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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Good one. Sometimes you can push your luck too far by holding out, and regret it later.
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That’s a fact. Been there and done that.
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I’ve always been mechanically inclined, able to make things run if there was even a remote chance. By the time Barb and I were married I was 24 and I’d owned 48 cars. Some were better than others.
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