Part I

The Ad 

For Sale: 1989 Ford Aerostar! Very Very Used!!  Not Running!!  Needs Work!!  $200!!! 250,000 stop-and-go city miles.  The radiator and maybe a hose or some other thing connected to the radiator has sprung a major leak and the van will not hold coolant.  Cannot be driven for more than 20 miles before dramatically overheating. Before that, the engine leaked oil but otherwise ran just fine.  The van has the usual amount of wear and tear you’d expect for a nearly 20 year old vehicle used primarily for hauling building supplies and large, hairy animals.  Has only ONE rear bench seat as opposed to the usual two, as the other was taken out to make more cargo room and wound up getting itself stolen.  Body has scrapes, scratches, dents and dings, and the rear bumper is cracked and sagging a bit more each day.  Has never been in a major collision or accident except for the time I accidentally backed into my next door neighbor’s parked SUV, but the damage was totally minor all around, no matter what he or his insurance company claim.  The van is an attractive two tone metallic blue and silver, or at least it is where the sun hasn’t faded and cracked the paint. Windshield is chipped and cracked.  Wiper blades need replacing.  No heat.  No a/c. No cup holders.  AM radio kind of works sometimes.  Was driven by a smoker, often with a smoking passenger.  Ashtray is full.  Washer fluid is empty.  Fabric headliner is disintegrating.  Rear hatchback pretends to stay open, but WILL come crashing down on your head the second you let your guard down. The “Door Ajar” warning light comes on for no reason, usually when the van is in reverse.  Temperature gauge does NOT work…wish someone had told ME that! And a lot of other stuff I’ve never even noticed is probably either broken or missing.  Could probably maybe be fixed up, especially if you know your way around radiators or parts that connect to radiators.  If you want it for parts, I’m pretty sure some of them still work.  Clear title, this baby is 100% paid for!  And now it can be yours!  There were only 1.1 million Aerostars made before they were discontinued in 1997!  Don’t miss you chance to own one of these limited and highly collectible vans before they’re all snapped up by classic car enthusiasts!   Van is being sold in AS IS condition, with absolutely NO implied or expressed warranties or guarantees of any kind.   

Any takers out there?  Anyone?  No?  Nobody?  You’re sure?  As a motivated seller, I’m prepared to throw in some extras…like a used dashboard rug and a pristine copy of the Arizona State Employee’s Handbook I found under the passenger seat.  I didn’t want to mention these in the ad because I didn’t want anyone getting carried away by the bonus items only to later realize that the van might not satisfy their transportation needs, if any.  Responsible sellers, like me, take great care to protect consumers from themselves.  Buyer’s remorse is nobody’s friend, especially when ALL SALES ARE FINAL!!   But we’re smarter than the average consumer here, aren’t we?  I know that you, readers of this highly relevant and important blog, would never be swayed by something as frivolous as a dashboard rug…regardless of its sensual glove-like fit and seductive all-velour reverse-weave.   Going once, going twice…any takers?  Anyone?  Last chance!  No?  Well, forget you suckaz, cuz this sweet ride has already sold.

Yep, that’s right.  I had no less than six responses waiting for me the morning after I posted this ad on Craigslist, four of which had nothing to do with painless, all-natural male enhancement.   Of course, this led me to wonder what happened to the old axiom “No pain, no gain,” but only in an offhand way.  Is a guy who’s been driving around for years in a dilapidated minivan really likely to have insecurities in such areas?  I think not.  Try the jerk desperately looking to unload his Hummer.  Still, four legitimate responses wasn’t bad.  Well, I suppose I shouldn’t count the response from some guy named Dickson wanted to trade me a Dell laptop for the van.  Now there’s two prime examples of “the name says it all.”  Actually, let’s narrow the number of legitimate responses down to two, since I’m guessing that the individual who was “very interested in Craigslist item, remove to please item from Craigslist, I will make to wire transfer from country not U.S.” was being less than sincere.

