Albert Petrush's K-cars. 5-4-10

[89ARIES]

No pics yet. Hope to soon.
Albert Petrush
albert15146
Monroeville, Pennsylvania
1987 Dodge Aries & 1987 Plymouth Reliant & 83 Scamp & 83 Rampage

"My Precious"

January 24, 2010

The story of “Precious”

How I first came upon this car isn’t entirely clear. On the Internet’s Craigslist.org I offered a finder’s fee for a 1986-89 Aries/Reliant Station Wagon. I received several replies in the following few days, and one included a perfect car located in Minnesota. I was also searching for cars on Craigslist, and I’m not sure if I found this posting or if it was referred to me.

I called the number right away, and met Mrs. Myrtle Love over the telephone. Here is her story. Mr. Johnny Mitchell Garmon, an elderly gentleman from Concord, North Carolina, bought the car in April, 1987, from Widenhouse Motors and cared for it as if it were his “Precious”. Indeed it was; it was his mobility, independence, self esteem, and an outright expression of his own personality. He maintained it to the highest standards of professional and personal care. When he became ill and unable to drive, his caretaker, Myrtle Love, would drive the car for him, which enabled him to get out and maintain his lifestyle.

When his health began to fail, he entered a hospice and no longer needed the car. He bequeathed it to Mrs. Love as an expression of his gratitude. Before he entered the hospice, he sent the car to the shop to have it “gone over” for her, so that she would not have any expense with his gift. He had everything replaced; hoses, belts, timing belt, brakes, tires, even the brake drums and rotors. The car is basically brand new, with 54,400 miles on the odometer. The back seat has never had an occupant.

“I’ll take it.” I said. She was firm about the price, and I wasn’t going to squabble and take a chance on losing the sale. The next day I sent her a cashier’s check for $500.00 for my deposit and began to make travel arrangements. I searched the Internet and found a cheap flight to Charlotte, researched the bus schedules to get to the airport, and called Carolina Taxi in Concord to make my final connection. “No glitches”, I insisted. The schedule was demanding; the bus departed the parking lot at 5:20 AM, then there was a ten-minute window for connecting to the Airport Flyer in Oakland, which, if on schedule, would get me to the airport in time to get through the long lines at security, have a bite to eat and relax before boarding for Cleveland. There a cab driver will take me to the Concord DMV on 29, across from WalMart and Tractor Supply, to meet Mrs. Love and the car. “No glitches.” I demanded, again.

I began to assimilate everything I would need in advance so there would be no glitches. I went to the AAA office, called Allstate insurance, talked to the people at the DMV office in Concord, and of course, the bank. Mrs. Love stipulated “cash money”, not a cashier’s check.

AAA was very helpful, they gave me a checklist of the items that I would need to drive the car home; my driver’s license and proof of insurance. Mr. Cotton, my Allstate agent, was also helpful. He said to call him with the VIN when I got back and he would add it to my policy. I spoke to the DMV office in Concord, and they told me I would be issued a “Temporary Transit Tag” valid for ten days to get my car out of the state. I would need my driver’s license and proof of insurance.

I made arrangements with my clients to make Friday available, put $500 in expense money in my pocket, and called my friends to let them know I would be out of town for a couple of days. “How could you buy a car over the Internet sight unseen from strangers in a remote town five hundred miles away?”, most people asked when I described my adventure. I asked myself that question, again and again as I tried to get some sleep before the alarm clock went off.

There is a certain beauty and tranquility outdoors at five in the morning. Not that I’m familiar with this; I like to get up at the crack of eight. Crack of four, oooh. Talk about pre-dawn. But the adrenaline shocked me into action. I was early, and also the only one at the bus shelter in the freezing mist. There was a van parked nearby, but otherwise the lot was empty. Normally, the busses wait at the far end of the lot and only approach the shelter on schedule, but this morning there were no busses. Five twenty became five twenty-seven and I became frantic. Five thirty and I was jumping out of my skin; that was the connection window and now I was in deep trouble when the window of the van rolled down and a lady leaned out and said, “He didn’t come last Friday, either.”

Did I mention that I’m taking heart medication? My blood pressure proof-tested my entire system and there were no blowouts or clots broken loose, so I should be good for another few months, maybe more with my New Years Resolution to extend my years. How many times can you dodge the bullet? Back to the bus:

“There’s another bus, the 68U, you can take to Oakland.” she said, noticing my obvious distress. I explained that the 68U didn’t get even close to the connection for the Airport Flyer.

