After desperately trying to sell my sporty little car for two months, I was frustrated beyond belief. I had almost decided that the vehicle that had served me so well during the past ten years was cursed.
Early on during the first test drive, a loud mystery rattle developed that defied detection. I touched every part in the engine compartment that could possibly move even a millimeter, which included some areas still hot from the test drive. I have the scars to prove it.
The potential buyer, a young man who looked like the real-life version of Waldo, wanted nothing to do with my reassurances that the exceedingly annoying noise was new and couldn’t possibly be anything serious. He quietly left while I was still cursing with my head shoved under the hood and my butt sticking out.
I haven’t heard the noise since.
On every test drive after that first one, something seemed to go wrong, sometimes dangerously. There was the blowout on the freeway that cost me $300 in repairs and nearly caused a frumpy middle-aged fellow to bill me for a new pair of shorts. Then a one-time leak of some unidentifiable fluid scared away a perfectly nice elderly gentleman. The strange smell from a phantom source that started minutes before the overprotective daddy with a college-aged son test drove it was the last straw. Continue reading