The Billfold » cars http://thebillfold.com Everything About Money You Were Too Polite To Ask Fri, 17 May 2013 21:24:13 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.3.1 My Mother Stole My Car And Got Rid of It http://thebillfold.com/2013/01/my-mother-stole-my-car-and-got-rid-of-it/ http://thebillfold.com/2013/01/my-mother-stole-my-car-and-got-rid-of-it/#comments Fri, 11 Jan 2013 18:00:49 +0000 Stephanie Nott http://thebillfold.com/?p=21455 Stephanie Nott


Never leave your mother alone on Christmas—even if your mother insists that the holiday isn’t a tradition for her, and that you and your sister should go see your paternal grandmother while your stepdad goes to see his daughter in North Carolina. Oh sure, it may seem like she’s OK with this arrangement, but even for someone who doesn’t celebrate the holiday, being alone on Christmas can cause an unexpected meltdown.

It was a few days after Christmas in the winter of 2007. My dad dropped me off at my mother’s house to pick up my car, a 1996 green Mazda 626, which I considered the love of my life. I’m allergic to all animals great and small, so this car was the closest thing I ever had to a pet. I was the vehicle’s sole driver, it lived with me at college, and I paid for maintenance, repairs, fees and gas. My mother hated the car, begrudgingly paid for half the purchase price, and called it “Experiment 626″, a reference to disaster-prone Stitch from Disney’s Lilo & Stitch. When we pulled up to the house, Stitch wasn’t there.

“You’ll notice your car is not in the driveway,” my mother said, as soon as my dad left.

“Yes,” I replied, “Did you move it to the back driveway because it was clogging up the front driveway?”

“No,” she said. “It’s gone. I got rid of it. You’re going to have to buy a new car. And I’ve kicked you off my insurance, so you’re going to have to buy car insurance too. And you’re going to have to find a way to get back to your apartment and get to work every day.”

She then proceeded to explain that while my sister, my stepdad and I were busy not spending Christmas with her (despite her permission, mind you) she had noticed that my car was one month overdue for inspection. She reasoned that if I crashed the car in the future, and if the crash was with another vehicle, and if the people in the other vehicle were injured severely enough, they might sue her for allowing a vehicle titled in her name to be driven around uninspected. So as was her right to dispose of property titled in her name, she had disposed of it—without telling me, or anyone else for that matter. Note that she was describing a theoretical situation, and I had not been in a car accident for almost four years. And we could have had a normal adult conversation about this before her rash decision.

Had she discussed it with me, this is what she would have found out: Yes, I was aware the inspection was overdue. However, there was a large crack in the base of the windshield, and it would not pass inspection unless it was replaced. A mechanic friend quoted me $600 for new glass. I estimated that I would be getting a total of $600 in cash from various relatives for the holidays, and thus could pay for the windshield on the spot, which I figured would be more responsible than adding it to my ever expanding black hole of credit card debt.

It was news to me that the vehicle we had purchased jointly was titled solely in her name. It was unfathomable that according to the paperwork, the largest purchase I had ever made did not belong to me at all. And the threat of calling the cops to report a stolen vehicle, which had been on the tip of my tongue the whole time, evaporated into hopelessness.

Of course, a person can’t actually steal property they have a title to. A person can, however, constructively steal it, thereby constructing a situation in which the victim of the constructive theft is in a worse position than an actual theft because not only is there no car, there is no legal remedy either. If you have jointly purchased property, and you’re the one who is supposed to be in possession of said property, make sure your name is on it. It’s a lesson I learned too late.

To raise money for a down payment on that car, I instated an emergency ban on all spending, except for the cost of getting to work. I ate rice and sold my clothes on eBay to raise money. Generous friends bought me groceries sometimes. I drove a borrowed mini-van that probably shouldn’t have been on the road. A tear or two might have escaped my eye every time I saw a green Mazda 626 while out driving.

Things worked out. A month later, I drove a brand new 2008 Toyota Corolla off the lot. I could never have gotten a car that nice without the help of my stepdad and dad. The three of us convinced my mother that there was no point in ruining me financially before law school by forcing me to take on a purchase greater than a year’s worth of in-state tuition. But that purchase wouldn’t have had to be made in the first place if we had all sat down and had a calm, rational discussion about the legal implications of the 626’s ownership.

