"I want one just like it"

With my older Chevy van outfitted, I did the two markets this weekend with good results. This truck is no larger than the other one, but will have to do until I can locate a bigger vehicle. It appears that the ideal size is a twelve-foot box attached to a Ford cab, allowing access between the cab and the box if needed. Loading and unloading is accomplished by a sliding rear door that goes up and into the ceiling of the box. This is sometimes called a “cube van.” Although there are many of them around, I haven’t found too many for sale on the used market. One of the other vendors has one, and told me he paid three thousand for it. I want one just like it, for three thousand dollars.

Pretty soon I’ll have one of the little convertible cars I so covet. I’ll fly out to Kansas city on US Airways for $113.00, and return in my Mazda Miata. A friend there wants to be rid of his little-used car, which he kept in excellent condition, and I said I would buy it. At first I made the commitment on a whim, even though this is a car I’ve long fancied—if not this one in particular, then this type. But as the days have passed I’ve convinced myself that this is a car I will be happy with, may even use as a daily—albeit impractical—driver. There is so little I’ve introduced into my humdrum life that can be rightfully called an indulgence. Rusted old riding mowers, costing less than a hundred—or even fifty dollars each--don’t count. They provide some amusement, a harmless pastime as I get the ancient motors into running condition again, but do nothing to glamorize my life. I need some glamour, some sunshine coming through the open top of the car, my hair blowing back from my receding hairline, a five-speed manual transmission to give a hint that this is a viable, sexy man at the wheel—if only in my own eyes. It is a path so many have walked before. I have had the ancient British classics, the cantankerous old clunkers that look fabulous but won’t hesitate to let you down at the most inopportune time. They have their place, too, but now suddenly I want the whole package—the good-looking car that also has an air of modernity about it. I want to drive. I’ll have a chance to do just that: The return trip is just under eleven-hundred miles. The work on the house will have to wait while I attend to this indulgence.