Frankly, I don't believe it. When I drive around, I pass dealership after dealership jammed with cars. Plus all the car that anybody could ever want is sitting a few doors down from my house, just waiting to be snapped up by some lucky person.
It's hard to miss this candy apple red 1966 Mustang convertible, which my neighbors, Ray and Terry Garcia, are offering for sale, well, because the time seems right.
The car has about 99,000 miles, and has been garaged for so long I only learned of its existence a few years ago, when they pulled it out and took it for a spin. I was gob-smacked. How could someone own such a thing and the neighbors not know? But that's the Garcias: they are people of parts, as Shakespeare said, and I'm always finding new aspects to them. They travel and have a wonderful green thumb. Terry zips around the neighborhood on an electric bike. Ray was a Marine and worked for the Post Office and a master gardener and, frankly, if I heard he had been an astronaut and gone to space, well, I'd be surprised, but not really that surprised.
Honestly, I'll be sad to see the Mustang go. I've enjoyed passing it as I walk Kitty over the last few days. Though I couldn't help but notice that their method of advertising—parking it at the end of their driveway with a sign—is not the most tech savvy in our interconnected world. So I volunteered use of my blog, where hundreds can be expected to notice it. First, because I'm a nice guy. And second, I need to repay them for having the coolest yard on the block, with its gorgeous, perfectly maintained beds of prairie plants and wildflowers, not to overlook their folk art display of found objects any one of which is a delight just to look at, plus all the cup plant seedlings they've passed along to me. It's a debt I can never repay.
They aren't asking a fortune—$19,000, which is less than what you'd pay for some anonymous piece of garbage that nobody would look at twice. And unlike most used cars, this can be counted on to keep its value.
That's it. I would buy it myself, only for the lack of a spare $19,000—okay, that isn't true, but there are taxes and a new bathroom to install and pay for, and, maybe trips to take, so zipping around town in this sharp little baby is out of the question. For me.
But maybe you made a wiser career choice, and have a more glamorous life, and can pick it up as easy as snapping your fingers. If that is the case, email them at firstname.lastname@example.org and see what you can work out. But don't hesitate; it won't last long.