I whipped out my cell phone, intent upon filing my grievance with the Port Authority. “They don’t answer the phone until six.” she said as if she had read my mind. I think at that point I had zero blood pressure; I could not think.

Good thing, too, because the bus pulled around the corner and the blood rushed back to my head. “You make the connection with the 28X in Oakland?” I nervously asked as I slid my dollars and quarters into the fare box, “I need a transfer.”

“Seventy-five cents”, he replied. I tossed three quarters in the box, took the transfer, and he said, “We‘ll make it.”

I took a seat in the front and tried to quit shaking. The bus filled up on the way into town, then began to empty out again as we approached Oakland and the end of the line. As Morehead and Forbes loomed into view I got my bag and moved up into the discharge area and took a deep sigh of relief; we were on schedule. “Thanks a million!” I told the driver.

Back outside in the cold, I instantly realized I left my new gloves on the bus. Yah know, I just don’t deserve any thing because I’m not responsible and I’m careless and I’m undeserving yuk rush of guilt engulfed me in the bus shelter. Those gloves were a gift. I beat myself for about five minutes, half the ten minute wait for the Flyer, when I began to realize I overpaid the fare. When I talked to the Port Authority bus drivers in the parking lot earlier in the week (oh yes, my advance preparations included interviews with the drivers, just as AAA was one-on-one live) they told me the fare to Oakland was $2.75, and that I should ask for a transfer for the Flyer, and that would be seventy-five cents extra. “Exact change.”, they emphasized. I planned ahead, and had the $3.50 ready, it’s what I put in the fare box. When he said seventy five cents for the transfer, I wasn’t quick enough to point out I had already paid, but quick enough to part with my cash. I had a flashback to the minutes before when I was picking up the two quarters I needed and saying to my self, “I should take two more for the newspaper.” I paused and then thought, but what if the Pittsburgh Press is the only one available? It’s seventy-five cents… so I picked up three quarters. Foolishly I didn’t have small bills, only tens and up. Such luck to have the money I didn’t need to spend and spend it anyway.

Fortunately, when the Flyer arrived I climbed aboard and left my emotional baggage behind. I arrived at the airport and I thought the sign pointed to “All Flights”, so I got on the moving walkway and rode it to the end. It was the extended parking lot. I rode it back and could not believe that I had misread the sign… I approached security and presented my drivers license. “You’ll have to go to level three and get your boarding pass, Sir, then come here for screening.”, the TSA officer politely informed me. Of course, boarding pass. What was I thinking? The Continental counter was empty, two uniformed employees were leaning against one of the check-in terminals. They were trying to clear a transaction, I overheard. The lady whisked my reservation through and said, “Have a safe trip.”

Back at the security check-in, I saw the plastic bins for shoes, so I put my shoes in the bin, tossed the bag on the belt, and walked through the metal detector toward the motioning guard. “Stop!”, he commanded as the alarm went off. “Anything in your pockets?” “Uh, cell phone. ”, I stuttered. “Empty your pockets, everything, in the bins, change, keys, everything.” “Come on again.” I walked through again, the buzzer went off, “belt buckle”, he said. I put my belt in a bin and walked through again, this time I was cleared.

I got pancakes and a senior coffee at McDonalds, sat by the window and read the Tribune Review. I didn’t keep the receipt. I watched the operations of the various service crews at work outside on the tarmac, and watched as the plane I was to fly on docked at the gate. As I boarded the plane, I offered the young lady sharing my seat assignment in row 5 if she preferred the aisle or window seat, she selected the window. Shortly after climb-out the pilot announced that the President was scheduled to arrive in Cleveland at the same timeslot as our flight, and that we could be set back as much as an hour unless we arrived first, so if the passengers didn’t mind, he would put the pedal to the metal. You could feel the push as the twin turboprops revved up. We were ten minutes early upon arrival. I got a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel and decaf coffee ($2.88) and sat by the window. I saw the tail fin of Air Force One as it made its way to the NASA hanger at the end of the airfield.

