I am a money pig. Feed me!

I dabble in project cars.

Much like “gardening” (in our yard it’s pulling weeds, actually), this hobby provides great therapy for me, as it takes my mind off the stress of work and paying bills — and it’s usually cheaper than what I imagine a shrink psychiatrist probably costs.  Of the thirty or forty some odd vehicles that have passed through my hands over the years, I generally break even or even make a bit (usually a pittance) after the final tally.

And I’m still sane, sort of.

I prefer using the term “investment” when I speak of this automotive pursuit — that lends it an air of legitimacy within the household and generally prevents closer financial scrutiny.  Actually, we have something of a compromise going in our home — I won’t scrutinize the Target bill or squawk about whatever “Real Housewives of  . . . .” episode is airing, if you don’t mind me parking a derelict in the driveway now and again.

It seems to work for the most part.

However, the latest installment of my own “Monster Garage” concerns itself with the relatively recent purchase of an older Alfa Romeo GTV.  Understand that I have owned a succession of Alfa convertibles, but I have always desired a coupe.  In the parlance of cardom, its condition is known as a “driver” — runs okay and looks okay, but needs about $10K to get to the next level.  Probably more, to be honest.  This point becomes important later.

Even better for me, no one currently living at home is capable of driving a manual transmission, and the Alfa has an old school five-speed.

Sidebar driving story:  Daughter, like Son, learned to drive in my old Ford Ranger pick-up, with an automatic transmission.  She then graduated at some point in high school to the consummate SoCal young girl ride of choice — a VW Cabrio.  Of Daughter’s two or three non-childhood meltdown crying episodes I can remember, one was specifically associated with a learner’s permit driving incident during which she almost killed both of us (not really, but it was nearly a wreck).  Of course, I made her stay behind the wheel and get us back to the house afterwards.  After all, developing the ability to see through tears when on the road is an important skill to develop.  Yes, Dad can wield the cruelest cut.

Anyway, before my last business trip, I answered an electronic bulletin board ad for someone looking for exactly the type of Alfa I have sitting in front of the house.  You see, since Daughter has been readmitted back into her Lesbian Cult College, I have been trying to figure out how I can have my cake (cars) and eat it, too (take care of children, shelter family, buy food, fund college tuition, etc.).  My Plan B is to sell the Alfa, and buy another piece of less expensive cake in the future, once Daughter has degree firmly in hand.

Plan A is to have my cake and eat it, too.

So, almost immediately after sending an email to the potentially interested party, I was bombarded with electronic inquiries about the condition of the car, where it was located, how much I wanted, etc.  I was a bit unprepared for the sheer volume of responses, but did my best to accommodate.

All the emails I received were sent from an iPhone.  The prospective buyer seemed somewhat sophisticated.

Since I was dealing with this while on the road, I finally just told the guy where the car was parked so that he could go by himself and check it out.  I didn’t think much more about it until a couple of days later when my wife called and said some kid knocked at the front door and said he was there to look at the Alfa.  The whole time I never mentioned anything to her about any of this, because many of these car folks are Kooks and rarely show up, much less with actual legal tender in hand.

But when my wife said “kid,” she really meant it.  She said the tyke she talked to looked like he was about ten years old.  I just figured he was there with his father and, again, kind of dismissed it.  Further emails followed, asking about a test drive, when I would return from my travels, if I could leave the key with someone — that kind of thing.  I just told him to swing by on Sunday, when I would be back in town.

As luck would have it, I was able to return a day early.

While I was on the phone in the front yard early Saturday afternoon, a little kid walked up the sidewalk and approached me.  He was there to see the Alfa, he said.  He’d been emailing me, he said.  He was very interested, he said.

“How old are you?” I said.

“Fifteen.  My Mom’s parked up the street a ways.”

Really?  Shouldn’t you be riding around on a Razor or something, I thought.

This was, indeed, weird.  But I figured, what the he heck, I’ll roll with it.

His mother was standing by the car, and I wasn’t quite sure if I should be talking to her or to Junior.  On the one hand, I didn’t want to discourage a young man (term used very loosely here) who clearly was somewhat knowledgeable about classic cars.  On the other we were talking about laying out about $7K for this particular example.

I asked him how old he was.

Fifteen.  Yep.  That made me feel better.

Whatever.  I explained to Mom that the Alfa wasn’t really a suitable teen car, that it would be finicky and difficult, and in the end would definitely not be trustworthy or reliable.

Turns out, it was just what they were looking for.

I told them I hadn’t actually decided to sell, and they said they would tally everything up and get back to me in a few days.  But they were definitely looking for a project car, and they definitely wanted an Alfa.

You see, “back in the day” when I was fifteen, I could afford any type of “work in progress” car, as long as it was around $100.  That was the reality of my financial world back then.  Heck, if you factor in inflation over thirty years, it’s probably not all that much different now.  So, I contextually I was kind of incredulous I was even having this conversation with a ninth grader.

That was yesterday.

Today, I received an offer.

From the kid.

He wrote he was prepared to give me $6700 cash today, and could come by this afternoon to pick up the car.  Then came the kicker:  “You yourself said you didn’t have the time, energy, or funds to bring it back to its former glory.”

Snap!  And he does.

I replied back that I would let him know something by Tuesday, as I hadn’t yet made up my mind to sell.

Not too long ago this entire affair would have made me somewhat melancholy.  Now, I am merely bemused — at my own circumstances, at the kid’s, and at the reality that, in the end, he’s probably right.

I’m thinking I’ll probably just hold onto the GTV for awhile, since Plan C for Daughter’s tuition is to write a best-selling book on Lesbian Christmas Bingo Dancing.  The world needs something like that, I feel, just like it needs old cars which will never regain their youth.

Like the GTV, I’m a “driver.”  And I’m okay with that.

– Dad