Booked and Bound to Go

I've got the key to the highway
I'm booked and bound to go
I'm gonna leave here running
Walking's most too slow
(from "Key to the Highway," by Big Bill Broonzy)

So I have my electronic plane tickets all booked. I am bound for the golden shores of the United States tomorrow morning. Most of the details of leaving the country, I have sorted out. I have a bit of packing left to do, but otherwise I am merely biding my time until 9:40 AM tomorrow.

Over the weekend I faced the unenviable task of getting rid of my car. The problem with selling a car when your moving is that you don't want to get rid of it too early, because then you're stuck without transportation for however long. But if you wait too long, your options for unloading the car get fewer. I have some experience in this arena, since in the last ten years I have moved great distances more times than I like to remember. The situation has worked out exactly right exactly once. On the other hand, I have twice had cars turn against me in the weeks before moving, and given the lack of time - or more accurately lack of energy - to deal with getting them repaired. On both occasions, I had to get scrap dealers to haul them away, myself getting nothing from the deal beyond the relief of being automotively unfettered.

The situation I found myself in this weekend is, so far, the least satisfying of all of my last minute car trades. I advertised the car, a 1994 Subaru Legacy "estate car" (that's a station wagon to you and me), on the Durham University website for several weeks. All I got out of that was several e-mails from people with names like Bob Anderson and messages that went something like this: "I am very much interested in your (item). Please advice me to you last price. I am pleased to you for accepting my personal cheque for the price of you item. Thanks you very much..." How many Bob Andersons do you know who speak such English? Nonetheless, I responded to the first of these, telling Bob the asking price and offering to have him come out to see the car at his convenience. The reply, translated into standard English, was that he was working on behalf of an American client who wanted to send me a cashier's check for significantly more than the asking price of the car, sight unseen. I would deposit the check, keeping my share for the car, and wiring the remainder to an unspecified shipping agent who would then come and collect the car. Right - that doesn't sound shady at all, does it? Where do I sign? Needless to say I mostly ignored all subesquent contact from Bob and his ilk.

The only serious enquiry about the car came from a fellow member of the university community, but it was while I was away for several weeks. By the time I returned to Durham, this fellow had understandably already found a car. So I sent around an e-mail to all the grad students and research staff in my department, imploring someone to make me any offer - none was to ridiculous. No offers were forthcoming, and my most dreaded last resort was imminent - pimping the car around to low end used car dealers. I would rather deal in black market body parts with circus folk in dark back alleys than negotiate a car sale with a used car salesman, especially the type of used car salesman likely to be interested in my 11 year old Subaru. Alas, this was my fate on Saturday (the car sale, not the back alley body parts thing).

So I pulled into this tiny little yard situated in the back of a row of houses. The "lot" was a fenced in yard about 20 feet on a side, with a dozen cars packed almost close enough to touch each other. The only building was a dilapidated hovel that was missing one of its four walls. The guy is sitting in a metal folding chair surrounded by greasy tools and car parts. I explained that I had called earlier about my Subaru, and was here to have him look at it, and make me an offer. He wandered over to where I had parked the car, his nylon track suit pants whoosh-whooshing as he walked. He sucked his teeth and tut-tutted about the work he'd have to put into before being able to sell it. Then he noticed it had an automatic transmission. This, for some mysterious reason, is the death blow for selling a car in England. I guess because the automatic transmission is still such new, untested technology (it's only been around a mere sixty years or so?), it is viewed with suspicion and skepticism. Besides, anything that makes a task like driving slightly easier is a frivolity to be dispensed with. But I digress. Anyway, after totting up all the failings of my car, and driving it up and down the street a few times, they guy made me a profanely low offer. I was taken aback. Did I hear correctly? "No," I replied, "if I am going to give it away, I'll give it to a friend, or the Salvation Army, or that guy at the pub who looked at me funny." So he added and extra 25 pounds to his offer. He knew I was desperate to sell, and I knew he wasn't going to go much higher than this. And I was desperate to sell, so after thinking about my options (since their really weren't any, this didn't take long) I grudgingly accepted the paltry offer on the condition that he give me a lift back to Durham. On the ride back he had the cheek to point out that he'd saved me the bus fare I would have otherwise had to pay. In my mind I was bashing his smug face into the stearing wheel repeatedly. I spent the rest of the day in a gray cloud of disgust over the advantage taken of me.

But no matter now, right? I'll be off tomorrow into the bright blue yonder, and bright blue future of who-knows-what. I'll see my beautiful wife and my adorable children, and the 94 Subaru will quickly recede from memory.

All in all, I have no regrets about the year and half I've spent here in England. I have learned a lot, made several good friends, picked up some interesting language, and had a son here. So as I prepare to depart these fair shores, I'll say God save the queen, and God bless America!