I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he learned about the crook who stole my British sports car.
It was the spring of 1988, and I was a senseless 26-year-old. I’d just quit a sales job I hated to resurrect a stone masonry business I ran during my college years.
When my father learned I gave up a salary to work hard labor, he had one question: “What the heck were you thinking?”
Since I no longer had a steady salary, I decided to cut my expenses. I put my 1986 Firebird up for sale, then I used my meager savings to buy a 1976 MGB convertible.
It was rusted out and needed work, which prompted my father to ask: “What the heck were you thinking?”
But I had a master plan: I’d buy the car cheap, restore it, then drive around in style WITHOUT car payments. And when I eventually would sell the car, I’d do so at a handsome profit.
Things didn’t work out that way, of course.
I was unable to sell the Firebird for what I owed on it. To complicate matters, the MG would break down about once a month, and the cost of the repairs was a lot higher than my Firebird’s car payment.
Undaunted, I carried out my plan. I worked hard rebuilding stone walls. I paid my cousin to repaint the roadster, but I was flat broke and still unable to sell the Firebird.
After I took a job at a small advertising agency, I figured I could get $4,900 for the roadster — it was in pristine condition by then — but I wasn’t getting any interest. Until the crook showed up.
He drove a brand new Nissan Maxima, so I figured he had some dough. He said he loved cars and had a dozen of them. He said he wanted the roadster as a gift for his girlfriend.
He asked if he could have his mechanic look the car over, and I didn’t hesitate. I gave him the keys. He returned an hour later and agreed to pay me the full $4,900. He’d return the following day with a cashier’s check.
Finally, I thought, my suffering was over. I didn’t know that the fellow was a con artist wanted in several counties.
I didn’t know the Maxima was stolen or that he made a duplicate key for my car. When I got home from work the next day, my car was gone — taken right out of my garage.
As it goes, the crook found the insurance card and title I had secretly hidden under the back seat and sold the car to a used car dealer.
Luckily, the police found the car and brought it back. I finally sold it for $3,300 — a $1,500 loss.
When my father got the details, he had but one thing to say: “What the heck were you thinking?”
I’m not sure what I was thinking then, but here’s what I’m thinking now: Some people think fathers aren’t important, but I’d be lost if my dad’s good sense didn’t finally penetrate my thick noggin.
We lost my dad a few years ago and we miss him dearly, but his good sense guides me still.
I now own a paid-off truck and was never dumb enough to buy a British sports car again!
Copyright 2024 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].
