Frost buys a car. Hilarity does not ensue.

Not 20 minutes after my last post on Friday night, I was on my way to O'Donnovan's to see The Damn Few play.

My truck made it about 1/2 a mile. The same bearing blew out... again.

I did a 180, limped it back home, stormed back into the house, pulled a beer out of the fridge, and slumped on the couch.

The Russian

"Now what?" asked my roommate.

"The bearing blew out again." I grumbled.

Without missing a beat, he goes into a monologue.

"I didn't tell you this before, but the bearing is only the beginning of your worries. You've got a bad steering knuckle, and one of your tie rods is going to need replacement soon. The engine burns oil, and you're leaking coolant somewhere... probably the head gasket. If you fix the bearing, something else is just going to break on the truck next week.

I know you want to keep it for hauling projects once in a while. I know you wanted to get a better vehicle in the spring. But you've been doing more than hauling projects with that truck; you've been driving it every day. And I'm telling you, driving that truck daily like you have been will not last until spring.

Here's what you're going to do: Get on Craig's List. Start looking at cars between $500 and $1000. It only has to last until spring. I'll help you pick out a good one. Tomorrow morning when I get off work, we'll go look at them and pick one up. Then the truck won't be a critical issue. We can take our time and fix it up enough to sell it.

You get a different vehicle tomorrow, and I won't charge you for the repairs to your truck. Take your beer and get online right now. Go."

I did. Every car in that price range looks like junk. 2 beers later, and I decided that I had enough of Craig's List for the evening. I was missing out on my evening plans, and that just made me angry. So it came to pass that I walked to the neighborhood pub, with the intention of getting piss drunk, and singing some karaoke.

The Pub

It took 20 minutes for the waitress to notice me, and I was thirsty, dammit! I ordered a pint of Guinness. 30 seconds later, she brings out a short glass, and it has obviously been poured wrong, 90% head. I tell her I ordered a pint (or a tall, to her) and that I'd like it crafted this time. Less than a minute passes, and she comes back with a tall Guinness, somewhat still too much head, and there is no cascade. That is never a good sign. I took one sip and my suspicions where confirmed: there was no nitrogen. I immediately took the beer back to the server and cornered her.

"Your tap is hooked up wrong. There's no nitrogen in this."

"So?" she replies.

"So the beer tastes wrong. It's supposed to be a mixture of 40% carbon dioxide and 60% nitrogen. Without the nitrogen Guinness goes flat instantly. When you craft it, you can see the cascade of the two gasses mixing in the glass. So your tap is hooked up wrong."

"Umm... Ooooooookay, well that's not my job. So do you want to order something else?"

"What I really want is for you to tell the person in charge of hooking up the tap that the Guinness is hooked up wrong."

"So... do I tell the bartender, then?"

"Yes. And tell them that they need to craft the beer, too. It takes a minimum of 119 seconds to pour a Guinness. You brought it out to me in less than a minute. That's not even enough time for the first stage to settle."

She frowns at me. "What do you mean 'craft'?"

I give up. "Forget it. I'll have a Fat Tire. Tall."

I'm friends with the KJ, so we drank and BS'd for a while. A while turned into several hours. And the next thing you know we're closing down the bar. I stuck around after bar close for a while, and eventually walked back home in the bitter cold. Hit the sack by 2:30am.

The Hunt

My phone rang at fucking 6am. It was the Russian. "Hey, my shift just ended! Ready to go buy a car today?"

I reluctantly dragged my ass out of bed. He was home 10 minutes later, and we began looking at Craig's List one more time.

He instantly identified 80 ads of reliable makes and models of vehicles that were worth reading about. We got some good laughs at the ads, because people would say things like "Perfect car! Runs great! Only goes in Reverse." or "100% car! No problems! Just needs a transmission." By 7:00am That list was narrowed down to about 25 cars.

"Well," he says, "let's start making some phone calls."

"It's 7am on a Saturday morning. Don't you think it's a bit early?"

The Russian gets a grave look on his face. "If they're serious about selling this car, they'll answer the damn phone."

My head is throbbing. I drank far too much the night before, and I was running on about 3 hours of sleep, two days in a row. Today was not going to be fun.

But I don't have to do a thing. The roommate is on the horn, calling one number after another. They don't answer? He hangs up and drops the ad. We narrowed the list down to 5 vehicles, and he makes appointments to see 2 of them.

The first one is in Forest Lake, and can't happen until 11:30, because somebody from Rochester is already looking at the car at 11am.

We move on to the second appointment, a Chevy S-10 pickup in Apple Valley, being sold by a guy with a thick Spanish accent. "I hah no prolems wit dat tduck. He goes all day. Good tduck. You come see."

I'm feeling nauseous.

The Mexican

We arrive at 8:00am. The truck is even rustier than mine, the hood is open, and a block heater is plugged in. The Mexican comes running out from his garage.

"I cang get him started. He run good yesserday. I just plug him in. You have jummer wires?"

