Caveat Emptor

Caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware. Yeah, but what about the seller?

The presumption is that the seller has the advantage, armed with more information. But, that’s not always the case.

Many years back, I rode motorcycles and was in the market for a vintage Triumph. I responded to one ad, listing the bike for a reasonable price and describing it in good condition. The address was way out in the country but the journey seemed worth it, should everything be as it appeared.

Not only was it far from the city, it was far from the road. My Firebird slewed back and forth as I made my way up a long, muddy driveway in a driving rain. The buzzer didn’t seem to work so I knocked on the door of a weather beaten cottage. Paint flaked off like dandruff. The man who answered was more unkempt than the house. He cast an eye skyward and asked if I was sure I wanted to look at it today. I had driven almost 50 miles, so I affirmed my desire.

He went inside and pulled on some boots and donned a filthy slicker. We slogged through the mire to a barn that had an alarming lean toward starboard. The hinges screamed as he swung the door open and led me inside. In the dim light, I could make out four boxes of cruddy motorcycle components. “Are these spares?” I asked.

“Nope.” He broke into a hacking, wet cough and spit. “That there’s the bike.”

I groped for words. “The ad said it was in good condition.”

“Tis. Just ain’t put together.”

I had no trouble finding words for that. My judgment could’ve been better. After he had his say, we sloshed back to the house in silence. He watched me get into my car. Then he watched some more. And some more. And some more. My wheels were spinning and cutting a rut.

I rolled down the window. “Can I get some help, here?”

“Yeah, when the sheriff comes. I’m goin’ in to get dry. If you ain’t gone in ten minutes, I’m callin’ him with a trespassing complaint.” The door slammed and more paint fell.

I got out and looked around. There was a wood pile beside the house, covered with a dirty canvas tarp. I whipped it off, quickly stuffed it under a tire, and the car waddled out of the rut. I muttered oaths aloud much of the way home.

The next day, another ad cropped up in the paper. The price was low but the motorcycle was described as “like new.” I called and reached a woman who didn’t know much about it. We set an appointment for that evening when her husband would be home.

I was still smarting from the previous day and went into this with my shields well up and a bad attitude. The home was modest and an elderly couple met me at the door and walked me to the garage under the house. The garage door swung open and there stood a shiny Triumph in showroom condition. I could hardly believe my eyes. I checked the odometer and it hadn’t registered its 500th mile. And, yet, the price was that of a junker. After yesterday, I was due for this.

Or, was I? “Well son, what do you think?” asked the kindly older gentleman.

“I’ll take it!” sprang to mind, but I hesitated and rolled it around in my mind. “I think it’s worth more than you’re asking.”

He smiled. “That may be.” He continued on to tell me how their son had bought it and had the opportunity to ride it only a few times before being shipped out to Korea with his unit. He would write about how he couldn’t wait to get back and ride his bike. Then, he was killed in a truck accident. They just wanted to get rid of the bike.

I thought a little more and made a fair offer above their asking price. He shook his head. “Just pay us our price and we’ll be happy that someone is enjoying it as he would’ve.” I paid his price.

That became relevant today. I responded to an ad for a canoe. The owner didn’t know that much about it and couldn’t answer my questions, so I went to look at it. The location was in a low income neighborhood. A young man answered the door. I could see at least three children wrestling around on the threadbare rug behind him.

He led me around back of the house. I recognized the model and knew it was worth more than he was asking. Without being obvious, I probed for the story behind it.

His uncle died a couple years before and left it to him. He’d meant to take it out but never found the chance with the kids and work putting demands on his schedule. Then, he lost his job and was trying to think of what to sell off to stay afloat.

I offered him a hundred bucks over what he had advertised. He was puzzled, but I explained that was the market value. He was still bewildered but eagerly glommed onto the cash.

Over the years, I’ve heard people brag about how they stole a deal, inside and outside of the business world. But, I always remember the words of Will Rogers. “I’d rather be the man who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.”