I suppose two out of six isn’t that bad, but it sure wasn’t the consumer frenzy I had been expecting.  Had I been too honest in my ad?  The van had a few faults, certainly, but I hadn’t done much to promote its many functional features, like the inflatable front seats (comfy!) or virtually intact roof.  You could leave it running (when it still ran) with its doors wide open in any parking lot in America and return hours later to find it exactly where you left it….definitely a perk for anyone living in a high crime area.  It had a deluxe ashtray with dual illuminated trays, one each for passenger and driver.  You could cram four packs worth of butts into that thing.  Now that I think of it, there were no fewer than four ashtrays conveniently located throughout the vehicle. There’s a feature you won’t find in today’s cars.  Perhaps my ad should have read “The Ultimate Smoker’s Van!”  But an asking price of $200 is bound to attract a certain class of buyer, and I had to be careful not to oversell it.  The last thing I wanted to do was to spend an afternoon adjusting someone’s expectations about how much car $200 will actually buy you.

The fact of the matter is I had no idea how much the van was worth, especially since Kelly Blue Book calculated its value at “N/A.”  I don’t know who this Kelly person thinks he or she is, but I do know there’s no reason to get insulting.  I bought the van for all of $1,000 with the expectation that it would last maybe six months.  Instead, it had faithfully served its admittedly undemanding master faithfully for three years (aside from an alternator incident which had been forgiven and forgotten…mostly because Shawn had footed the bill).   Our dogs loved that van.   I loved that van.  I loved the “flying wedge” shape that firmly asserted its belief that the laws aerodynamics stopped at the windshield.  I loved the ironically futuristic lettering used on the Aerostar nameplates (until they fell off).  I loved the odd looks I got from people when I’d point to it proudly and brag, “That’s MINE.”  It was distinctive.  It had character.  And I refused to look it in its one good headlight and tell it it was worthless.

The fact that I was genuinely and dumfoundedly (yes, dumbfoundedly is a word, regardless of what Word’s squiggly red underline is attempting to imply) surprised when thick smoke began pouring in through the vents speaks volumes to the van’s prior dependability.  Unfortunately, I happened to be boxed in the center lane of Route 60 during morning rush hour when that happened.  Having your car suddenly and immediately fill with smoke when you’re zipping along at a jaunty 55 miles per hour is an unsettling experience.  Breathing was suddenly challenge, and when I looked to see if flames were erupting from under the hood, I realized I couldn’t see the hood.  I began to sense that situation was rapidly becoming “not good” when I lost visual contact with the dashboard and steering wheel. Suddenly I was floating along peacefully in a rolling white haze.  I put on my directional signal, and since no one uses signals in Phoenix, ever, for any reason, I hoped my fellow travelers would interpret this strange blinking light as some kind of warning or distress signal.  How I got off the highway I will never know, since I had nothing but vague shapes and shadows to navigate by.  But even with its life’s blood evaporating into magnificent plumes surely visible for miles, that van refused to die.  Not only did it run long enough for me to exit the highway, but I was also able to drive it onto a relatively deserted side street (after rolling down a window---no, it hadn’t occurred to me before, and what’s your point?), where I parked it and quickly walked away from it, both to avoid being seen with it and to achieve a minimum safe distance should it decide to explode. 

As much as I had loved my Aerostar, the whole “mobile gas chamber” thing was hard to overlook  Had the rest of the van rated at least a low “fair” on the Kelly Blue Book condition chart (or had at least one remaining ironically lettered name plate), I might have entertained the idea of getting it fixed.   But there’s a reason they won’t do heart transplants on the weak and elderly, and, like a heart surgeon, I had to make the difficult choice of refusing treatment.  I didn’t even have a mechanic perform an autopsy.  It was time to let go.   But just because a relationship ends badly doesn’t mean you should park your ex curbside with a sign reading “FREE!!  JUST GET IT THE HELL OUT OF MY LIFE!!” (Unless that ex is named Scott…in which case you should do exactly that….he knows why.)  Sadly, there is no pasture onto which you can free your decrepit old Aerostar to roll serenely off into the sunset.  No, propping it on blocks in the front yard along with its predecessors is NOT the same thing.  And even if I couldn’t see it nobly laid to rest in the secret Aerostar burial grounds, I wasn’t going to have it hauled off and cubed in a junkyard…at least, not at my expense.   Maybe some mechanic would buy it and give it a new lease on life. If it wound up having its organs harvested, well, that was pretty noble, too, as countless others could benefit from its selfless sacrifice.   But how do you put a price tag on such nobility?

