Carz: Part II. The Flim Flam Man

After our mutual agreement last week that Ariel’s car with Four-in-the-Floor and not enough wiggle room would not be a good car for my needs, Ariel went on the search for the “Right” car.

Ariel’s morning routine includes a strong coffee, sweet roll, and Guadalajara newspaper at the Oxxo out on the highway. The Oxxo is a convenience store with the usual. You could walk in the door and feel right at home.

The sweet roll might be a disappointment because Mexican sweet rolls, at least the ones I’ve tasted, aren’t very sweet. But the coffee machine is familiar. You can operate it without hesitation. Unlike most instruction manuals, the newspaper does not come in two languages, so skip the newspaper.

While sipping coffee, seated in the front window at the Oxxo, my neighbor read the paper, front to back. In the classified ads, Ariel found a listing for a car that got his blood running hot. He phoned Leo who happened to be at work in my yard that day.

The listing was for a 10-year-old Nissan Abao with 80,000 kilometers which is almost 50,000 miles. Sweet, eh? And the asking price was only a few thousand pesos more than Ariel’s 20-year-old VW Bug. Should he make the phone call? He asked.

That was a no-brainer. Of course, make the call. Find out what is wrong with the car, was my first thought, following the logic that if a deal sounds like “to good to be true,” well, you fill in the blanks.

Me, I had no idea what a Nissan Abao looked like. Abao? Never heard of it. I quit looking at cars back in the gasoline crisis of the ’70s when they all became little white square boxes with no personality, no buzz to them. And nothing since then has gotten me excited. But I do know how to operate Google to find the picture. Mmm, sweet. Almost sporty.

An hour or so later, Ariel came over and we sat in the backyard. Seemed the car was a company car used by a Mabe executive. My stove and refrigerator are made by Mabe. They have a large plant just off the road we take to Guadalajara. The company replaces executive cars every 10 years. This one had all the bells and whistles including leather seats and newish tires.

“Sure. Set an appointment for us to go look at the car.” If we had to, there was time; we could even go that afternoon. I’d have to scramble for the money. Shoot, I’d have to borrow from Leo. Guau! (That is “Wow” in Espanol.) We all got excited.

Until Ariel returned with the bad news. The man said, “Send a deposit to hold the car.” Ariel, who didn’t just come plucked out of the turnip patch with mud in his ears, said, “No money until we see the car.” And hung up the phone.

“What a perfect scam,” I said. “What a great story. All the juicy details to create instant rapport. I’ll bet a lot of people send money, depending on their means. A thousand pesos, three thousand, five or eight. Executive car, indeed!” How rich! Flim Flam Scam.

Was I disappointed? Sure. A little bit. I think we all felt a bit let down. It doesn’t take long to be able to imagine myself comfy in the tan leather seats, hands at 2 and 10 on the wheel, heading over the mountains to Puerto Vallarta, wind in my hair, suitcase in the trunk, gas tank topped, making the maiden run.

“What is going on with you, Woman? You’ve happily gone eight years without a car. Why are you looking for one now? (I can talk with myself if I want.) Yes, now! Now, when you, by your own precautions, refuse to travel because of the on-going pandemic. Now you want a car?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Both the VW and the Nissan slipped through my fingers. (I can answer myself too.) No car. No destination.”

Wonder what tomorrow will bring. The “car seed” has been planted. Maybe the seed will grow. Maybe not. Meanwhile, I’m happily able to reimburse friends, neighbors and public transportation to meet my needs. Needs and wants. Two different things, worlds apart.

But I can dream. Maybe a Hummer. Maybe with a chauffeur?

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].