Four-doorness

My first “grownup” car was a 1971 Dodge Polara. Base model, nondescript blue, small hubcaps.

Actually, it was my wife’s car. She came with a car, but it got totaled parked in front of her parents’ house. She picked this out (used) as its replacement and I bought it for her. Up until this point, marriage had been a minor intrusion into my personal life. If this kept up, the arrangement could become a real annoyance.

I remember looking at the Dodge in the driveway in all its four-doorness. It looked like something the elderly gent across the street would drive. Had it come to this? Was I already on the downhill side? Shudder.

What prompts this is the unexpected death of an elderly friend. He handled everything in his marriage, so his widow is hampered by lack of experience and the shock of the event. I’m helping her handle the transition.

One of the first things she said she wanted to do was replace their car, an older Mercury Grand Marquis. Talk about stereotype cars. She said it was too big for her. Heck, it's too big for Shaq. I’m pretty sure the actual issue was the memories engendered in it, but that didn’t matter. It had to go.

She was going to take it to the salesman they got it from. She preferred a different brand, but they had been dealing with him for years and he knew how they took care of cars.

True enough. My friend was an engineer and anal-retentive to the extreme. The car had low mileage and was showroom condition. I wasn’t counting on that drawing a lot of water with the salesman and told her not to consummate a deal without checking with me.

He tried to pressure her into a buy, but she held firm and gave me the particulars. I had researched values of her car and the one she discussed with him.

I called him and he was thrilled to hear from the fly in his ointment. I discussed what the net should be and he responded he was already giving her full trade-in. Off sticker, not what the price should be. And, the market wasn’t exactly on his side. I was trying to negotiate a compromise and he was working on his Simon Cowell impression. When it became apparent that he was intent upon shooting himself in the foot, I told him that we’d let him know.

I called the widow and gave her a number to offer as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. She was afraid he’d turn it down and be angry. His problem.

I asked what her downside was. She wouldn’t trade it to him and go get the car she preferred? She was afraid she’d be stuck with the Mercury. No danger of that. He needs sales badly. If worse comes to worst, I’d buy the car from her and she could get what she really wants. But, he won’t reject the deal. Unless he puts winning ahead of income, he’s got to take it.

That’s how I came to own the Mercury.

But, wait. It gets better.

I’m standing in the driveway, contemplating the car in all its four-doorness and who pulls up but the ex. She sidles up alongside me. “Whose car?”

“Mine,” I mutter without looking away from it.

“But…”

“I got a decent price.”

She chewed on that a bit. “When I called you last year about Vera’s, you said you didn’t want an old man’s car.” Vera, a business associate of hers, had died right after buying a Cadillac Coupe D’ Metamucil or some such thing. She called me to let me know it was available through the estate. Vera had outlived all her relatives.

“Yes, I did say that.”

“And now, you have one,” said the ex with an inflection she enjoyed more than I.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Okay, now it’s complete.