In the end, I decided such nobility was worth exactly $200; low enough to discourage nit picking and haggling and ensure a quick sale before the broken-down van sitting on the street became an issue with our HOA.  Surely there was something somewhere in the van worth at least $200 to someone somewhere.  With 1.1 million Aerostars in the world, it seemed more than likely one of them was foundering while wait-listed for a vital part that would otherwise likely be stolen from my van under cover of night.  And, as it turns out, I wasn’t wrong.  There were at least two someones out there interested in my van.  All that was left to do was call them.

Part II

Mechanics Drive the Shittiest Cars

The most promising response to my ad was from a man named Jimmy, whose brief yet enthusiastic response made him the obvious first choice:  “I need a van.  I would like to come by and see it at your earliest convenience.  Please call to arrange a time.  Thank you.”  It all fit so perfectly.  I had a van.  I had an earliest convenience.  I had a phone with which to make calls, and I enjoy being thanked.  So I called to arrange a time.  The conversation, like the email, was brief:

Man: “Hello?”

Me: “Is Jimmy there?”

Man: “This is Jimmy.”

Me:  “I’m the guy with van?”

Man (who claimed to be Jimmy): “Oh yeah.  So. What can you tell me about the van?”

Me: [In the interest of brevity, I will simply tell you that I recited, almost verbatim, the ad I had posted on Craigslist.]

Jimmy: “So it’s a six cylinder?  Or an eight?”

Me:  “I’m not sure.  It’s at least a six, possibly an eight.”

Man: “Fuel-injected?”

Me: “Um…”

Man: “Does it have a carburetor?”

Me: “Don’t all cars have those?”

Man: “Not if its fuel injected.”

Me: “Interesting.”

Man:  “This is your car, right?  You’ve been driving it?”

Me:  “The only parts I’m familiar with are the ones that that are broken."

Man:  “OK.  Well, it sounds good.”

Me: “It does?”

Man: “Well, my mother needs a new car.”

Me: “Your mother?”

Man: “She works for a hospice, and her car just died.  She needs another one quick.”

Me: “A hospice?  Really?  Like, she transports sick people?”

Man: “Yeah.  That’s why a van would be great.”

Me: “Well, yes, but I don’t know about this van.”

Man: “Can I come take a look at it this afternoon?”

Me: “Are you sure you should?”

Man: “What time is good for you?”

I hung up the phone feeling conflicted.  I mean, if this man wanted his mother sent blinded and screaming to a smoky grave it was certainly none of my business.  And if she happened to have some poor terminal soul with her at the time, it was still none of my business.  True, my blogs do make me something of a moral compass to many, but my leadership is strictly though example.  Aside from my bf 4-eva Shawn and the unfortunate souls who work under me, I rarely try to tell anyone what to think or do.  But something here wasn’t quite right.  Either Jimmy was dangerously optimistic or I was getting myself involved in something sinister.  Just how much insurance did mom have, anyway?  Did selling the murder weapon make me an accomplice to matricide, or a business partner entitled to his cut of the payoff?  Or was the whole “mom needs a van for hospice work” line merely an underhanded ploy for a sympathy discount?  Well, let him try.   Little did he suspect that I’ve worked for Target, and I’ve heard every line there ever was.  And if Jimmy truly wanted the van for his mom, who was I to refuse the sale?  I had been ruthlessly honest in my ad.  The only thing missing was a line reading “Trust me…you don’t want to buy this.”  And, anyway, he hadn’t seen the van yet.   

If I had had any idea that the van was going to break down and that I’d be forced to get rid it, I might have vacuumed and washed it while I had the chance, and maybe hung one of those tree-shaped air fresheners.  But then again, I probably wouldn’t have.  After dumping two gallons of antifreeze into it, I’d managed to get it home just as wisps of smoke began creeping in through the vents.  No way was I going to tempt fate and try to get it to a car wash.  Besides, getting it all gussied up would have seemed like an attempt to distract potential buyers from the van’s overall crappiness, which, if anything, I had taken great pains to emphasize.  No one who still uses the word appreciates being called a shyster.

