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Author: Louis Caru

Neighborhood: University City

Age: 58

Occupation: Wine salesman

I popped the hood. “Not now, please,” I whispered to the ­engine.

I had overdue DVDs and books to return, dry cleaning to pick up, groceries to buy, a package to send, a prescription to fill. The tailor called to remind me my suit was ready. And I was expecting a check at the post ­office.

Then there was work. I am an outside salesman, and a salesman needs his car as much as a cowboy needs his ­horse.

Neighbors gathered around the open hood and offered diagnoses. Out of gas. Dead battery. Bad starter. Bad spark plugs. Too much ­gas.

“Could be a number of things,” said Jack, the neighborhood sage. “Or could just be having a bad hair day.” That brought smiles on this dark and dreary morning. Jack, as usual, was wearing his maroon robe and black slippers, held a coffee cup, and leaned on a ­cane.

A new neighbor joined us. She was in a pink hat, pink raincoat, and pink rubber boots. Her poodle wore a pink ­bow.

“The most problematic aspect of automobile ownership is the unpredictability.” Her East-European accent was strong. “An expert could promptly ascertain the dilemma ­here.”

Yes, ­let’s bring in the experts, I thought. And the sooner the better, because it had begun to ­rain.

The tow-truck driver loaded my car and drove away. The mechanic called shortly after lunch. “We can fix your car, but ­it’s going to cost you a new engine. And they ­ain’t ­cheap.”

And just like that, I was in the market for a ­car.

I searched the Internet for used cars within my budget and within University City, cars I could walk to. I quickly found a silver Ford Taurus. The price was right, and it was near the post office. What luck. I could pick up my check in the same trip. ­I’d have wheels by the end of the day, and ­I’d be back in action. I left right after ­lunch.

Within a few blocks of walking I found that driving had turned me into a stranger in my own land. I never realized how steep some hills were or how many office buildings had sprung up or how soaked a pedestrian can get when a car hits a pothole or how warm are the diesel fumes of ­buses.

I walked by a high school, where a group of students huddled on the edge of the school grounds. I assumed they were doing something forbidden, like smoking cigarettes or sharing dirty jokes or cheating on tests. But as I got closer I saw they had an iPod with small speakers and were listening to ­music.

On a chilly street corner an angel held up a sign advertising hot coffee. Her scanty costume was a white bedsheet and a halo of coat hanger and tinsel. She wore sandals. As I neared the cherub, I saw goose bumps on her bare arms, and her toes were red from cold. ­You’d never see that driving, I thought. Or smell the ­espresso.

The silver Taurus was standing at the curb. The young man waiting for me quickly apologized — he knew little about the car because it ­wasn’t his car. A friend had asked him to sell ­it.

Other than the car had never been cleaned, it looked great. No dents, no cracks, no missing parts. The tires were good and the shocks firm. All the chimes chimed and all the blinkers blinked. On the freeway, it handled well in the rain. But on the way back the “check engine” light went on. And stayed ­on.

“Better look into that,” I said, and left the fellow scratching his ­head.

There was now just enough time to get to the post office. Crows squawked like clarinets with broken reeds, warning of an imminent downpour. I ran, and I almost made ­it.

Maria was behind the counter. I stood in the doorway, ­dripping.

“Bad time to be taking a walk.” Maria had a reputation as the post office sense of humor. She was observant, too. She noticed the disappointment when I saw my empty ­mailbox.

“Expecting ­something?”

“A ­check.”

“Give me your phone number, and stay home where ­it’s dry. ­I’ll call you when the check ­arrives.”

­“You’re allowed to do ­that?”

“No. So please ­don’t tell ­anyone.”

There is a large fountain on the edge of my apartment complex, and parked across the street was a black Cadillac convertible. Even in the dusk and drizzle that car had character, beauty, class. Now, ­that’s what I need to ­find.

DAY TWO. The next morning I found a red Volvo and a green Pontiac station wagon. In the photo the Volvo looked immaculate. It was at a used car lot on Miramar Road, and I left right after breakfast. When I closed my front door, crows hopped from the treetops and flapped ­eastward.

My walk skirted the Marine Corps air station, passed the water-treatment plant, and came to an overpass where the cars below looked like migrating ­salmon.

Someone had spent a lot of time detailing the red Volvo. The chrome was gleaming, the wax brilliant, the windows spotless, the tires shiny black. The seats and carpets had been freshly ­shampooed.

When I opened the hood, however, it was another scene. Frayed fan belts; rusty radiator water; gooey, gritty motor oil; burnt power-steering fluid as brown as cheap syrup. The salesman wanted me to go for a spin, but after ­I’d seen what was under the hood I ­declined.

At a strip mall near my apartment complex I entered a soup-and-sandwich shop and met the new ­neighbor.

“Has your automobile been restored to functionality?” she ­inquired.

I explained the ­situation.

“Oh. How unfortunate.” Then: “There was a nice black car parked near the fountain this morning. Perhaps you should venture a look-see?”

