After 17 years, I had to let her go. She was with me through my darkest times, and my greatest highs. She carried me when I lost my strength. She sheltered me from the elements of life. She wasn’t perfect, though. She broke down when things got tough. So, after 17 years, it was time to say goodbye. I would miss her golden glow. I did what any sensible man would do: I put an ad for her on Cars.com. I would have to part with my 2001 4-door Honda Accord with 172,000 miles and a slipping transmission.
After several weeks and multiple scam attempts, I got a text from Derek, who said he wanted to test drive my car on his way down I-75 to Orlando. Derek owned a used car lot in Atlanta.
From colleagues at work I’d heard the horror stories about buyers test driving used cars: people held up at knife or gunpoint; thugs stealing cars; police reports; severe trauma. Still, I agreed to meet Derek at 5:30 p.m. on a Wednesday in March at the Springhill Publix parking lot, which was close to I-75. My wife, Maria, was supposed to come to Publix with my two young children at 5:45 to pick me up, assuming I would have sold the car by then.
I arrived to Publix first and waited for Derek. After a few minutes a beat up old Pontiac Grand Am pulled up, front fender practically dragging on the ground, dents and dings all over the car. Through the windshield I saw two men, a skinny driver, and a hulking mass of a man who took up the rest of the interior. The car parked, and the giant unfolded himself from the car. He was a mountainous mass of a man, with a shaved head, unshaven face, baggy clothes that were dripping off him, missing his right arm, and a look like I’d killed his favorite dog. He dragged one leg behind him Keyser-Soze-style as he approached me.
I nodded with my chin as men do when they feel intimidated. “Derek?”
He wasted no time on pleasantries. “Pop the hood.”
“Yes sir.”
He leaned in and started poking at the engine and testing the tautness of the hoses. “How many miles?”
“One seventy six.”
“Year?”
“2001.” I swallowed hard.
At this time Maria pulled into the parking lot with my two kids. I waved to them, practically beckoning them to stick around and maybe even video tape what goes down in case of the worst.
She texted me: “We’re going inside Publix to grab a few things.”
Crap. Don’t go!
“Take it for a test drive?” Derek asked.
“Um, sure, yea. Let’s do that.”
I took one last look at my wife and kids, who were now walking through the parking lot toward Publix, away from me. They were a beautiful family. I seared their image into my brain, thinking I may need it to sustain me through whatever was about to go down. If I was going to be thrown out of a car on the highway to die in a ditch, I wanted to die remembering my family.
Derek nodded to the passenger in his beat-up Pontiac. The man gave him a thumbs up.
What does that mean; that he’s got the green light to off me and steal my car?
I climbed into the car with Derek and fastened my seat belt with quivering hands. My mouth was bone dry.
Derek could barely fit in the driver’s seat, even with the seat all the way back. I noticed how efficiently he buckled his selt belt with only one arm. It would be with that same efficiency he’d reach across and slash my throat, I thought.
Derek started driving toward I-75.
I cleared my throat. “Um, there are some good back roads around here,” I stammer. “We don’t have to really go to I-75.”
“I want to see how she handles on the highway.”
My vision started to blur with fear. “Oh, um sure. Whatever you’d like to do.”
Derek put my Honda to the test right away. The engine screamed as we made our way up the northbound ramp. He stared straight ahead, gripped the steering wheel with his one hand, and crushed the gas pedal. We were up to ninety-five almost immediately, effortlessly gliding and weaving through traffic. I held the roof handle tightly with my right hand and closed my eyes.
Derek said, “She’s a smooth sailor.”
“Yes, always has been.” I was glad for the simple conversation and connection. Maybe we would become friends and he wouldn’t kill me.
We passed another few minutes in silence, and all the while I was scanning the horizon looking for state troopers. We were still doing ninety-five.
I then did what I always do when I’m catastrophically uncomfortable and afraid. I started asking rambling questions to ease the tension. “So, Derek, you live in Atlanta. Are you a Braves and Falcons fan?”
“I guess.”
“Ah, good. Good. I’ve spent some time in Atlanta. I have a cousin there. How do you find the traffic?”
“It’s a busy town.”
“Ah, indeed. Yes, indeed. Congested I hear.”
“Yeah.”
And then more silence as he weaved through traffic at ninety-five.
“How much longer to an exit?” he asked.
“It’s about another seven miles.”
“Why’d you let me go north? I thought there’d be another exit like a mile or two up the highway.”
My stomach jumped into my throat. “I thought … well, I thought you knew where you were going so I—”
“I don’t live around here, man. I’m from Atlanta.”
“Yes, well, the exit will be here soon.” I shrank in my seat.
We drove in silence until the Alachua exit, turned around, then sped south on I-75. I was relieved to be heading back toward Publix and my family.
Derek got us back up to his comfortable ninety-five. My undershirt was soaked and my knuckles were white.
Derek’s cell phone—which was in his right front pants pocket—rang. He placed the steering wheel between his knees, reached around with his left arm, and started to work his phone free of his pocket. A few times he jerked the car left and right with his knees as he shifted positions to have a better chance of extricating his ringing phone. I knocked my head against the window and whispered a silent prayer.
He got his phone, and then paid more attention to it then the road in front of him as he answered. “Yeah, this is Derek.”
He cradled the phone between his right shoulder and cheek, but kept the wheel between his knees to steer. He rested his left arm on the driver’s door armrest. He looked completely relaxed, totally belying what I was feeling.
He carried on a minute long conversation about buying another car in Orlando.
I thought of my family and how much I loved them.
The call ended. Derek deftly let the phone drop into his lap, then placed his left hand back on the steering wheel, which helped restore my breathing only slightly. I felt like one feels when a doctor says the results are negative.
We thankfully arrived back to Publix, where the skinny driver was waiting for Derek. I nearly fell out of the car and kissed the ground.
He decided to buy my beloved. He handed me a huge wad of bills—mostly 20s—and invited me to count them all to make sure it was all there. My hands were still shaking so badly that I couldn’t manage the bills. They spilled out like confetti onto the passenger side floor. I knelt down and tried to count them while Derek loomed over me.
“You can trust me,” he said. “It’s all there.”
“I trust you,” I said shakily, as I gathered up the bills in fistfuls.
I gave him a signed title and key, then watched him drive off with my beloved.
I made sure to give Maria and the kids an extra tight squeeze when they finally emerged from Publix, having completed a fairly robust shop.
Derek had indeed given me the right amount of cash, which I was able to put toward replacing my wife’s lost diamond engagement ring for our 20th wedding anniversary.
All thanks to Derek.