Selling a Nine Year Old Car

Selling a Nine Year Old Car

 

It's early November, 2011.

 

I'm off to the used car lot to see the guy who, two weeks ago, said he’d give me $1300 for my 2002 Jetta. I doubt that the offer is still on. Too good to be true, I think. Regardless, I rehearse my lines: “Hi. Remember me? I’m the guy with the Jetta. You said you’d buy it for $1300.” 

I'm expecting the worst? Something like, “We don’t need it anymore. Plus your car's a wreck. We’ll give you $300.”

The car lot office is wood-shed size, two rooms. In the front room a man sits behind a desk, twirling a pencil. I greet him, tell him my business – see above - and ask for Sam. He gestures toward the far wall where three generations of an adorable family (they’re speaking Italian, I believe) are squeezed onto a bench.

“When they’re done,” he says, pointing the pencil.

"I’ll wait outside," I say. He nods.

I go to my car, read the newspaper. Thirty minutes go by. A car pulls in the lot behind me. A man gets out, rushes inside the shed. I decide to go back in.

The desk guy says, “I called Sam, he’ll be here in twenty minutes.” I go back to my car, somewhat doubtful about Sam. Who was that guy that raced in?

Minutes pass. Sam actually shows up. I go back inside. The family is shaking hands with Sam. “Larry needs to sign the check,” desk guy says to me, "He’s on his way.”

Who’s Larry? They're obviously stalling, I think.

I go back outside, Next to my car the Italian family is climbing into a tan Honda. “Good car,” I tell the mom. She smiles. Sam (?) watches as they drive off. 

 

I hope Sam appreciates my endorsement.    

I re-read my newspaper. Another car pulls in and another man races in. What’s the hurry? Maybe this is the real Sam. OK, truth, I forget what Sam looks like. I saunter back inside.

The desk guy asks for my car title. I sign my name, meant to verify the current mileage, but I forget to enter the mileage. Clueless, I hand over the title. I ask if he wants the registration. “No,” he says, then, “Yes, we better take it.” I hand that over also. He wants a copy of my insurance card. He Xeroxes it. Hands it back. Fine

Sam (or Larry) comes out of the back room, hands me a check. “We’ll give you a ride home,” he says. My mind races. Ride home? In my old car - the one I just sold to them? No way. I think breakdown for sure.

“No thanks,” I say, “I’m meeting someone up the street,” I lie.

I sprint out, check in hand, hotfooting it, like an escaped felon, the two blocks to the train station, ignoring my arthritic knees. The 12:31 train pulls in. I hop aboard and exhale. “Tickets,” the conductor says.

“I’ll have to buy it here,” I say. I mention nothing about a felony.

“There’s a penalty,” he tells me. Don’t I know! The conductor opens a small book, checking fares. “Fifteen dollars,” he says.

“Steep,” I think, but then do the math: $1300 – $15 = $1285. Fine.

“Senior citizen,” I offer.

Again the book. “Two dollars,” he says. Wow! This makes my day. Me - convict and all.

I get off the train in Madison. My bank is a block away. As I walk I look at the check. The signature resembles a Nike logo swoop, drawn by a five year old. Definitely a forgery, I think.

In the bank I hand over the check to the clerk. She runs it through the machine and types what I assume is the following: It is 12:56, Monday November 7, 2011. A man matching the description of a recent escaped felon has just handed me a check signed with a scratch, like a Nike logo. I am not looking at him as I don't want to arouse suspicion, but would like police officers to come to the front door. I will try to delay him   .

I look up. The teller appears concerned. “Hmmmm,” she says.

“What?”

“There’s a problem with this check,” she says.

I knew it, I think, bracing for the handcuffs.

“The date says December 7^th,” she says, "today is 11/7 not 12/7." 

Exuding fake calm I say, “Oh sorry, I’ll take it back to the company. Get the date changed.”

Company, that was smart. How about shyster?

“Sorry,” she says.

I bolt the bank - walk the four blocks to my home where I find a pen with same color ink and change the 12 (December) to 11. Not easy, but for an experienced forger like me, no big deal.

Now I get in my car, the new car, and drive to the bank – a different branch of course. I consider the automatic teller machine, but settle on the real teller.

I hand over the check. The teller slides it through the machine. “Is there anything else I may help you with?” she says, handing me a deposit receipt. 

“No, thank you very much,” I say and slip out the front door.

I don't sleep well that night. Nightmares. I have no proof that they bought the car, but for the check which, I'm sure, is behaving like a child on a trampoline.

The next morning I am at the car lot. 

 

OK, one might ask, "Why go back to the car lot?"

 

My thinking: They really meant to date the check, December 7, because it's state law, used car policy, when paying for a used car. It protects the buyer should the car fall apart in a day or two.

 

Sounds reasonable, I think.

 

So I'm back at the scene of the crime. Not too smart, I think. 

 

"Just wanted to tell you," I say to Sam, or what's-his-name, "your check was dated December 7th, not November 7."

"Just change the date," Larry/Sam tells me.

"Yeah, I thought so. That's what I did," I confess, with a smile, "Many thanks."

 

As I leave, I scan the lot. 

 

No VW Jetta in sight. Oh well.