We jump the S-10. It sounds like a bearing is bad in the engine, howling badly. It surges when it idles. Everything is filthy. My roommate discovers a socket extension sitting on top of the firewall, and hands it to the seller, who had apparently been looking for that tool for months. The interior was absolutely trashed; torn and stained fabric, broken plastic. The windshield was cracked. Definitely not worth it. We walk away.

I'm hungry and thirsty. My hangover is full-on.

The LOL NEWAYZ MAH BABEE RULZ car

We return home and continue making calls from Craig's List. That's when we ran across this gem of an ad which reads:

I HAVE A MAZDA MX6 1995
I POSTED THIS ABOUT 2MTHS AGO BUT I DIDNT HAVE THE TITLE BUT I HAVE IT NOW ..

THE PIC'S OR NOT MY CAR BUT THE SAME CAR SAME COLOR AND TYPE... LOOK JUST LIKE THE PIC
THE CAR HAS A (SMALL CRACK) ON THE RIGHT HAND WINDOW AND (SMALL DINT) ON PASSANGER SIDE U CANT EVENT SEE IT miner stuff THAT WONT STOP U FROM DRIVEN.... THE CAR RUNS GREAT IT HEATS FAST I GOT NEW BRAKE SON THE CAR ....
___________________________________________________________________ IT SWEECK'S SUM TIMES WHEN IT'S REALLY COLD FOR SPLIT SEC WHEN IT STARTS BUT MY UNCLE SAID I HAVE TO PUT OIL ON THE BAND AND I HAVENT GOT A CHANCE AND MIGHT NEED ( transmission work) MIGHT .... BUT BESIDES THAT I LOVE IT IT RUNS GREAT LIL SPEED RACER LOL I WOULD KEEP IT BUT I NEED A BIGGER CAR AND I CANT KEEP BOTH .... ___________________________________________________________________ SUN ROOF.. BLACK BRA ON IT.. RUNS GREAT.. NEW BRAKES.. NEW LOUD SYSTEM THAT CHANGES 6 GRAPHICS.. LOUD SYSTEM / SPEAKERS .. GOOD MILES LIKE 181xxx YOU WOULD HAVE TO CALL SO MY BOYFRIEND CAN TELL U CUZ I REALLY DNT KNOW... HEAT .. SUN ROOF.. LOOKS GREAT .. SOUNDS GREAT .. ANY QUESTIONS CALL SERIOUS INQUIRY ONLY, CASH ONLY I WILL NOT SHIP
DORISSA OR BLAKE 763-503-XXXX

Ahh yes. The all-caps ad. Written in ghetto jargon. This was going to be an adventure. The Russian assures me this is an excellent make and model of car, and no matter how poorly the ad is written, the price for the miles is worth it. He calls the number. I can hear everything.

"Sup." A dude answers.

"I'm calling about the Mazda. Is it still for sale?" my Roommate asks cordially.

"Da wha?"

"The Mazda. You have it on Craig's List. Is it still for sale?"

"W'chu mean?"

"The Mazda MX6 car you have for sale. Is it still available?"

"Awwww! Aw yeeeeah! Yeah, we got it! Is here! Datz my baby girl's car!"

"Oh. Are there any problems with it?"

"Nah, man... that shit is TIGHT! I mean, it's got like little shit, 'n' stuff but it's all good!"

"Ok. What kind of mileage does it get?"

"Man it gets-- I swear to God-- It gets 27, man. Swear to God. 27. No shit."

"Ok. Can I talk to the actual owner please?"

"Yeeah, gimme sec." The gentleman puts down the phone, but we can still hear him in the background. "Baby, you gotta phone call. Baby? Baby? They callin' 'bout your car, baby. They need talk to you 'bout da car baby, they wanna buy it."

Some indistinct female mumbling. Then a louder curse, taking the Lord's name in vain. The guy starts getting upset.

"BITCH, I said get your ass on the phone! We need that money, nigga! They gonna buy da mothafuckin' car! Git yo black ass outta bed!"

An irritated girl gets on the phone. "HALLO WHO THIS?"

My roommate identifies himself and says we're interested in looking at the car. He ensures that she has the title and that she's prepared to sell the vehicle. He makes arrangements for us to meet at her boyfriend's place of employment, a hardware store in NE Minneapolis.

The Test Drive

We arrive an hour later and spot the car running in the parking lot with the girl in it. The ground is vibrating with extra-loud bass, emanating from her car. She turns down the volume, rolls down the window, and slides her oversize designer shades down to the tip of her nose, and calls to us.

"YOU HERE FOR DA CAR? MOTHAFUCKA IS FUCKIN COLD ASS TODAY."

We ask her to pop the hood. She is troubled by this because she can't remember how. But finally finds the release inside the car. We take a look. Everything was dry and clean. There were no unusual noises. No smells. So far so good.

"SOMETIMES IT SQUEEKS WHEN I START IT BUT I GUESS I NEED TO PUT SOME OIL ON THE BAND OR SOME SHIT."

Between the loud ebonics and my roommate's pronunciation of the English language, combined with his understanding of automotive parts, he didn't understand what she meant. "What do you mean, a band?" he asked.