When the time came, I went out to meet Jimmy and discovered him standing nervously by the van, which had three of four doors opened wide and was rocking under the substantial weight of two substantial women occupying it. 

“There’s hair all over back here,” I hard the woman crawling around in the cargo area say.

“There’s hair all over up here, too,” said the woman seated in the passenger seat.  She flipped down the visor and swatted at the gentle cascade of fine white Mesa hairs that greeted her.  “Someone’s got a dog.”

“Sorry,” Jimmy said when he saw me.  “I tried to stop them.”

“No problem,” I said.  “Try to steal it.  You won’t get far.”

“That’s my wife,” he said, pointing the stretch-polyester clad derriere of the woman crawling around the back of the van, “and that,” he said, pointing to the woman now going through the glove box, “is my mother.”

“What’s that?” Jimmy’s Mother demanded. “What did he just say?”

“He didn’t say nothing!" Jimmy yelled.  "I was just telling him who to two crazy bitches in his van were.”

“Does this car have air conditioning?” Jimmy’s Mother asked, yanking at levers and slapping vents.

“Ma, you know it don’t,” Jimmy said.  “I showed you the thing!”

“I’m just asking!” Jimmy’s Mother shrieked.  She eyed me suspiciously through the passenger side window and asked, “So you’re not having the van fixed?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not worth it to me.”

“Hear that?  It’s not worth it to him,” Jimmy’s Mother said to Jimmy’s Wife as they both plopped out of the van.

“It’s a nice van, though,” said Jimmy’s Wife.

“Can’t be too nice if he won’t fix it up,” Jimmy’s Mother muttered.

“He’s probably getting a new car,” said Jimmy’s Wife.

“Must be nice,” said Jimmy’s Mother.

While I didn’t really know Jimmy or his mother, I found myself more than willing to help him strap her into the van and send her out into traffic with a fond bon voyage. 

“So,” Jimmy said quickly, stepping in front of his mother, “the van overheats?”

“Oh yeah,” I said.  “Big time.”

“And just how many times did he overheat it?” I heard Jimmy’s Mother ask from behind him.

“The once was enough,” I said.

“Are you sure you had antifreeze in it?”

Oh, no she didn’t!  “Yes,” I said.  “Quite sure.”

“So it needs a new radiator, then” she said.

“At the very least,” I said.

“Gee, and all for only two hundred dollars, too,” she said.

Jimmy turned suddenly and slapped the van’s hood, hard.  His mother rolled her eyes at him and moved out of his way.  “Can we open her up?” he asked.

“Well,” he said, poking and prodding engine wires and belts authoritatively, “you’ve got a Vulcan V6 in here.  Fuel injected, so no carburetor.”

“Well, you know what they say,” I said.  “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.”

“What’s the gas mileage like?” he asked.  “Pretty bad?”

“Oh, it’s awful,” I said. 

“Figured.  Now where’s the radiator leaking from?”

“Well,” I said, unsure, but willing to give my best educated guess, “kind of all over.”

“Mmmmm,” said Jimmy’s Wife, up on her tip toes and inhaling deeply.  “You can smell the antifreeze.”

Jimmy pulled the dipstick from the engine and wiped it clean between his fingers.  Then he rubbed the oil between his fingers and said, “That’s good.”

“What’s good?” asked Jimmy’s Mom.

“No metal shavings,” Jimmy said,

“Oh geez,” said Jimmy’s Mom.  “What about the radiator?  Is it any good?”

“I think he’s right about the radiator,” Jimmy said.  “There’s antifreeze everywhere.”

I didn’t turn to Jimmy’s Mother and say “I told you so,” but I did give her a smirk that said the same thing.  Further, I felt the need to needlessly expound on Jimmy’s diagnosis.  “It’s obviously a pretty serious leak.”

