Bye Bye, Baby!

One time my Honey looked at me and said, “1988 was a big year for me.  I found a new job, I bought a new car, and I got you.” Well, she still has that job, and I’m still around, but the car, a 1988 Toyota Corolla FX, was sold to the State of California recently for a grand, that is to say, $1,000.

The little FX had only 124,860 miles on her and had been mainly used pretty close to home, although she did make a trip to Minneapolis once to visit my brother, and has been seen around the Sierras a lot. One winter in Yosemite we approached her in the morning and she had snow and ice covering all her windows except one, which was completely clear. Upon closer inspection we found that there was, in fact, no window at all, since a bear had removed it during the night.

But as time marched on, in my Honey’s bonnet (where green idea bees are known to propagate endlessly and buzz around furiously) there gradually materialized the image of a Prius. And since we only live once (and it wasn’t her job or me she was thinking of replacing), I finally succumbed and agreed, “Let’s do it.”

Please understand that, in general, we are happily living the American Dream here in Albany and do have several vehicles. But with the addition of another car, the writing was on the wall. We were clearly pushing the American Dream beyond reasonable limits, and the little Toyota would have to go.

I had already retired an old beater truck to the state of California a while back for $1,000, and so we figured that since we probably couldn’t get that much for the Toyota (and the program was still around) we’d put in an application. But the state guys informed us that funds had temporarily run out, and so we decided to shoot for a regular sale.

We did get some interest from a woman who wanted to buy a car for her twenty-year-old son. But upon viewing the inside of the car, she exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, there are no air bags!” I pointed out that air bags are very dangerous in that several babies had been smothered by them. She responded that her young son had no plans to become a father just yet, and my retort: “Don’t be too sure--you never know about young sons,” failed to persuade her, and the deal fell through.

Another prospect had us take the car to his mechanic to be checked out, and for $100 we both learned that the car had 16 faults, which would require repairs ranging from $20 to $200 dollars. The mechanic also advised, “Don’t take this car farther than King City.”

I then spent roughly $50 taking care of 12 out of the 16 faults, noting in the process that some items on the list were actually not faults at all, but merely creative repairs I had made throughout the car’s long life. So what if one of the headlights was held in position by a piece of wood cleverly wedged in behind it?  It shined just as straight as the other one.

Then there was also a question about smog tests. It seemed that the state was more inclined to retire cars that failed the smog test, rather than just on age alone. So, fervently praying for a failing score, my Heart’s Desire went for a test, which the car (as I had firmly assured her it would) passed with flying colors. It had always been a sweet runner, with in-town MPG in the high 20s, and an honest 35 mpg on the road. No polluter this one.

With no word from the state, we were moving toward a posting on craigslist, when lo and behold, a letter finally did come with the following announcement:

“Hi folks! Great news! Gov. Brown (being older now, and married) just found some dough under his mattress! And dig this! You don’t even have to fail the smog test! So just drive that geriatric little darlin’ of yours down to Pick-n-Pull (auto dismantler) and collect your grand.” 

And so, being good citizens with a firm belief that all government mandates (however ridiculous) must be obeyed to the letter, we surrendered our low mileage (for a Toyota), great running, fuel efficient, smog passing, somewhat oldish car to Pick-n-Pull (I believe the “n” stands for the word “and”) and then rushed to deposit $1,000 of your tax money in the Bank Of America on our way home.

If the funds in that account don’t dry up within a day or so and the check clears, I’d say this little story, unfolding as at did over a period of two and a half months, will finally come to end. But not an entirely happy one. While the experience was hardly comparable to “putting down” a long-time cat or dog, it nevertheless involved the loss of an old friend who had served us well for 23 years.