Big Fat Ass

Don’t ever start a sentence with “I want a big fat ass . . .“  People will be too busy laughing to hear what comes next.

Charlie whines whenever he has to go to Home Depot.  He has to think about what he plans to get now that he doesn’t have a truck.  If the purchase is of any decent size, he has to hitch the trailer to my Jeep.  This involves both forethought and effort, both of which he likes to save for some special time in the very far future.

“I want a big fat ass honkin’ truck,” he told me one night driving home from Barnes and Noble.  “I’ll sell the Harley.”

We both often entertain weird ideas.  After a good night’s sleep and lots of caffeine we say, “What was I thinking?” 

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” I told him.  Rational thought would return in the morning.

Not this time.  He soon put an ad for the Harley in the paper and the Cycle Trader.  He kept lowering the price, which to me was the true sign of his intent.  If no one bought it at a high price, he could reconsider.  Instead, he sold it to the first guy who called.

With money in his pocket, Charlie went to work looking for a big, fat ass, honkin’ truck.  He bought Truck Traders and carried them and the folded-up classified ads with him wherever he went. 

When the conversation lulled, he’d say, “I’m getting a big fat ass honkin’ truck.”   He said this no matter who was on the other end of the conversation.  People started laughing every time.  Nobody listens after you say you’re getting a big, fat ass.

He changed the subject often to talk about his philosophy of buying used cars.  He’s bought and sold so many that he can’t even remember half of them.  I asked him his vehicle ownership history once and he gave up trying to recall.  He’s owned some vehicles only months before getting bored and selling them.  In retrospect, the Harley was lucky.  It lasted a year and a half, the second-longest he’s owned anything.

Charlie’s dad worked as a used car dealer for a while, which taught him to stay away from used car lots.  “You will get taken,” he says.  “They confuse you so you forget what you’re willing to pay, or what you should pay.”

Even when you know better, their ads are irresistible.  Charlie called a few. “Come on in,” they said.  “If we don’t have that truck, we have plenty more.”  They’re like bad real estate agents, convincing you this is what you want only because it’s what they want to sell you.

One dealer convinced Charlie to drive all the way over to McLaughlin Blvd. to Auto Row to look at a truck.  “It’s nice,” he told Charlie.  “If you don’t like that one, I’ve got about 15 other ones right here on the lot.”

“I only have a certain amount,” he told the dealer.  “I’m not paying more.”

“We’ll work with you,” the dealer said.

We spent a too-hot afternoon getting lost in the strip malls of McLaughlin Blvd.  The specific truck Charlie called about was sold over two weeks before.  There were only three other similar vehicles on the lot, all of them way out of our price range.

He insisted on trying to sell us a truck twice our budget.  “I told you what I could spend,” Charlie said.  “You don’t have anything in my price range.  See ya.” 

He followed us out of the lot and right to our Jeep, trying to talk us into financing one of his trucks.  We got in our Jeep and left.

We stopped by a few other used car dealerships on McLaughlin Blvd.  The story was the same at each place.  All we ended up doing was wasting a work day and a tank of gas.

Charlie got back on the phone and called on any truck that might be acceptable.  One guy had a good deal which wouldn’t last.   “We need to jump on this one now,” Charlie said.  “We need to go to Gresham.”

Gresham is as far away as you can get from this end of the Metro area.  There’s nothing there and I get lost every time.  This better be worth it, I thought.  I could be doing anything else and it’d be more fun.  Having the flu would be more enjoyable.

Charlie told me more about the truck on the way to Gresham.  “This guy has a Dakota with only 35,000 miles.  ‘You like.  You like,’ the guy said in an accent I couldn’t place.  ‘Drive good.  Good shape.  You like.’”

“Is there anything wrong with it?” Charlie asked.

“No. No. No.  Good shape.”

“Only 35,000 miles, in good shape, and nothing wrong?” Charlie told him what he was willing to spend.

He said, “I’ll take.  You like, I’ll take.”

We get to hot, suburban, nothing-there Gresham and see the Dakota parked out front.  It’s beautiful.  It seems too good to be true.  The guy walks right over, holding out the key. “You drive.  You drive,” he says.  He didn’t want I.D. or anything.

That’s odd, both of us thought, but we took the key and drove it around.   It drove as nice as it looked.  We returned, looked it over again and said, “It needs new tires, so we’d like to discount the price a bit to compensate.”

