(This is part 9 of a multi-part series. If you wish to start at the beginning, click here)
I turned 16 and the wreck of the Edmund Fitz-Cherokee was a year in the rear view mirror. No car with a bow on it showed up on the b-day, but that was hardly a surprise. For the past year, older brother’s ride was the KC Metro after school got out. He was still privy to the Wagoneer when he bunked at Mom’s.
I had V8 dreams on a no budget. So, imagine the surprise when Dad and stepmom dropped on me one day they had put aside $2,000 (~$4,000 in 2020 money) and wanted to see if they could help find a used car for me. Butterflies in my chest suddenly came to life:
$2,000 to help me buy a car? I believe I could hang with you for a while on this.
Such began the journey into a prospector’s land called Classifieds. It was THE way to buy and sell a used car back then. Sure, you could put a for-sale sign in the window, drive it to a parking lot with high visibility, dealer trade on your next car (and get screwed like you still do), or just word of mouth. However, an ad in the classifieds seemed like throwing a juicy worm in the middle of a school of perch.
I can smell the musty and slightly damp (despite the plastic sleeve), thick Sunday paper. There is assuredly a lost art to making a classified ad: the poetry of trying to get attention to your wares under 60 characters and 2 lines. Make your pitch:
the usual: “4cyl,” the magical: “6cyl” the mythical: “8cyl” the exotic: “trbo” “dual exh” and on and on: “Immac cond,” “Nice!” “ttps” “htchbck” “cpe” “sdn” “conv” “Lke new” “Runs gd” “Rns grt!” “4sp” “5sp,” “auto,” “a/c” “pw” “pl” “ps” “cruse” (or “cruz” “cruis” “crs”) “47k” “88k” “103k” “Z28” “LX” “GT” “DX” “LX-i” “EX” “SE” “no rst” “no accid” “No drmrs” “Creampff” “ldy-ownd” “Needs wrk” “not runng” “dsnt run” “wnt start” “nds trans” “nds motor” “no leaks” “no smke” “no drip” “grt schl car” “Sacrf” “6.5k” “OBO”, “OBRO,” “Frm” “Ser inq only,” “No calls aft 6p” “Lv msg,”
We were poor back then. Vowel and consonant poor.
You instantly knew the car was something special if the ad took up 4-5 lines and used complete words and sentences. Often it was only 7-10 words long: “1980 escort lx, 4sp, 81k, call 555-1111" and that was enough to sell a car! Being the 1980s and 90’s, we just omitted the “19” to read “ ’88 Mstng LX 5.0, 5sp.”
No pictures—that was reserved for dealer quarter- or half-page ads; and most of those were black and white.
The dealer ads themselves were an exercise in circus art: some oversized goofball grinning caricature: “Come on down, we’ve got tons of cars!” (—incidentally, wouldn’t having two full sizes cars on your lot qualify as “tons?”—) All sounding like the world’s best birthday parties you do not want to miss: “Summer Blowout!” “Winter Blowout!” “Year End Celebration!” “Low Financing!” along with balloons, confetti, and horn party favors.
Clowns? –Probably.
Dealers seemed to value the use of phrases like “Gas Miser!” or “Sips Gas!” as favored bait.
It was incredibly intimidating as a young person to call the number in a private ad—knowing you sound like a little kid talking to a “grown-up,” losing both credibility and negotiating power with that pubescent voice. Wondering when to call: before 9am on a Sunday? Too early, maybe at church or sleeping in. 1pm seemed safe. Not after 9pm. Not knowing what questions to ask. Wanting to call. Burning to bridge the vast divide between no car and cool car. Knowing you had no leverage to negotiate anything. Maybe getting a kid your age answering the phone and handing it to their parent—something just seemed wrong about that—like you’re talking to someone from a different planet.
