I recently read that used car sales have spiked during the current COVID-19 crisis, probably because of uncertain incomes and used cars have already spun off the thousands of dollars of depreciation. A nice used, excuse me, previously-owned vehicle could be a great deal, except if you get one of mine.
I’m not referring to cars I drive now, although I do like to run them until they’re on life-support, but, those I’d owned my first years in the automobile market, way before the pandemic was popular. In those days, my trade-ins were not the best. To anyone out there who may have bought one, it wasn’t my fault! It was the fault of some slick used car salesmen.
My first experience with offering one of my special vehicles for trade on a shiny, new, fresh-out-of-Detroit model took place at a local Chevy dealer. I’d just turned 17, the age when Mother Nature endows humans with all the wisdom and knowledge they’ll ever need to get through life. For days I had my nose pressed against the showroom window, my eyes locked on a white, 1963 Impala convertible with a red interior, drooling just like a large canine, me, not the Chevy, thinking of how many squealing female-types I could haul on a top-down drive to the Oak Street beach.
Because I was too young to buy anything, except maybe a Tootsie Roll, my dad came along to haggle with a salesman and work out a trade-in price for my five-year-old Chevy Biscayne on that new, $3,700 (!) white ragtop. The salesman offered $500, but only if he saw my car first. This guy really wanted to sell a car, because by the time my dad had finished, the guy had increased his offer to $1,100 for my old Chevy, now sight unseen. We signed the papers, and told him I’d be back with my trade-in later that day.
My 1958 Chevy was a tired custom job. The exterior was rust-free, except for the rear floorboards, which completely had disintegrated. The body was painted with scallops and pinstriping, had 1959 Cadillac taillights, and a tube grill up front. It was raked, which meant the back end was thigh high, while the front bumper was barely two hands off the pavement. The engine was bored out to the max with dual four-barrel carbs, all nice for the Oswego drag strip, but not for daily use, because, at best, it got six miles to the gallon. The engine was pretty well beaten and burned through two quarts of oil a day. If you saw me belching smoke, the car, not me, driving down the street, you’d think I was either killing mosquitoes or steaming wrinkles out of the atmosphere.
The salesman was waiting when I pulled my Chevy and a humongous cloud of blue smoke into the service area. As I drove my new white convertible out the door, he looked at me as if I’d just barfed on his shoes.
A couple years later I was ready for something newer. This time I decided I’d order a car instead of buying one out of the showroom. I picked a new Pontiac Bonneville convertible in a dark turquoise, which would arrive in four weeks. One late night while driving home on the Eisenhower from downtown Chicago, I happened to smash into the car of an inebriated Cook County Circuit Court judge. But that’s a story for another day. My car was drivable, but looked as if Godzilla had been using the front end for dental floss.
My new Pontiac arrived and I drove to the dealer to turn in my Chevy and pick up my new chick magnet. When the salesman saw my trade-in’s crumpled nose, he said he’d have to whack dollars off the trade-in value to compensate. I told him he’d have to return this Pontiac and get me another because it wasn’t the color I’d ordered. He shook his head and hurried to his office, and flipped through the papers I’d signed. The look on his face was similar to one he might present as if he’d just discovered his mother was molested by a band of Hessian storm troopers. It was true. I’d ordered a dark turquoise paint job and this car had a light turquoise paint job. Actually, I initially liked the light turquoise, but changed my mind at the last minute. Do you really think I’d tell him that?
“Okay, forget it,” he said and I drove off into the sunset in my new convertible.
Two new cars later, my imaginary wisdom of youth was replaced by the real wisdom of advancing years. I looked at all the money I’d spent on new dream machines and the small handful of cash I had left to show for it, the greatest amount lost to depreciation. Since then, I’ve only bought cars similar to those I would have traded in.
Hey, my cars are no longer chick magnets, but neither am I. As if I ever were.