“Nah,” said Jimmy.  “That ain’t so bad.  Come look at this.”   He led to me to what may have once been a Chevy Blazer.  The entire front end was missing, so it’s hard for me to say.  None of the body panels lined up and each was a differing shade of gray primer blotched with black spray paint.  The whole mess was jacked up on bare, oversized tires, so when Jimmy undid a loop of rope and pulled the hood open, it was hard to see inside. “See?” he asked, pointing to one patch of rust among many.  “Now that’s a radiator leak.  Can’t go more than five miles without it overheating.  We got a couple jugs of water in the back there so we can get it home.”

“Oh,” I said.  What else was there to say?

“That’s how you can tell I’m a mechanic.  Mechanics all drive the shittiest cars.”

Aha! A mechanic!   Just as I’d intended.  How perfect was that?  My plan was coming together most excellently.  If Jimmy the Mechanic said he could fix the van up, then Jimmy the Mechanic could fix it up.   After all, we’d all just witnessed it pass the “metal shavings test” with flying colors.  I had no idea what that was all about, but it proved I was free to let go of any moral responsibility.   Things seemed to be going well.   In fact,   I considered getting myself a cheap plaid suit and going into used car sales full time.  The two responses to my ad proved I was a natural at piquing the buyer’s interest.  And if I could sell a twenty year old van that had messily coughed up its last gasp, just think what I could do with a car that actually ran. 

My self satisfied bubble popped when I overheard two words Jimmy spoke to his mother: “Test drive.”

“Oh, no,” Jimmy’s Mother said.  “I’m not driving that thing.”

“You were just in it!” Jimmy said.

“Not me,” Jimmy’s Mother said.  “You drive it.”

“It’s your car!”

Jimmy’s Mother would not be swayed, so Jimmy and I climbed into the van to take it for a spin around the block.  It was an illuminating experience.  I found myself saying things like:

“Well that’s just odd.  It usually starts right up.”

“Huh.  That’s new to me.”

“Which grinding noise, specifically, are you talking about?”

“What smell?  I don’t notice any smell.”

“That’s always been like that.”

“Ohhhhh….so that’s what that’s for.”

“Why are you asking me?  You’re the mechanic.”

Still, the van seemed to be holding its own, even when Jimmy floored the accelerator and tested the steering by swerving between neighborhood children on their bikes.  Then he suddenly slammed on the brakes, threw the van into reverse, backed up, slammed on the brakes again, and then sent the van lurching forward… possibly in an effort to test the locking mechanisms on the seat belts.  Either that, or he was trying like hell to get the airbags to deploy. 

“If this is how your mother drives,” I said, “I can see why she’d need a new car.”

“Just checking some things,” Jimmy said.

In the span of the ten minute test drive, I completely abandoned any half-hearted notion I may have had about selling cars for a living.  Jimmy was a nice enough guy, but I found my reserve of patience suddenly depleted.  The van was a junker. An above average junker to be sure, but a junker all the same.  Either you’re in the market for a junker or you’re not.  I had no intention of blowing my entire Sunday afternoon for a lousy two hundred dollars.   I had pets to clean up after.  I had laundry to do, and I needed some quiet time in front of the XBOX to come up with reasons for not doing it.  I usually like to start vocally dreading Monday morning by around 4 p.m., and this was putting me way behind schedule.  When Jimmy had finally parked the van and then turned the engine on and off three or eight times in rapid succession, I was ready to leave him with the keys and retire to my air conditioned living room and get on with my life.  He could come get me when he was ready.  But, to my relief, he called out to his mother, “It’s good!”

“It’s good?” she asked.

“It’s good,” he said.

She sighed.  “Then I guess you’ll have to take me to the bank.”

“You have the title?” Jimmy asked me.

“Sure do,” I said, ready to get the deal sealed and over with.  “It’s in the house.”

“Is it notarized?” Jimmy’s Mother asked.

“Notarized?” I asked.

“You have to have your signature notarized when you sell it,” she said.

“That’s weird,” I said.  “I sold a car before I moved out here, and I didn’t need to have anything notarized.”

“Well in Arizona you do,” she said.

“Hmm. I don’t remember getting anything notarized when I bought this van in the first place….in Arizona.”

“Alls I know is it’s gotta have that stamp,” Jimmy’s Mother said.  “I’ve been through this twice already in last six months,” she added, giving Jimmy a dirty look.

“Do you know where Joe’s Drive-Thru Liquors is?” Jimmy asked.

