Buying Used Cars

By John Vivian
Published on April 1, 1994
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A trusty, reliable, and affordable 50's-era Chevy.
A trusty, reliable, and affordable 50's-era Chevy.
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A 1983 Pontiac 1000.
A 1983 Pontiac 1000.
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Left: Pontiac's 1970 Grand Prix.
Left: Pontiac's 1970 Grand Prix.
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A 1940 Willys Quad. The first "Jeep"" delivered to the U.S. Army. Right:
A 1940 Willys Quad. The first "Jeep"" delivered to the U.S. Army. Right:
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The 1973 VW Karmann-Ghia is still surprisingly available in used car lots and backyards.
The 1973 VW Karmann-Ghia is still surprisingly available in used car lots and backyards.
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John Vivian's own truck is a 1978 Chevy K-10 pickup.
John Vivian's own truck is a 1978 Chevy K-10 pickup.
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A 1973 VW Super Beetle
A 1973 VW Super Beetle
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A 1967 Ford F-100 pickup.
A 1967 Ford F-100 pickup.
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Every muscle-car dreamer's fantasy, a 1965 Fort Mustang convertible.
Every muscle-car dreamer's fantasy, a 1965 Fort Mustang convertible.

My truck was in the shop and they’d loaned me a little
’90s-era “world” car. I don’t recall whether it was a
Nissan, Ford, or whatever. With their squinty headlights
and wedgie shapes, the new cars all look alike to me. Their
computer-managed engines run alike as well: competent,
fuel-stingy… and dull. But this one handled crisply, the
stereo was “awesome” as the kids say, and I was getting
used to the “ergonomic” cockpit.

Then, halfway up a lonely hill road, the idiot lights went
on, the engine died, and a whole chorus of beepers and
buzzers piped up. I got out to look under the hood,
expecting to wire a broken choke pull-off or attach a loose
hose and be on my way. But nothing in the engine
compartment was familiar to my ’50s-trained auto-eye. There
wasn’t even a carburetor, but a squat gray box labeled
“Electronic Fuel Injection” surrounded by a snarl of tubes,
pipes, wires, and hoses.

After hiking to a phone, I found myself bouncing down the
mountain in the cab of Ben Perkins’ old Dodge tow truck.
After driving the claustrophobic little car–now
trailing along behind–I relished spreading out on the
roomy bench seat, able to spread my elbows and cross my
legs. The truck was as friendly as an old dog. Its engine
growled, the muffler rumbled, gears whined, and I
luxuriated in the faint odors of gasoline, engine oil, and
gear grease. The truck may have been homely and a little
rough in places, but it was sturdy, practical, and
straightforward. An honest-Abe Lincoln of a truck.

“Sure runs good, Ben,” I said. “How long you had it?”

“Got it war-surplus in ’62,” he said. “Fer $275.”

“Not too shabby a deal,” I said. “How many miles?”

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