The young fellow brought his multicolored VW  to a stop at my shop.

“It’s for sale,” he said.

“How much?”

“I’ll take four hundred dollars.”

I checked the tires, noted the front bumper was missing, and then  listened to it idle. Air-cooled engines make too much noise to hear the rattle of loose parts. It was sweet. I wanted it bad, so I drove it. It was okay, but I’m a chiseler. I’m against my religion to pay the asking price. Parking it in the same spot where he’d stopped, I offered him three.

“Four,” he countered.

“Well, I’ll probably regret it, I could go three-hundred fifty, I suppose.”

“Four.”

“Can’t do it, son,” I said, and then watched him drive away, wishing I’d paid him four.

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