“No,” I said, confused by the question.  Granted, some pretty strong booze could only help this situation, but I rarely drink, and when I do, it’s usually with more familiar company. 

“There’s a guy I know works there,” said Jimmy.  “He’s a notary.”

Part III

The Fellowship of the Stamp

And so it was that I was to seek the fabled Notary at Joe’s while Jimmy drove his mother to the bank.  Since one should never embark upon a perilous quest without some sort of fellowship, I called upon Shawn the Groggy, fresh from his afternoon nap.

“When is that guy coming to look at the van?” he yawned.

Clearly, Shawn the Groggy needed to be brought up to speed, but that’s only to be expected when one’s favorite hobby involves lying about unconscious for hours.  While he poured himself some iced coffee, I checked the back of the title.  Sure enough, there, under “Transfer of Ownership,” were boxes for a notary seal and signature.  Curses!  The evil witch had been right!

To my surprise, Shawn was familiar with Joe’s Drive-Thru Liquors.  “I stopped in there once for a bottle of wine.  It was scary.”

“Scary,” I asked.  Why?”

“I don’t know,” said the newly dubbed Shawn the Vague. 

Undaunted by possible general scariness, we ventured boldly forth in Shawn the Vague’s blue, almost-kind-of-looks-purple, Geo Prizm.  The ride was short and without peril, for Joe’s was conveniently located in a strip mall right up the street.  Upon entering, I sensed no immediate scariness.  Joe’s was actually clean and brightly it, and offered a variety of convenience items as well as liquor.  Nothing scary so far.  Thus emboldened, I approached the cashier and asked, “Have you got a notary here?”

“Que?” he asked.

“A notary,” I said again, louder.  “We were told there was a notary here.”

“No-tar-y?”

A guy handing a bottle-shaped paper bag out the drive through window turned and said, “Yeah, that’s me.  Give me a minute.”

That was a relief.   Walking into a liquor store and asking for a notary felt a lot like asking McDonalds to do your taxes.  Notary Guy motioned us over to a glass side counter, where I presented him with my Certificate of Title. 

“So who sent you,” said Notary Guy. 

“Jeff,” I said.

“Jimmy,” said Shawn.

“Yes, Jimmy,” I said.  That’s it.”

“What’s his last name?” asked Notary Guy. 

“I have no idea,” I said.  “Apparently, I have a hard enough time remembering his first.”

“Drives a white pickup?”

“Not that I saw.  Tall guy…skinny…with a beard.”

“Dives that big black thing?”

“Yep, that’s him.”

“Ah, OK,” said Notary Guy.  “You know there’s a ten dollar fee, right?”

“Sounds fair,” I said, wondering if knowing the Jimmy who drove the white pickup would have made a price difference.

Notary Guy asked for my driver’s license, and began to make concentrated comparisons between it and information on the title.   His brow furrowed with confusion, and he looked up and asked, “Where did you get this title?”

“The DMV,” I said.

“Did you buy the car from a dealership?”

“No, I got it from a retired hippie couple over in Scottsdale.”

“Oh, OK.  I was just wondering why your name’s on it.”

“Maybe because I own it?”

“Yeah, but usually it’s another name.”

“You’re the man with the stamp,” I said, certain that years of liquor store fumes hadn’t helped Notary Guy much.   I wasn’t entirely convinced he had ever seen a title before, but as long as he agreed to stamp it there was no need to argue.  As Notary Guy seized a pen and began filling in blanks on the back of the title, I looked around the store for something scary.  Most of Joe’s clientele arrived on bikes or on foot, which rather defeated the whole purpose of the drive-thru. But then again, the drive-thru may have been why they had no cars to drive-thru with in the first place.  Arizona loves its drive-thru liquor stores, but its police are still humorless about open containers.   While watching sweating, red-faced men gasp for breath as they dig around in their damp clothing for enough a change for a 45 isn’t all that pleasant, it isn’t all that scary, either.  The same could be said for prominently displayed spinner rack full of magazines featuring women who seemed to be embracing their advertised ho-dom along with a variety of gardening tools and other hos. 

“So,” I asked Notary Guy.  “How are we doing?”

