Lorraine Sommerfeld
Our suspended economy and contracted lifestyles have rendered the usual explosion of new car stories and reviews (“Greetings from Austria! Well, maybe next year—”) a little lean. Let’s play a different game: what’s the worst car someone has tried – or successfully managed to – sell you?
Everybody knows somebody who knows a guy. Busted car, need one fast? I know a guy who knows a guy. Your little sister needs her first car? I know a guy. Low miles, perfect condition, great price — of course I know a guy.
Like many, I grew up in a one-car household. My Dad worked shifts, so it wasn’t hard to sort out a schedule between my parents for what had to get done. There was rarely such a thing as a ride to school, but that thirty miles uphill in both directions wasn’t gonna walk itself.
My father was a devoted AMC man. I grew up thinking there were two kinds of cars: AMC cars and cars that idiots bought. Right or wrong, my father was a man of extreme opinions. When our 1966 Rambler wagon sagged for the final time in its ten-year life, we got the next one: a 1976 Matador wagon. My father didn’t give a damn about power windows or comfy seats or radios. He wanted the biggest V8 engine he could get so he could haul wood home from the cottage.
When you get a new car, the old one is gasping for breath but, if you’re like my father, you must see that final breath to believe you got your money’s worth from the old beast. That meant we became a two-car family for the first time during that overlap: Dad drove old Betsy to work or to pick us up from jobs because my mother refused to drive it. She drove the new car. With a three-on-the-tree shift and a steering wheel the size of a hula hoop, my father would pat the dash and whisper sweet nothings into Betsy’s vents to get her to start. Nobody else could do it.
And then Betsy finally died — for good. Of course, by now, we’d gotten used to having two cars. It was decided Dad would dig around and find a cheap little beater to replace her. With a stroke of luck, I was dating a boy whose father owned a dealership. Boys coming around these parts usually tried to impress my father, and this boy figured he’d finally found his chance. And, more critically, he knew a guy.
He tried to get my father to buy a used Renault Le Car. Renault had just taken over a bankrupt AMC at the time, and the lad figured this would please my father. He figured wrong. He brought it over — it was ugly. He pushed hard, but politely, in an I-know-I’m-dating-your-daughter kind of way. I knew the chances of my father buying a French car were approximately zero.
Instead, through a guy my father knew, he bought a little white car, cheap. Somebody rear-ended him a week later, and he left it on the road and walked home. For the life of me, I can’t remember what that car was. Soon after, through another guy he knew, he found the love of his life: a used Dodge Ramcharger. Some of the guys are alright.
My sister dated a guy who actually bought a Lada. A new one. When he came over to show her, he opened the passenger door and the top hinge let go. For a brief moment, he had a new car and a girlfriend. Who knows, maybe he still has the car.
When I was buying yet another minivan when the kids were young, I had an eager young sales rep try to sell me a Pontiac Aztek. He offered to deploy the tent. I politely declined. I don’t need to say any more about the Aztek.
Some sellers mean no ill intent. Others? A friend of a friend bought an older Subaru wagon 25 years ago. It had rust but still passed a certification. A year later, he ran an ad to sell it. The prospective buyer asked him to drive it to her, which he did. Sure, there was a little more rust, but nothing two cans of silver spray paint and a dark evening couldn’t hide. She bought it. There’s a reason we beg you to never buy a used car without an independent inspection.
We all happily recall stories of the best deals we ever got, the cars that ran forever. But what about the worst cars, whether they got away or not? Spill!