“I saw it last night, but I ­didn’t see a For Sale ­sign.”

After my sandwich I walked to the green Pontiac station wagon. The quickest route was through Rose Canyon, following the train tracks to Regents Road. ­I’d never been down there before. The air was cooler than at street level and smelled like wet wood. I passed the decomposing carcass of a coyote — no doubt the victim of a train, its pelt dried and torn, white ribs ­exposed.

The cold wind increased so I quickened my pace. Avoiding rocks and puddles, I kept my eyes on the ground and my head down against the gusty wind, so I ­didn’t hear the commuter train behind me. When it blasted by my heart rocketed. ­Wow!

The Pontiac station wagon was in front of a ­doctor’s office. The faded green paint once had been bright green; the roof rack once had resembled chrome. The cluster of gauges and dials, switches and knobs looked like the cockpit of a jet airplane. The engine roared to life and rocked the car when I accelerated. I feared this dinosaur would need as much gas as a Boeing ­747.

The doctor understood my reluctance to buy his car, which he, too, referred to as a ­dinosaur.

­“It’s more of a family car,” he ­admitted.

I passed by the fountain on the way home and noticed that the black Cadillac convertible was no longer ­there.

I stopped at the grocery store and dry cleaners, so the day was not a complete ­loss.

DAY THREE. Maria called. There was a check in my ­mailbox.

Great timing, I thought, because my search had come up with “the deal of the century,” guaranteed by the owner to be the best used car in University City. Ignore the high mileage, his ad said; ­she’s been immaculately preserved. And forget the old ­beauty’s age; she runs like a spring chicken. She had been driven and maintained by his late ­aunt.

We agreed to meet at the University Towne Centre mall parking lot. I arrived early. The “deal of the century” slumped in the middle of the empty parking lot like an abandoned dog. It had a flat tire, a crack across the windshield, and a bent antenna. The hood latch was stuck, and I ­couldn’t open it. I saw a puddle of oil under the engine. One door had a huge gash, and the other was a different color. A rust patch on the roof was the size of a dinner ­plate.

I looked inside. Auntie must have eaten and slept in her car, living on fast food and using old clothes for bedding. Maybe she was dead in the back seat, buried under the food wrappers and T-shirts.

I was not going to find out and walked quickly away from the “deal of the ­century.”

Crows in the pine trees watched the whole scene as the owner pulled up. I was 100 yards away when he saw my ­back.

“Hey!” he yelled. “How much will you give me for ­it?”

“Hey!” the crows cawed. “How much will you give him for ­it?”

Hands in pockets, deep in thought, I headed for the post office. My lack of car-buying success was starting to gnaw on me. Sure, I was enjoying the walking. But I needed to start making a living ­again.

A car pulled next to the curb, and the driver rolled down his window. “Where you headed?” It was Jack, my neighbor. “Post office,” I answered. “Come on. ­I’ll give you a lift.” He was wearing his maroon robe and black slippers, and his cane was next to ­him.

“Guess you ­haven’t found a car ­yet?”

“Still looking,” I told him, and he heard the frustration in my ­voice.

“What about that black Caddy convertible, the one parked by the ­fountain?”

“I ­didn’t know it was for ­sale.”

“Had a For Sale sign on the ­passenger’s side. Great ­price.”

“Well, ­it’s not there anymore. Someone must have bought ­it.”

The check was in my mailbox. I gave Maria the thumbs up, and Jack gave me a ride ­home.

­“You’ve been doing lots of walking these days, I bet?” he said as we shook hands and I got out of the ­car.

“Yes, I guess I ­have.”

“I envy ­you.”

DAY FOUR. I stepped out my front door into mist. My bank was in a high rise in Golden Triangle, less than a mile from home. I walked briskly, cashed my check, and ­returned.

On the way home I took a different street. By now the sun had burned through the mist, and the crows were tuning up again. I turned the corner and there it was, gorgeous in the sunshine. The black Cadillac ­convertible.

When I crossed the street for a better look, I saw the sign on the ­passenger’s window. There was not a tear in the cloth top or a rust spot on the shiny body. I peered inside. Tan leather seats. CD player. Clean floor ­mats.

I called the number on the ­sign.

­“I’d like to buy your car,” I told the man, “and ­I’m standing right next to ­it.”

“Then I guess I better get over there right away.” In less than five minutes an old man walked around the ­corner.

“Twenty-three years ago I bought this automobile brand new for my wife. ­It’s been a wonderful car. Served us well. Just keep the fluids topped off and the maintenance up to date, and ­it’ll treat you well, ­too.”

“Why are you selling ­it?”

“My wife passed away a few months ­back.”

He insisted I drive it, and I obliged him with a quick spin around the block. I handed him the cash, which he stuffed in his pocket without counting, and he handed me the signed ­title.

“Funny we ­haven’t met, living in the same neighborhood. How long have you lived in University ­City?”

I thought of what I had experienced during the last four days. “You know, it seems like I just moved ­in.”

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