having recently bought a newer and bigger used pickup, i put my old rusty white pickup next to the road and placed a “for sale” sign in the window. for two weeks there were no calls and seemingly no interest. the actual adventure began around 9pm one evening while i was watching a video of “Lolita.” i’m startled by a loud “hey” outside, and it appears to be two guys interested in my truck.
i put on a shirt and head out and am greeted by two central american looking fellows one younger, twentyish, the other possibly in his fifties. the older man was shirtless and the fly of his sagging polyester pants was fully open. they both spoke no english but identified themselves as guatemalan. alot of smiling and gesturing ensued as we walked around the truck, pointing at obvious rust, starting the engine, turning on the lights, and covering the same ground a few times.
the bargaining session with the elder started with me scratching a number in the gravel and he replying “mucho, mucho…” his partner then produced a pen for us to write numbers on our hands, and the older man, who by now i knew as juan, wrote a very low number on his palm. another number or two and it appeared to me that i had initally dropped too much in price and was already below what i had figured was my lowest asking price. it took a couple pained facial expressions and me realizing that i couldn’t really express finer points like the repairs i had recently done or quirks of the truck before i knew that i was going to have to just play along with the limited language negotiations or just walk back inside. i decided to play along and we came to a middle number that juan seemed to like and i was simply happy that my truck would be sold. more language barriers were discovered when thinking about license plates, insurance and registration. we agreed to meet again the next evening.
the next night they wanted to drive the truck over to their employers house which happened to be just down the road. i swapped plates with my own new vehicle and went for a ride with juan to “casa mike.” mike came out of the woods wearing just a white towel, most likely from a swim in his pond. he proved to be elusive and of no help, since he knew no spanish and wanted nothing to do with the transaction. he barely made eye contact and made me think of every corporate white guy taking advantage of cheap immigrant labor but wanting no part of the realities of the lives of his employees. he said he would come up with a phone number of a guy who speaks spanish, that’s all, the rest is your own responsibility. juan and i again agreed to meet the next evening.
later the same night, the two guatemalans honked the horn of mike’s truck in my yard. soonafter i was speaking on the phone with the interpreter who proved to be patient and helpful, assuring me that juan could get insurance and registration. what i was unaware of then was that juan needed a ride to meet steve the interpreter to hash out the details, i felt stuck, but empathized with juan having a dispassionate employer and no means of transport.
3pm the next day i’m driving juan to the appointment, speaking our broken communication, me understanding more of his spanish than i can tell he is able to comprehend my english. numbers easy enough, hand gestures necessary. he didn’t seem to know where exactly we were going, so i pulled into a tractor dealer and used the phone to call steve. we were close and shortly met with a very helpful and understanding steve. the only snag was that mike must have called steve and was unaware that juan was headed to the appointment which left mike without a vehicle and evidently put juan’s employment status on shaky ground.
we wrapped up our business, signing paperwork, recieving payment for the truck and making it clear (through steve) that i would be unable to act as a shuttle in his next series of appointments for insurance and the dmv since i had a serious workload in the coming weeks. it was a quick drive back wherein we both agreed how good steve was and how useless mike was.
i dropped off juan then proceeded home and once more swapped plates so i could deliver whitey to casa mike. it was an uneventful short drive, i took the plates and started to walk the mile and a half home. a gaggle of teenage girls passed, one making special note about liking my socks (to my back). i was relatively close to home when a police officer in an unmarked car pulled over and asked if i needed a ride. it occurred to me that folks walk up and down this road alot, why should he ask me if i needed a ride.
i was filthy in my work clothes and was carrying license plates and had two screwdrivers in my back pocket, but so what? i said “no thanks, i just live up the road”, and he said “what happened?”.
i told him i just delivered a truck and was walking home, at that point he left me alone and drove off in the direction he came.
it left me wondering if someone called him about a suspicious character.
safely back home i reinstalled my plates and enjoyed the view of the yard minus one rusty but always trusty white pickup.
so long whitey.