“Just a minute,” said Notary Guy, picking up the title and making a show of examining it officiously. 

It was then that I noticed the items in the glass case he was using as a counter.  I had never seen brass knuckles in real life before, and I noted with interest that many of the variety displayed in the case were clearly not made of brass.  Beside them on the velvet lay an assortment of glass pipes, metal pipes, and quarter-sized discs advertised as “one hitters.”  On the shelf below, a variety of large hunting knives was displayed on a bed of pornographic magazines, along with pepper spray and packets of aphrodisiacs with names like “Horny Goat Weed” and “Magic Arousal Powder.”  Filling out the bottom of the case was a neatly arranged row of bongs, tasers and stun guns, Polaroid film, and clothesline. 

When I noticed that most of the wine in the store was displayed behind this counter, I looked over at Shawn the Vague. His face clearly said, “Told you so.”  When I looked back at Notary Guy, his face clearly said, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“Almost done?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Notary Guy.  “I’m just waiting for my stamp.”

Well, so was I.  What was the hold up here?  I looked at Notary Guy.  Notary Guy looked at me.

“Um,” I said.  “Is the stamp not here?”

“Oh.  No,” he said.  “My girlfriend’s bringing it over. “

“Oh,” I said. 

“She lives, like, two minutes down the street.”

“Ah, OK,” I said. 

For the next forty minutes Shawn and I stood there, politely accepting Notary Guy’s apologies for the wait and his assurances that both the stamp and his girlfriend would appear any second.  He had already started writing on the title, so I figured he should be the one to finish it.  Besides, I didn’t know of any other Liquor Store Clerk/Notaries in the area.  During the course of our wait, he waived the ten dollar fee to compensate us for our inconvenience and offered us a free drink.  “A fountain drink,” he clarified, perhaps suddenly remembering where we were.  He made several animated cell phone calls and paced impatiently on the sidewalk in front of the store.  Shawn and I found ourselves watching the parking lot, anxiously asking each other “Is that her?” every time a car pulled up, as if one of us would know. 

When the girlfriend finally did show up, things only got worse.  She had the stamp, but instead of merely handing it to Notary Guy so he could do his stamping thang, she elbowed him out of the way and picked up the title.

“So what’s going on with this,” she asked.

“I got it,” said Notary Guy.  “It’s all set.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” she said, examining the title front and back.  “Why are both these names the same?”

“What names?”

“Here,” she said, pointing, “and here,” she said, flipping the title over and pointing again.

“Because it’s his car,” said Notary Guy.

“Did you write this in here or did he?”

“I did.”

“And he’s selling it?  This is the person selling it?”  

“Yeah.”

“To who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he?”

“Where’s who?”

“The guy selling the car.”

“That would be me,” I said.

“This is your title?” Notary Guy’s Girlfriend asked.

“Yes.”

“And you’re selling this car?”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

“Jeff Someboday,” I said.

“Jimmy,” said Shawn.

“Yeah, Jimmy Somebody,” I said. 

“God.  This is all wrong,” Notary Guy’s Girlfriend.

“What?  Why?” asked Notary Guy.

“Because you put his name here.”

“Right.  It’s his car.”

“Baby, no,” she said.  “See?  It says Buyer’s Name.” 

“Right.”

“No, not right.  See?  Down here where it says Seller?  He’s not buying his own car, sweetie. He’s the seller.”

“Oh.”

“This is all messed up.”

“I can fix it.”

“I don’t think so.  He needs a new title now.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“What are you doing?  You can’t just cross it out!”

“It’ll be fine.  See?  I’m putting my initials.”

“The DMV isn’t gonna accept that.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Was I annoyed when I left with a title that looked like a three year old had used it as an IHOP placemat?  Yes, I was.  Was I certain the title was now worthless, and that endless stream of DMV bureaucracy awaited me?  Indeed I was.  And when we got home, we discovered Jimmy was waiting for me, too.  And so was his mom.

Part IV

Sometimes They Come Back

The good thing about having someone refer you to someone else for any given service is that the person who made the referral is always responsible for the quality of that service.  And so when Jimmy asked, “How’d it go?” I had no reservations about informing him that his notary was an idiot. 