I sat in the last seat on the leg to Charlotte. The plane was only half full. I deplaned and found my way to the taxi pickup, expecting to see a man holding a sign with my name on it. There were several drivers doing just that, but none with my name. I started to call the taxi company, when the phone went off; it was the driver, sitting on a bench twenty yards away. Nice guy, he knew exactly where I wanted to go. Richard was his name. He gabbed about his hobby, a fan club of Flight Simulator enthusiasts. (hawkflyers.com, fshf.hopto.org, dutchvan69@hotmail.com) I told him all about the car, the deal, and the nice folks who were selling it and meeting me at the DMV to transfer the title and turn over the car. Myrtle told me the DMV office was “on 29, across from WalMart, next to Tractor Supply.” We passed a WalMart, and turned into the DMV parking lot. I gave him a five dollar tip on top of the forty-three dollar fare.

The building was an army barracks; hardly what one would expect of a State office building. The sign above the door with a long line of folks under it read “Drivers License”, and another door said, “Office”. I entered and asked the lady at the desk where could I get my title transferred and temporary transit tag. “Oh,” she said, “You need to go to the DMV on 29.” Shocked, I said, “But this IS the DMV on 29, right?” “Well, it is,” she reassured me, “but this is the drivers license office, you need to go down to the title transfer office, down further, across from WalMart.” Can you believe it? There are two offices? When I spoke to the people at the DMV they never said there are two offices on 29. Fine folks here, Concord NC.

I called the cab company, they were no doubt falling out of their chairs, “Got another Yank, eh Leroy?” “We’ll send ‘em back.” they assured me. Yes, folks, there is a WalMart next to both DMV offices. Well, Richard pulled up, and delivered me another ten miles or so down the road, just as Myrtle pulled up in the Reliant. It was a beauty. “That’ll be twenty-two dollars.” I didn’t give him a tip; he surely knew he was taking me to the wrong office initially.

There was a line in the DMV, of course, but we eventually made our way to the window, and a nice young lady began to take our information and fill out the forms. “Drivers license.” she stated more than requested. “Insurance.” I passed the documents to her and she copied some of the information onto the paperwork. “North Carolina insurance?”, she asked. “No, I’m from Pennsylvania, not North Carolina. I’m driving the car back to Pennsylvania, I just need a temporary transit tag.”, I explained. “Well, I need proof of North Carolina insurance before I can issue this tag.”, she said most defiantly.

Quick review: did I ever mention any of the people I spoke to during my due diligence say anything about out-of-state insurance? Me neither. My butt-hole began to pucker. “No glitches” began to ring in my head. Things began to spiral out of control, to wit:

I called Bill Cotton, my insurance agent. He told me he never heard of such a thing, my insurance is good all across the country. I called AAA, they too were stymied. I was on hold with AAA for quite a while, unable to resolve the issue nor able to get DMV to relent. Another call to Mr. Cotton gave me the phone number of the Allstate agent in the neighborhood, and once located I stretched the patience of my gracious seller. We went to the Allstate office and I explained my problem to the agent there, Mrs. Patti Mills. She spoke to Mr. Cotton via my cell phone, and after a discussion with him and a receipt of a fax from him, went out of her way to produce a document that would pass muster. She also never heard of the requirement for North Carolina insurance, and that’s what I think made her help me. I thanked her profusely (and made a promise to myself to send flowers) and returned to the DMV. Mrs. Mills told me not to make any fuss, just slip the paper work to the clerk and look away as she does her stuff. The line at the counter was out the door and onto the sidewalk. Mrs. Love looked deeply distraught, and she lamented that her invalid husband was waiting for her to return and she was hours overdue. I went to the head of the line, where the manager who had raked me acknowledged me and told me to take the next place in line when the young lady who had assisted me was available. That was next and the long line of black people took a gasp as I stepped in front of the first in line to take my place at the counter. I slid the paperwork across and turned away to make small talk with Mrs. Love. I did not make eye contact with another soul in the room. “Sign here, print here.” she deadpanned. It was over, I had the temporary tag in my hand, I shook hers and apologized for my rude behavior, she waved it off, and we were out the door, in the parking lot taking pictures, saying thank you and goodbye. Myrtle gave me an envelope containing my deposit check, the original bill of sale to Mr. Garmon for $11,742.00, and some other memorabilia. She pointed out the original wheel covers were in the trunk, with a pair of jumper cables, and two sets of keys. It had less than a half tank of gas and the front tires looked a little low. Looking through my paperwork, I don’t think I got a receipt for my payment at the DMV. I think it was fourteen dollars. I think Myrtle paid the $5 for the title transfer while I was talking to the AAA/Allstate people. I would have preferred to have had the time to take Mrs. Love and her neighbor Hal to lunch, whatever, but they were eager, no, anxious, to get back home.

