve got.”
This declaration made him exhale forcefully, and laugh out loud.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it! We’re not talking about buying a Lincoln here, you’re a regular dude. Let me speak with the general manager! He’s got to approve anything we negotiate.”
The automotive specialist disappeared into a side office, and soon returned with more papers.
“If your history with Bank One looks good, and we get conformation of current employment, I can push this through. There’s a special running right now on the bottom-end trucks. We’ve sold all of the expensive ones already. You’re looking at a manual transmission, four-cylinder motor, a basic radio, and not much else. But I figure that’s just what you need! There’s nothing like owning a brand-new Ford! Nothing at all!”
I looked over his sales order, and there didn’t seem to be a figure included for my Chevette. Instead, he had simply rolled over what I still owed.
“Umm... this looks wrong to me... I get no value for my trade?”
The salesman grimaced and cracked his knuckles.
“Look kid, we can’t get much of anything for what you’re driving. It sucks, right? But I’ve got to be honest about it. My boss won’t give more than $500.00 for that puddle jumper. Put that with your down payment, and it doesn’t add up to much. I can’t work miracles, okay? Just remember, if you don’t give me something to hold the Ranger, it’ll be gone by the time you get back here, again!”
Impulsively, I decided to plunk down a deposit, and sell the GM T-car, myself. This choice eventually brought a round of personal humiliation, and surrender. I put homemade ads on the billboard at Fisher’s Big Wheel, and other businesses around our community. My thought was to let someone take over the monthly payments, with no benefit for me, other than getting out of the bank agreement. But there were no takers.
The tin-can Chevy had become an orphan that no one wanted to adopt.
After a week or two had passed, I crawled back to the dealership, with my chin on the ground. The exercise had been a learning experience. Now, I had to consume a feast of crow. I admitted my personal defeat, apologized for wasting time, and got a full refund, thanks to my humility.
Shame dripped from the tailpipe of my Chevette, when leaving their parking lot. Fortunately, this moment of failure turned out to be a blessing. With upheaval at home, and on the job, I fared far better without the added expense.
A chance at the glory of purchasing a new ride would have to wait.
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