“He ruined the title,” I said.

As Jimmy scanned the title, I explained Notary Guy’s “write first, scratch out later” approach to document certification.  “There’s not much I can do about this now,” I said.  “I’ll give you a call when I get it fixed.”

“It’ll be OK,” Jimmy said.  Déjà vu.  “Just let me show this to my mother.”

But Jimmy’s Mother was having none of it.  I watched as he presented it to her and began to explain what I told him, but she cut him short and thrust the title back him.  “No! It’s ruined,” she squawked.  “God dammit!”  I moved a little further away down the sidewalk, both to avoid being seen with them and to maintain a minimum safe distance should they decide to explode. 

“This is exactly what happened last time,” Jimmy’s Mother was saying.  “I know they won’t take it.  Who did that to it?”

“The guy,” said Jimmy.  “The notary.”

“What?  That same one?”

“Yeah.”

“God dammit, Jimmy!”

With a good chunk of my Sunday now officially ruined for nothing, I began to roll up the van’s windows and lock its doors.  I had the feeling it would be sitting where it was for quite a while.  But it wasn’t over yet.  Jimmy walked up to me and handed me cash. 

“We’ll take it,” he said.

“Really?”

“There’s just probably gonna be some other forms you’re gonna have to sign once we take it to the DMV,” he said. Correctly interpreting the look on my face, Jimmy hastily added,”We’ll take it to the DMV and get the forms.  You don’t have to do anything but sign the forms once we get them.  We can just stop by tomorrow if that’s OK.”

Well.  That sounded reasonable.  I pocketed the cash and we began to write up a bill of sale.  I handed it to him so he could write in a name and address when his mother shrieked, “Jimmy!  Don’t sign anything!  He doesn’t need you to sign anything!”

“Well then,” I said. “I guess you won’t need me to sign anything, either.  If this van winds up broken down on the side of the road, and we all know there’s a very good chance of that happening, I am not going to have anyone coming to me and asking why it was left there.  So one of you can fill this out or we can just forget the whole fucking thing.”

That shut her up good.  It felt good, too.  “Ma, I’m taking care of this!” Jimmy yelled. “Sorry about her.”  He wrote his name on the bill of sale, and then hesitated.  “We live on Washington Street,” he said.  “Help me out.  How do you spell ‘Washington’?”  I thought he was putting me on until I noticed the way he held the pen and the jagged combination of capital and lower case letters he had used to write his name.  I spelled it out for him, and when he was done he said, “Whew!  That’s a long word!”   Of course, we needed two bills of sale, so we got to prolong the awkwardness by doing it twice.  

When we were done, Jimmy’s Mother grabbed the key from his hand and let herself into the van.  She sat there in the driver’s seat giving me nasty looks as I shook Jimmy’s hand and wished him luck.

“Remember,” he said.  “I’ll be back tomorrow with those forms.”  He smiled as he said, “Just me, though. Not her.”

When Jimmy stopped by the next day, however, he was NOT alone.  They were all there in the van, with Jimmy's Mother in the driver's seat.  It was a jarring experience seeing my beloved Aerostar being driven by a nasty little woman.   I suddenly wished I had taken pictures of it to remember it by.  Jimmy's Mother did stay in the van, though, while Jimmy presented me with a slip of paper.

"If you sign that it will fix the title," he said.  "But, um…  Well, the signature has to be notarized again."

"You're kidding."

"The stamp on the last one was smudged and they couldn't read it," he said.

"You're kidding," I said again. 

"But, you know, take your time getting that done.  Just give me a call and let me know when it's ready and I'll come pick it up.  But hey," he said, deftly changing the subject, "see how good it's running?  Buddy of mine and me put a new radiator in it last night."

"That was quick."

"I know people," Jimmy said.  "It only cost me $300.00."

I found this most unfair.  I would have happily spent $300 on the Aerostar.  But when you don't "know people," that $300 suddenly becomes $2,000. 

"Getting new tires put on tomorrow," he said.

Posted by johnfrommelt at 1:00 AM

Updated: Monday, 4 June 2007 1:42 AM

Share This Post

Post Comment | Permalink