“No.  My sister-in-law’s truck.  She’s in Europe.  I get this price.  You understand.”

“Okay, we’ll take it.  It’s still a good price.”

“One thing.  Title says, “Totalled, Reconstructed.”  No problem.  You can see truck is fine.”

“Why was it totaled?”

“Tree fell on it. Right on bed.  You can see truck is fine.”

“You’re trying to sell a totaled vehicle with bad tires at blue book?”

“You can see no problem.”

“No problem?  It’s totaled.  We could never resell it.”

We left without a truck. 

Charlie called another guy in another town with a different voice but with the same accent.  He had a really good deal on a Dakota, too.  ‘Low miles,’ he said, ‘good shape.  Always serviced.’”

This Dakota was in Vancouver, WA, the only town further than Gresham.  Charlie got smart and asked him, “Clear title?”

“No. No. No.  Totalled, reconstructed.”

He didn’t waste another second.  He hung up on him.

We were sick of truck-shopping so we did what we always do when we’re tired of the day: we hung out at Peet’s drinking espresso.

Charlie wasn’t saying much.  I assumed he was thinking about the sermon as we just left Church. 

He told me later he was whining to God.  He said he was telling Him if He wasn’t too busy with Iraq and everything, to find him a damn truck without getting screwed.  He’d reached the prayer point.  You usually hit the prayer point when you’re selling vehicles, not buying them.  People are more excited to take your money, rather than give it to you.

Some friends from our Church drove by.  “Want to look at houses with us?” they said.

“Sure,” we said, and hopped into their Altima.  After sitting in Jeeps and trucks all day, the leather seats and sunroof were a welcome change.  I can see why people don’t buy Jeeps.

We forgot all about trucks for a while.  Debby had a bunch of houses to look at in the historic area before sunset.  Gary, her husband, happily drove by several homes and listened carefully to everything she said. 

Debby has good taste; it’s exactly like mine.  She and I both don’t like granite countertops or Craftsman style homes.  I’ve been afraid to admit this to anyone else.  Everyone is supposed to like granite and Craftsman homes.

Gary opened Debby’s door whenever we stopped and peeked in a vacant house for sale.  Charlie said, “You’re making me look bad, Gary,” when he opened my door, too.  “You got a good catch, Debby.” 

“So did I,” I told Charlie.  Even if my good catch buys more vehicles than I buy shoes.

When it got too dark to look at houses, Charlie said, “I can’t seem to find a truck.”

“You shouldn’t have a problem finding a truck,” Gary said.  “They’re everywhere.”

We turned a corner.  “See?  There’s one right there,” Gary said.

He pointed to a big fat ass honkin’ white truck, the biggest one I’d seen all day.  It had a “for sale” sign on it with a price half again as much as we had to spend.

“It’s way more than we can afford,” Charlie said.

“Call them up and be honest,” Gary said.  “Tell him you have cash and to keep you in mind.  If he’s had it for sale for a while, he may not hang up on you.”

“I love that house,” Debby said.  The truck was parked right in front of a house in the end stages of a huge remodel.

“Me, too,” I said.  The house was better looking the longer we stayed parked out in front of it.  Everything about it was done right, you could tell even in the dark.  Debby and I stared while the guys looked at the truck.  We were both happy.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said.  “It’s loaded.  It’s newer than anything I’ve looked at.  Forget it.”

“Oh, call him,” Gary said.

Charlie thought about it for a day, then called the number for the big fat ass honkin’ truck.   The owner was interested, so we drove less than a mile and had a look.  It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever sat in besides a U-Haul.  It was nothing like a U-Haul.

Who knows why, but the owners were willing to take our cash.  They couldn’t find the title right away, so we got a tour of their remodel.  They had the best paint and crown molding I’ve ever seen anywhere, even better than houses on the “Street of Dreams” and with more character. 

I felt happy just knowing a house could look this good.  I got the name of the finish carpenter who did the crown and learned the paint details, too.  This house gave me hope.  Someday we’ll dump the crappy ranch and buy something we can fix up with care like this.  If this cute young couple can do it, so can we.

We can do anything.  We’ve got a big fat ass (honkin’ truck).

A little help? [] 11:39:11 PM