A relative was offering a hand-me-down car–in fact, a nice, newish minivan that was far nicer and newer than the previous hand-me-down minivan from a relative. (That is, quite literally, how the TJs roll.)
So, for the first time since we moved to Hummerville from the city 18 months ago, I had the option of having a station car instead of those daily bicycle or bipedal schleps to the train.
I thought about it for a few minutes, but just couldn’t justify it. When we were shopping for houses, we looked for something that was walkable to the train; sure, the walk is a pain in the ass, but to go back on that initial gameplan just felt wrong. And, paradoxical as it may sound, my bike trip to the station–downhill, all of five minutes–is probably quicker than the time it takes to drive the mile, then park way, way, way at the ass end of the lot at 8:10. (Granted, my uphill ride home is a different story.)
So we decided to sell “Izzy,” the original minivan hand-me-down, a veritable pool of Cheerios on its floor.
I threw something on Craigslist, and knocked a hundred bucks off the price each subsequent week. I tried eBay and even checked out prices in the old Pennysaver.
Finally, after a month, a man with an African accent named Kwame called. Within a few hours, he was there to test drive it, two cute children in tow. He had a nice way about him. We went for a drive, his little kids in the back.
He loved Izzy. His kids did too.
We haggled a bit about the price, but my heart wasn’t in it. It was a hand-me-down, and fighting tooth and nail for a few more bucks just didn’t seem sporting. We agreed on a moderately reduced price, shook on it, and he came by the next day.
Kwame gave me the dough and drove his kids home, planning to return by cab to pick up his old car in our driveway, some Corolla-esque thing.
Kwame’s cash in my hand, I sat with The Missus in our family room. I thought about this immigrant who took care of old people, sometimes for 24-hour shifts, with two small children and no wife that I could discern. I suggested giving $100 back to him.
The Missus instead suggested covering his cab ride back to our house. As it turns out, he got a ride from his sister and didn’t need the cab, so I kept the dough.
I liked the idea of Kwame driving his two small children around in Izzy. And I liked the fact that I supplied all the energy needed to get to the train each day–even when that energy source was running a bit low.