I caught on and acted as a bit of a translator. "She means the serpentine belt. You could put some belt dressing on it, but it's probably best to just replace it."

"YEEEAH, DAT SHIT, RIGHT THERE."

We closed the hood asked for a test drive. I get behind the wheel, and the Russian climbs in back. The owner rides shotgun. Immediately she turns the volume way WAY up on her Kenwood stereo, blasting rap.

"YEEEAH! CHECK DAT SHIT OUT! MOTHAFUCKA IS LOUD!!! FUCK YEAH! IT GOES EVEN LOUDER, BUT ANYWAYZ--"

She also shows me the cosmetic mirror on the sun visor.

My hangover goes into high gear, and I just about snap. I immediately commandeer the radio controls from her and turn it off, intent on listening to the engine.

My nostrils are overpowered by the smell of pot, poorly masked by about a dozen of those pine tree air fresheners. You could get high just riding in this car.

We take it for a test drive. We ask a few more questions, but this girl obviously doesn't know a thing about cars. Everything is predicated with "MAH BOYFRIEN SEZ" or "MAH UNCLE SEZ" and is completed with "BUT ANYWAYZ. WHATEVA. IZ ALL GOOD." We return to the hardware store parking lot, where we see the boyfriend for a brief moment, but never get to talk to him. I thank the girl, and tell her I'll call her shortly with my decision.

My roommate assures me that all things considered, this is still a mechanically-sound vehicle that will definitely last me until spring. The transmission needs a new torque converter, but he makes a few phone calls and says it can be done with parts and labor for under $300 with his connections. We fetch some cash from my bank, discuss our findings, and prepare to bargain.

We call the girl, but it's her home number and she's not home. So we drive back to the hardware store in the hopes that we can find the boyfriend and get his girlfriend's cell number from him. He's already left work in the 20 minutes we were gone. The store manager is kind enough to call him for us, and hand us the phone. He tells us that she has taken the car to her work... in New Hope. We punch the address into my roommate's GPS and hit the road again.

Closing the Deal

The GPS takes us to the seller's place of employment. As we pull into the Big K parking lot the Russian lets out a groan. "Are you fucking kidding me? She works at a K-Mart?"

We go inside. She's at the one and only checkout lane. The store is dead, so she has time to talk. I tell her that we did some research and got estimates on the necessary repairs, and said I was prepared to offer her the asking price minus the repair costs. In other words, $700. She frowned at first, but kinda shrugged. I offered $750 cash, on the spot. She said it sounded ok, but wanted to talk to her boyfriend first, and needed 30 minutes to think about it. That was fine by us. We were both starving, and my hangover was killing me. I took the Russian to lunch at Applebee's for his time.

I'm paying the bill, and boyfriend calls me back. "You know, you sayin' $750 an everythang, but like we knewd about them tranmission proms afore, an datz why we was askin' $1300 but lowered it to a gran, but what you gotta unnastand iz I got this nigga I gots ta pay off like TODAY, he all pissed in shit, so I can't really take less than $800, gnome sane?"

I agree to $800 and tell him that I'll go do the transaction with his girlfriend in 10 minutes. He says that's acceptable and calls ahead to his girlfriend.

We're back at the Big K and I put $800 cash on the counter. She produces the title and her driver's license. I open it up and look over the details. She fills our her portion.

"WUZ THIS RIGHT HERE? HAHAH! THEY REALLY WANT THAT?" she's laughing and pointing to the line that reads 'Dealer License Number'. "DO I HAVE TO DO THAT?"

"No, you don't need to fill that out." I said.

"WHY NOT?"

"Well, you're not a dealer, are you?" I asked rhetorically.

"WELL NOT ME, BUT MY BOYFRIEN... WELL HE AIN'T REALLY A DILLA. HE JUST SELLS TO HIS FRIENS 'N' SHIT, GNOME SANE?"

*blink.*

"I meant an authorized Minnesota car dealership." I replied, dryly.

We finished the title. I got the keys. She says she still has some things in the vehicle she wants, so she follows us out to the parking lot. Then she remembers that she left the stereo face plate in her purse back in the store, and says she'll go get it.

"I ALLS TAKE THE FACE OFF CUZ I DUNNO IF YOU KNOW THIS BUT THEY A REAL PROM WIF MOTHAFUCKAZ JACKIN' A NIGGAZ STEREO 'N' SHIT SO I ALLS TAKE IT OFF. CUZ FUCK THEM NIGGAZ!"

*blink*

Umm. Yeah. I think I've heard of that problem before.

She goes back inside, and I fire up the car. My roommate says, "Dude. Leave your gloves on. Don't reach under the seats. And clean out this car as soon as fucking possible." I don't even have to ask why. As an example, he puts on his own gloves, looks between the door and the seat, pulls something out, and throws it on the ground: A used syringe.

She comes back with the stereo face plate. I drove home. Half-way I put the face plate on and discovered that she had left me another present in the CD player.

I got home at 2pm, drank some more water, and took an 8hr nap.

Good God...