When I was twenty-four, I decided to buy a car. Until then, I was determined to use my bike as my sole means of transportation. After my first car search, I realized that buying a car is a deplorable task.  

There was an old Volvo station wagon at the local dealership that I had been eyeing while pedaling down the road, and one afternoon I finally decided to take it for a spin.  Driving it down the road with the dealer on my side, I admired the wooden dashboard, and tried to figure out if I could sleep in the back without having to curl up.   

Back at the dealership, I continued looking it over, though I wasn't sure what I was looking for.  The dealer and his partner were sitting inside their office, watching me from the window, waiting for me to pull out my checkbook and make that big investment.  

I was ready to buy that car, but there was one thing that stopped me. When I shut the car door and started walking to their office, I didn't realize my dress was stuck in the door. As I approached their office, all I was wearing was a few inches of material hanging from my shoulders.  I tied what I could around my body and high-tailed out of there on my bike.     

Embarrassed to return, I held off a few days. Laughing about my dress, the dealer told me someone else wearing clothes bought the Volvo just the day before.  Devastated, I didn't bother looking at any other cars.  Instead, I searched the newspaper deciding to buy directly from a private owner.  

One night I found a '74 Honda Civic.  It was ten years old, but according to the odometer, the car only had 60,000 miles.  The owner said it had such low mileage because the person he had just bought the car from lived in Hawaii, and where do you drive over there, he asked me.  

The next day I returned to buy the car.  In three days, school started in Flagstaff, and I needed a car to get there and find a place to live.   

"Don't we need to sign a title?" I asked.  

"Yeah, but I don't have it," he said.  

"Well, I'm moving to Flagstaff and you're moving to Oregon, so where's the title?"  

"I just bought this car and I'm waiting for it myself.  Look, if you don't trust that I'll give it to you, I don't need to see the car to you.  I'm giving you a great deal at twelve hundred bucks!" he shouted.  

I didn't know this man, knew I'd never see him again, and knew my chances of ever seeing a title were slim, yet, I was tired of looking for a car, so I handed him the money and drove away in my new car wondering if I'd get picked up for taking a stolen vehicle.  

To this man's credit, weeks later he did send me the title. But, what I didn't realize was that I was supposed to get the car registered.  

Eating breakfast in town one morning, I ran outside when I saw a police officer putting a fine on my windshield.  I begged her to throw away the ticket, and tossed coins her way. She looked me directly in the eyes and said I was in big trouble because this car wasn't registered in my name.  

"Registered?" I asked.  

"Registered.  Your plates are overdue, and this car isn't registered."  

"Wait a minute," I said, "I have the papers in my underwear drawer at home.  I'll find them."  

"This car will be impounded until then," she said.  

At home, I finally found the title, but wasn't sure about this registration.  When I showed up at the court building, the woman I had to plea my case to listened to my pathetic story from beginning to end, shook her head with dismay when I asked how a person was supposed to know about registrations if they had never owned a car before.  She looked at me and said, "In your case, ignorance is bliss.  Let's pretend it's your birthday and I'm giving you a gift.  We're going to say you just bought this car today. Now go to the next building and get this thing registered immediately."  

I wondered what that fellow in Oregon thought about all those parking fines I had accrued on his name and wondered how he was getting out of this mess.  I bet he never sold anyone a car without a Title again.  

Author's Biography

Diane lives deep in the Delta region of Arkansas, where her daughter is always pestering her to buy a new car and she keeps saying their old car is just fine.  Anything but face a car dealer.

Editor's Note, August 2004: Diane's first novel, "Burning Tulips," was just published by Red Hen Press. Check it out!

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