I noticed a slight roughness to the idle when I started it. The belt also squealed at first, but then went away. I was two hours or more behind schedule, so the plan became drive until exhaustion, then stop for food and lodging. I drove West on 29 to 485, the beltway, then North until the road disappeared. Consulting the map, I realized the dashed portion of 485 meant “proposed route” not, ‘drive here’. I made a u-turn and followed 85 South to 24 West, to 77 North and stopped at the Bluestone Travel Plaza for my first road break. I had a blueberry muffin and a coffee, $4.01. I checked the fluid levels and started driving North on 77. The cruise control did not hold steady over sixty MPH. Later, not only would the cruise hold, but the gas pedal developed a ‘dead zone’. There was no change in throttle until the pedal was fully depressed, then the engine would fully engage in WOT suddenly. I alternated from coast to full throttle for quite a while. I noticed the fuel was low, and filled up. Paid $20 cash for the fuel, didn’t record the quantity. The cruise control seemed to operate normally for a while and then it would drop out and go back to the dead zone operation. I drove North until seven, well after dark, and pulled off at Bluefield. I ate at KFC ($6.48) and got a room at the Economy Inn, $43.00.

Cowboy UP!, the joint next door to the Economy, looked every bit of the dive it was. “Five bucks”, the doorman announced, as another security person waved a wand all around my body. “Any dancers here?”, I asked him over the din of the music. “Just dry-humpers and jumpers.”, he replied. “Any two steppers?”, I quizzed. He just gave me a look. “Band starts soon, you’ll see”, he said. I walked around the room, nice dance floor, saw a bunch in the corner, thought it might be the band. The big, outspoken one, Stanley, tried to bully me into a bucket of beers for the gang, another one, Jim, says he’s his brother, said don’t get excited, he’s always that way, he’s harmless. We shook hands and I started asking the women to dance. You would have thought I was from Mars. Well, eventually two said yes, another said later, and the first two were duds. Worse than duds. After that I tried to swing with another, but we quit after a few tries. Another dud. There wasn’t a woman there that could dance. Jumpers and dry humpers. I went back to bed. Two cokes and a tip, $3, my big night out on the town.

I got up, showered, packed, adventure time. The belt squealed quite a bit, and I noticed that I was out, out, of gas. I drove back toward 77 and pulled into the first gas station. It was closed. Abandoned, really. But another guy pulled in with a beat up pickup, and I ran over to his window. “Do you know where the closest gas station is?”, I pleaded. “That way, ‘bout a mile.”, he pointed. I drove on, then pulled in. It was closed. Really closed, wind swept. Chances of two in a row? Remember, it was dark last night. I drove on, nearly on fumes. And I hadn’t had a drop of coffee yet, I was on fumes myself. I pulled into a Kroger store, approached the manager, explained my predicament and he pointed out the way to the first gas, oh, five or so miles down the road. I made it, surely on fumes alone. I can’t find that receipt. I had a blueberry muffin and a coffee @ 8:53 at the Bluestone Travel Plaza. I drove on to Clarksburg, fueled up again, $26.63. I got a decaf coffee, it was so rank I discarded it. I tried regular, it was worse. I bought a Mug root beer instead. I drove on to Monroeville, stopped at Kings for dinner, and home at last. Total mileage about 497.

Bus fare 4.25

Airfare 132.40

McD bkfst-MC 4.50
Bagel & coffee 2.88

Taxi fare + tip 48.00

Taxi fare II 23.00

Muffin & coffee NR 4.01

Fuel, NR-MC 24.00

KFC 6.46

Economy Inn NR 43.00

Cowboy UP NR 8.00

Starbucks 4.01

Fuel Clarksburg-MC 16.63

Mug root beer NR 1.14

Kings NR 8.00

Notary NR 14.00

Total, 344.20

Less airline 197.80

Agrees with balance of cash on hand, $265. Verify against bank statement for fuel charges