Of course, if the car in question sold on Saturday, you get people answering the phone with an impatient sneer, “If you’re calling about the Civic it’s already sold,” or, changing their answering machine to give the same message. After one sold something in the classifieds, you often just stopped answering your phone for a few days.
The next generation will remember people seeding their Craigslist ads with keywords:
“ JDM, MR2, Integra, GSR, Rocket bunny, 240sx, turbo, stanced, coilovers.”
Now it’s FB marketplace. The venue changes, but the game remains the same.
Back to 1990:
$2000 wouldn’t buy a whole lot of mustang, or much else that would impress the teen scene. A few weeks of flipping through the classifieds yielded few leads. Slim pickin’s. There was an ad for an ’83 Mustang LX with scant details but it fit the budget. Called and got a nice lady on the phone. She didn’t know much about it either, but offered to let me come by and check it out. As luck would have it, she only lived about 15 minutes from Dad’s house. I’m sure I excitedly waved the paper under Dad’s nose and pleaded to go look. He gave me his keys. First used car test drive. All right! It was evening, dark, and slightly drizzling (bad choice). The lady was in her early 50’s and while the exact conversation is long forgotten, she was selling it for a son or some other family member. She didn’t drive it, didn’t know if it ran, didn’t really seem to care one way or another. To her, it was a commodity to be disposed of. To me, it was a black hatchback that looked pretty good. No V8, but still cool. Mustang. Musss—taaaangggg.
She handed me the keys. Really? Treating this 16-year-old as if he knew what he doing? And, oh, btw, I totally wrecked my dad’s jeep last year. I’m not going to mention that, but like you should just know, lady. Open the door and get in the driver’s seat as she stands outside in the drizzle. There’s a smell of someone else inside: not good, not bad, just different. The interior is kinda messy: assorted papers, shirt or loose clothing in the back, some bags, some trash. Needs a vacuum. She states the battery might not be great but we can try. Put the key in. The dash glows a sickly green. Turn the silver key. RUGG-RUGG-RUGG. Hmm. Not starting. We look at each other and both shrug in an uneducated what-do-you-try-next? Carbureted cars—Do you pump the gas pedal a few times? Not? I did both. Nothing worked. Car wouldn’t start. The RUGG-RUGG-RUGG turned to a rugg-rugg, and finally a pitiful gug-gg. We both sighed, and I thanked her for letting me look at it. To our non-mechanic family, a non-starting car was an immediate deal breaker.
Over the next few weeks, my classified search took me out to other places. I convinced my stepmother to drive me out south to Raymore, MO to check out a 1982 base Pontiac Sunbird from a small lot. Not knowing much, we took a test drive and pulled it into an independent mechanic, who quickly pointed out the different shade of paint on the passenger door indicating previous wreck. Dejected, we took it back, and tried an ‘84 Chevy Cavalier. The same mechanic smiled and pointed out evidence of body work in a different panel. And then, on the way back I spotted the most amazing ’86 red Mustang LX convertible on a different lot. Not a V8, but the 3.8L V6. It was absurdly over budget (like around $8000). Low miles.
I immediately started begging Stepmom for a test drive.
I immediately started doing mental calculations coming up with the cost difference.
I was literally ready to sell my soul for that convertible mustang. I was making 100/week in a part-time job, so at $6000 difference, I‘d be paying the car off for 2-3 years. But oh, it seemed worth it. She reluctantly agreed to a test drive. Took it to same mechanic who put it on the lift—raised it, and noted a pretty significant oil-leaking gasket (no idea what it meant, being a-mechanical). The kind mechanic looked sideways at us, and was like, “What exactly are you looking for?” I told him my dream was a V8 mustang and he took down our phone number, very selflessly pledging to look around on our behalf.
About a week or so later, my dad got home from bowling night. He told me one of his bowling buddies had a salvage yard and dabbled in used cars. The buddy knew of a lead…
It was a Mustang…
Coming soon, Part 10.
Soundtrack: Bike by Pink Floyd