Here’s a rundown of what an unplanned intra-family constructive car theft will cost you and yours:

• Unplanned, the purchase did not coincide with any 0% APR offers. I paid 2.9% on $11,600 over three years at $339 a month. Happy Honda Days? VW Sign & Drive? Model Year End Clearance? Toyotathon? Apparently my mother has never heard of these events. Having lower monthly payments over a longer period of time could have freed up income to pay off credit cards which jumped from promotional rates of 4.99% to Recession rates of 17.99% during those three years. I also could have borrowed less during law school. Had I been given the time to save for a car, a larger down payment could have decreased the amount financed, further decreasing interest payments.

• The next model of Corolla came out that summer, and is currently worth between one and two thousand dollars more with similar features and mileage, according to Kelley Blue Book. Although this will not affect me now, it puts me in a worse position next time I buy a car.

• As I spent the majority of those three years in law school during one of the worst legal hiring markets since the Great Depression, tack on another 5.31% to 7.9% interest because although I had a student job, it was not a highly paid legal job. I often paid my monthly car bill with student loans on which I will be paying interest for at least the next few decades. Yes, even the highly educated do dumb things like paying off a loan with another loan.

• Under my mother’s original vision, I was supposed to purchase the new car on my own. In reality, my stepdad generously ponied up several thousand dollars for a down payment. During my first year of law school, he envisioned that I would focus on my grades and not work, so he sent me money to help with the car payments. My dad sent money during years two and three. I don’t think my mom would have disposed of the old car with such haste if she knew it would end up being such a financial draw on my other parental figures.

• The down payment was not without a few rules attached, among them that the car must be new. Buying a new car, about $5,000 was lost in the three seconds it took me to turn out of the dealership lot. Making $23,000 at my pre-law school job, $5,000 was not an amount I could afford to be throwing around. The “new” rule had further pitfalls in that insurance on a new car is higher than insurance on a used car.

• The cost of insurance could have been further reduced if my mother kept me on her insurance plan and simply asked that I cover my vehicle’s share. Again, I had not been in an accident in almost four years at the time, and over the next four years would incur a single speeding ticket, which my legal connections would ensure did not appear as points on my license.

• My mother even ended up paying for costs associated with getting rid of my old car. Originally, I was on my own for transportation. But the reality was that I had to get to work in a city with terrible mass transit. She lent me a malfunctioning Dodge Caravan. This car was truly an accident waiting to happen. It drove like it was drunk. The ailing brakes and bald tires failed to stop just short of a deer one night, and I hit the poor thing going about 0.5 mph. The impact was just enough to crack the headlight cover which my mother later replaced. I never figured out why she had no problem with this wreck of a vehicle being titled in her name, and exactly how it managed to keep passing inspection.

• In all of this, no one ever mentioned that we could have simply transferred title to my name, making me the liable party in the event of the car accident that never actually occurred.

According to my mother, I was supposed to learn some lesson about responsible car care from these events. What was actually learned was that it costs approximately $20,000, plus several decades of interest on student loans to leave my mother alone on Christmas. My stepdad and I make sure we are in town on Christmas, and my dad has not asked that I spend Christmas with his side of the family since. I dubbed the Corolla “New Puppy”, never missed a payment, and paid it off by the January before graduation. I still drive it.

People ask me when I’m going to get a “real lawyer car.” I tell them I don’t plan to give this car up. There’s nothing like a good financial disaster during the formative years of your early twenties to make you attach a disproportionate amount of emotional importance to an object. I went from the utterly hopeless position of having a car stolen with no money saved, and no legal recourse, to paying off a brand new car while attending law school during the worst economic downturn our generation has seen. Really, this car is my own Christmas miracle.

 

Stephanie Nott is an attorney in Rochester, N.Y. where she advises other people on how to get out of their financial disasters.

22 Comments]]> Stephanie Nott


Never leave your mother alone on Christmas—even if your mother insists that the holiday isn’t a tradition for her, and that you and your sister should go see your paternal grandmother while your stepdad goes to see his daughter in North Carolina. Oh sure, it may seem like she’s OK with this arrangement, but even for someone who doesn’t celebrate the holiday, being alone on Christmas can cause an unexpected meltdown.

It was a few days after Christmas in the winter of 2007. My dad dropped me off at my mother’s house to pick up my car, a 1996 green Mazda 626, which I considered the love of my life. I’m allergic to all animals great and small, so this car was the closest thing I ever had to a pet. I was the vehicle’s sole driver, it lived with me at college, and I paid for maintenance, repairs, fees and gas. My mother hated the car, begrudgingly paid for half the purchase price, and called it “Experiment 626″, a reference to disaster-prone Stitch from Disney’s Lilo & Stitch. When we pulled up to the house, Stitch wasn’t there.

“You’ll notice your car is not in the driveway,” my mother said, as soon as my dad left.

“Yes,” I replied, “Did you move it to the back driveway because it was clogging up the front driveway?”

“No,” she said. “It’s gone. I got rid of it. You’re going to have to buy a new car. And I’ve kicked you off my insurance, so you’re going to have to buy car insurance too. And you’re going to have to find a way to get back to your apartment and get to work every day.”

She then proceeded to explain that while my sister, my stepdad and I were busy not spending Christmas with her (despite her permission, mind you) she had noticed that my car was one month overdue for inspection. She reasoned that if I crashed the car in the future, and if the crash was with another vehicle, and if the people in the other vehicle were injured severely enough, they might sue her for allowing a vehicle titled in her name to be driven around uninspected. So as was her right to dispose of property titled in her name, she had disposed of it—without telling me, or anyone else for that matter. Note that she was describing a theoretical situation, and I had not been in a car accident for almost four years. And we could have had a normal adult conversation about this before her rash decision.

Had she discussed it with me, this is what she would have found out: Yes, I was aware the inspection was overdue. However, there was a large crack in the base of the windshield, and it would not pass inspection unless it was replaced. A mechanic friend quoted me $600 for new glass. I estimated that I would be getting a total of $600 in cash from various relatives for the holidays, and thus could pay for the windshield on the spot, which I figured would be more responsible than adding it to my ever expanding black hole of credit card debt.

It was news to me that the vehicle we had purchased jointly was titled solely in her name. It was unfathomable that according to the paperwork, the largest purchase I had ever made did not belong to me at all. And the threat of calling the cops to report a stolen vehicle, which had been on the tip of my tongue the whole time, evaporated into hopelessness.

Of course, a person can’t actually steal property they have a title to. A person can, however, constructively steal it, thereby constructing a situation in which the victim of the constructive theft is in a worse position than an actual theft because not only is there no car, there is no legal remedy either. If you have jointly purchased property, and you’re the one who is supposed to be in possession of said property, make sure your name is on it. It’s a lesson I learned too late.

To raise money for a down payment on that car, I instated an emergency ban on all spending, except for the cost of getting to work. I ate rice and sold my clothes on eBay to raise money. Generous friends bought me groceries sometimes. I drove a borrowed mini-van that probably shouldn’t have been on the road. A tear or two might have escaped my eye every time I saw a green Mazda 626 while out driving.

Things worked out. A month later, I drove a brand new 2008 Toyota Corolla off the lot. I could never have gotten a car that nice without the help of my stepdad and dad. The three of us convinced my mother that there was no point in ruining me financially before law school by forcing me to take on a purchase greater than a year’s worth of in-state tuition. But that purchase wouldn’t have had to be made in the first place if we had all sat down and had a calm, rational discussion about the legal implications of the 626’s ownership.

Here’s a rundown of what an unplanned intra-family constructive car theft will cost you and yours:

• Unplanned, the purchase did not coincide with any 0% APR offers. I paid 2.9% on $11,600 over three years at $339 a month. Happy Honda Days? VW Sign & Drive? Model Year End Clearance? Toyotathon? Apparently my mother has never heard of these events. Having lower monthly payments over a longer period of time could have freed up income to pay off credit cards which jumped from promotional rates of 4.99% to Recession rates of 17.99% during those three years. I also could have borrowed less during law school. Had I been given the time to save for a car, a larger down payment could have decreased the amount financed, further decreasing interest payments.

• The next model of Corolla came out that summer, and is currently worth between one and two thousand dollars more with similar features and mileage, according to Kelley Blue Book. Although this will not affect me now, it puts me in a worse position next time I buy a car.

• As I spent the majority of those three years in law school during one of the worst legal hiring markets since the Great Depression, tack on another 5.31% to 7.9% interest because although I had a student job, it was not a highly paid legal job. I often paid my monthly car bill with student loans on which I will be paying interest for at least the next few decades. Yes, even the highly educated do dumb things like paying off a loan with another loan.

• Under my mother’s original vision, I was supposed to purchase the new car on my own. In reality, my stepdad generously ponied up several thousand dollars for a down payment. During my first year of law school, he envisioned that I would focus on my grades and not work, so he sent me money to help with the car payments. My dad sent money during years two and three. I don’t think my mom would have disposed of the old car with such haste if she knew it would end up being such a financial draw on my other parental figures.

• The down payment was not without a few rules attached, among them that the car must be new. Buying a new car, about $5,000 was lost in the three seconds it took me to turn out of the dealership lot. Making $23,000 at my pre-law school job, $5,000 was not an amount I could afford to be throwing around. The “new” rule had further pitfalls in that insurance on a new car is higher than insurance on a used car.

• The cost of insurance could have been further reduced if my mother kept me on her insurance plan and simply asked that I cover my vehicle’s share. Again, I had not been in an accident in almost four years at the time, and over the next four years would incur a single speeding ticket, which my legal connections would ensure did not appear as points on my license.

• My mother even ended up paying for costs associated with getting rid of my old car. Originally, I was on my own for transportation. But the reality was that I had to get to work in a city with terrible mass transit. She lent me a malfunctioning Dodge Caravan. This car was truly an accident waiting to happen. It drove like it was drunk. The ailing brakes and bald tires failed to stop just short of a deer one night, and I hit the poor thing going about 0.5 mph. The impact was just enough to crack the headlight cover which my mother later replaced. I never figured out why she had no problem with this wreck of a vehicle being titled in her name, and exactly how it managed to keep passing inspection.

• In all of this, no one ever mentioned that we could have simply transferred title to my name, making me the liable party in the event of the car accident that never actually occurred.

According to my mother, I was supposed to learn some lesson about responsible car care from these events. What was actually learned was that it costs approximately $20,000, plus several decades of interest on student loans to leave my mother alone on Christmas. My stepdad and I make sure we are in town on Christmas, and my dad has not asked that I spend Christmas with his side of the family since. I dubbed the Corolla “New Puppy”, never missed a payment, and paid it off by the January before graduation. I still drive it.

People ask me when I’m going to get a “real lawyer car.” I tell them I don’t plan to give this car up. There’s nothing like a good financial disaster during the formative years of your early twenties to make you attach a disproportionate amount of emotional importance to an object. I went from the utterly hopeless position of having a car stolen with no money saved, and no legal recourse, to paying off a brand new car while attending law school during the worst economic downturn our generation has seen. Really, this car is my own Christmas miracle.

 

Stephanie Nott is an attorney in Rochester, N.Y. where she advises other people on how to get out of their financial disasters.

22 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2013/01/my-mother-stole-my-car-and-got-rid-of-it/feed/ 22 On Sunk Costs and Not Throwing it Away http://thebillfold.com/2012/12/sunk-costs-and-not-throwing-it-away/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/12/sunk-costs-and-not-throwing-it-away/#comments Sat, 29 Dec 2012 18:00:49 +0000 Julian Hattem http://thebillfold.com/?p=20660 Julian Hattem


This year, I learned that sometimes it’s best not to throw in the towel.

I have a tendency, probably like most people, to weigh sunk costs a bit too heavily in my calculation of investments and purchases. I throw good money after things go bad, paying to have things fixed or redone. I already own them, so why not invest to make them last? The problem is I never know when to fold ‘em, when to abandon the money already wasted and move on with my life. This was the year I trusted myself to keep at it. And it worked out.

My car broke down in the autumn. It’s always been an old car, with years’ worth of dents in the bumper and rust stains on the roof. The passenger window has been broken into twice, and on both occasions, the process of shattering the window left multiple dings in the door which I’ve never had fixed. But it always drove, despite a few quirks. My car is more of a tool than a machine, really. It’s driven me across the country from the mountain west to the Great Lakes to the mid-Atlantic corridor. It’s seen oceans and two countries.

To reward its years of kindness to me, these days I hardly drive it. Maybe once a week I’ll take it out, usually for groceries, but occasionally to dinner, or the beach, or to see my grandparents two hours away. Gas is a rare expenditure, and most of the other money I throw into it (insurance and registration) is a manageable once-a-year cost. For access to a machine that gets me anywhere whenever I need it, it’s a good deal.

My city charges a nominal fee to register the car and tag it to be parked legally on the street in my neighborhood. It’s not too much money, and it feels like a fair enough tradeoff. The registration also requires the car pass an emissions test, and I had to have that done in September. Earlier this year, my “Check Engine” light turned on, and a mechanic changing my oil diagnosed something technical-sounding I didn’t understand. He said it would cost $500 to fix, but that the malfunction would show no symptoms except for the light. Something about a fuel pressure sensor, he said. Obviously, I declined. But getting my emissions test, the government-employed auto inspector said that the Check Engine light was a dealbreaker. I would have to get it fixed.

A new mechanic, whom Yelp told me was much more reliable and sure to approach any problem head-on, quoted me $600. It seemed like a whole lot of money. And it was. I bought my car a half-decade ago for about $2,000, paid in cash. To pay $600 to fix it seemed like a lot. I doubt I could get more than $1,000 or so if I sold it, and the life expectancy isn’t too great no matter what. I considered whether or not it was worth it. Instead of the car, I could get one of those carts to walk to the grocery store, I thought. It’s good exercise, and I find those carts rather charming. Perhaps this was the beginning of the carless me.

It wasn’t. I paid the $600 and got the light fixed. The mechanic said I would need to drive it a little bit so that the sensor would reset itself, so I drove around town and bought some ice cream. Then I brought the car back for another DMV emissions test. It failed again. The mechanic assured me that the problem was that I didn’t drive it enough, and would need to go on the highway a bit. I drove out to the suburbs, spending a Saturday evening watching the lights come on. Another emissions test, another failure—this time because my odometer was not readable. That, too would need to be fixed.

I was frustrated and angry at the DMV for springing a new problem on me, angry at my mechanic, whom I had grown to distrust, angry at my entire municipal government. Most of all, I was angry at myself, really, for spending $600 to fix something that couldn’t seem to be fixed.

Fixing the odometer, the Internet said, required taking the entire front panel of the car out just to change a tiny lightbulb to illuminate the digital display. My mechanic quoted me $250, mainly for the time. It seemed like it might be possible to do it on my own, too, though that required skills and tools I don’t have. Or, maybe, I should just junk the car. I worried that because I had already invested a few years and thousands of dollars in owning it, that the few hundred dollars more—a small sum, really, in the larger picture—would seem worth it, even if it wasn’t. Then, that I would have to invest more not have that last investment go to waste. It’s hard to know when to call it quits, when to admit that it’s not worth it anymore to keep pouring money into a lost cause. The natural inclination is to keep spending to salvage things, but I’m aware of that inclination, so I often try and correct for it. Then I try and correct for overcorrecting.

In the meantime, as I should have foreseen, my registration expired. I got a $100 ticket two days after the expiration date on my tags. Then another one, for another $100, two days later. It sat on the street while I figured out what to do, and each day it risked another $100 ticket. I stashed it in a parking space at a now-empty house I used to live in, and scoped out a church parking lot for future safekeeping. The more I thought about it the more conflicted I felt. It seems rash to throw a car away over $250. Especially since I had just racked up $200 more.

I committed to fixing it. It’s worth it, I told myself. I chose to believe that this new cost would cement my car’s functionality for, at a minimum, another year and a half. And $250 was worth a car for a year and a half. But maybe it wouldn’t do that. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

I found a mechanic and planned to drop my car off over the weekend. On a lark, however, I went back the DMV early one morning before that. I realized that shining a flashlight at the odometer would make it legible, and maybe if I smiled really nicely and called people sir and ma’am, they would let me off the hook. When I met the inspector, I felt like I was lying to a cop. He took my car and had me sit in a waiting room next door for it to come around.

Inexplicably, the car passed. It took four visits and $800, plus an additional fee from the DMV for all the tests, but it made it. That was in September. So far, the car’s been running strongly, though I might need new wiper blades. In the end, the costs were worth it. But I’m not sure how much more I would’ve paid. Any more and I may have had to let the losses go to waste. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

 

Julian Hattem lives in Washington, D.C., and has a blog and is even on Twitter.

1 Comments]]> Julian Hattem


This year, I learned that sometimes it’s best not to throw in the towel.

I have a tendency, probably like most people, to weigh sunk costs a bit too heavily in my calculation of investments and purchases. I throw good money after things go bad, paying to have things fixed or redone. I already own them, so why not invest to make them last? The problem is I never know when to fold ‘em, when to abandon the money already wasted and move on with my life. This was the year I trusted myself to keep at it. And it worked out.

My car broke down in the autumn. It’s always been an old car, with years’ worth of dents in the bumper and rust stains on the roof. The passenger window has been broken into twice, and on both occasions, the process of shattering the window left multiple dings in the door which I’ve never had fixed. But it always drove, despite a few quirks. My car is more of a tool than a machine, really. It’s driven me across the country from the mountain west to the Great Lakes to the mid-Atlantic corridor. It’s seen oceans and two countries.

To reward its years of kindness to me, these days I hardly drive it. Maybe once a week I’ll take it out, usually for groceries, but occasionally to dinner, or the beach, or to see my grandparents two hours away. Gas is a rare expenditure, and most of the other money I throw into it (insurance and registration) is a manageable once-a-year cost. For access to a machine that gets me anywhere whenever I need it, it’s a good deal.

My city charges a nominal fee to register the car and tag it to be parked legally on the street in my neighborhood. It’s not too much money, and it feels like a fair enough tradeoff. The registration also requires the car pass an emissions test, and I had to have that done in September. Earlier this year, my “Check Engine” light turned on, and a mechanic changing my oil diagnosed something technical-sounding I didn’t understand. He said it would cost $500 to fix, but that the malfunction would show no symptoms except for the light. Something about a fuel pressure sensor, he said. Obviously, I declined. But getting my emissions test, the government-employed auto inspector said that the Check Engine light was a dealbreaker. I would have to get it fixed.

A new mechanic, whom Yelp told me was much more reliable and sure to approach any problem head-on, quoted me $600. It seemed like a whole lot of money. And it was. I bought my car a half-decade ago for about $2,000, paid in cash. To pay $600 to fix it seemed like a lot. I doubt I could get more than $1,000 or so if I sold it, and the life expectancy isn’t too great no matter what. I considered whether or not it was worth it. Instead of the car, I could get one of those carts to walk to the grocery store, I thought. It’s good exercise, and I find those carts rather charming. Perhaps this was the beginning of the carless me.

It wasn’t. I paid the $600 and got the light fixed. The mechanic said I would need to drive it a little bit so that the sensor would reset itself, so I drove around town and bought some ice cream. Then I brought the car back for another DMV emissions test. It failed again. The mechanic assured me that the problem was that I didn’t drive it enough, and would need to go on the highway a bit. I drove out to the suburbs, spending a Saturday evening watching the lights come on. Another emissions test, another failure—this time because my odometer was not readable. That, too would need to be fixed.

I was frustrated and angry at the DMV for springing a new problem on me, angry at my mechanic, whom I had grown to distrust, angry at my entire municipal government. Most of all, I was angry at myself, really, for spending $600 to fix something that couldn’t seem to be fixed.

Fixing the odometer, the Internet said, required taking the entire front panel of the car out just to change a tiny lightbulb to illuminate the digital display. My mechanic quoted me $250, mainly for the time. It seemed like it might be possible to do it on my own, too, though that required skills and tools I don’t have. Or, maybe, I should just junk the car. I worried that because I had already invested a few years and thousands of dollars in owning it, that the few hundred dollars more—a small sum, really, in the larger picture—would seem worth it, even if it wasn’t. Then, that I would have to invest more not have that last investment go to waste. It’s hard to know when to call it quits, when to admit that it’s not worth it anymore to keep pouring money into a lost cause. The natural inclination is to keep spending to salvage things, but I’m aware of that inclination, so I often try and correct for it. Then I try and correct for overcorrecting.

In the meantime, as I should have foreseen, my registration expired. I got a $100 ticket two days after the expiration date on my tags. Then another one, for another $100, two days later. It sat on the street while I figured out what to do, and each day it risked another $100 ticket. I stashed it in a parking space at a now-empty house I used to live in, and scoped out a church parking lot for future safekeeping. The more I thought about it the more conflicted I felt. It seems rash to throw a car away over $250. Especially since I had just racked up $200 more.

I committed to fixing it. It’s worth it, I told myself. I chose to believe that this new cost would cement my car’s functionality for, at a minimum, another year and a half. And $250 was worth a car for a year and a half. But maybe it wouldn’t do that. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

I found a mechanic and planned to drop my car off over the weekend. On a lark, however, I went back the DMV early one morning before that. I realized that shining a flashlight at the odometer would make it legible, and maybe if I smiled really nicely and called people sir and ma’am, they would let me off the hook. When I met the inspector, I felt like I was lying to a cop. He took my car and had me sit in a waiting room next door for it to come around.

Inexplicably, the car passed. It took four visits and $800, plus an additional fee from the DMV for all the tests, but it made it. That was in September. So far, the car’s been running strongly, though I might need new wiper blades. In the end, the costs were worth it. But I’m not sure how much more I would’ve paid. Any more and I may have had to let the losses go to waste. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

 

Julian Hattem lives in Washington, D.C., and has a blog and is even on Twitter.

1 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/12/sunk-costs-and-not-throwing-it-away/feed/ 1 You Mean Some People Don’t Drive, What? http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/you-mean-some-people-dont-drive-what/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/you-mean-some-people-dont-drive-what/#comments Thu, 18 Oct 2012 15:06:01 +0000 John Wenz http://thebillfold.com/?p=15757 John Wenz

I knew exactly zero people in high school who didn’t have a driver’s license. It was Western Nebraska—I knew more people who couldn’t ride a bike than I did people who couldn’t drive. That’s just how it was!

My first car was my brother’s 1987 Dodge Colt. Somewhere around the fourth alternator, it was decided that it wasn’t worth the repairs (even though my “mechanic” has typically been my father, who works for the price of “stand here and hold that light for a while”). I inherited my parents’ 1989 Chevy Corsica. At 240,000 miles, its timing chain went caput. I drove the family minivan for a while—a rear wheel drive Astro beast—before spending all of college driving a 1996 Chevy Corsica.

When I became the first of my siblings to graduate college, I was given money toward a new used car. After careful selection, I found what I wanted on Facebook of all places. We put the $3,500 down on a 1999 Saturn SC1. At the time, I had very logical thinking, especially for a 23-year-old. I wanted something with good fuel economy and at least not-horrible emissions, a requirement that became ironic this summer, when the car was scrapped after failing essentially every state inspection it possibly could. Including the emissions test. I got $200 for it, and for the first time in 12 years, I don’t have a car.

And I feel relieved. 

In 2007, the Saturn moved me and my stuff (mattress strapped to the roof), from Lincoln, Neb. to Philadelphia, Pa..; from Philly to Washington, D.C.; from D.C. back to Lincoln; and then from Lincoln back to Philly. (I’m done moving.) The east coast introduced me to people I once-thought-mythical—not just those without a car, but those without a driver’s license (by choice and not by court order or three strikes laws.) In Washington, my car fell into disuse because of readily available public transportation (so much so that one time I went to drive it and the battery was dead from slow-drain). Back to Lincoln? Back to frequently driving. Philly was walkable, but I worked in the suburbs, and found commuting by car easier than the regional rail lines. So I drove.

But now I’m car free. It’s different, though, from when I lived in D.C. and simply didn’t drive much—there, I still had the car. I’ve found that my Middle American dependency on cars is as much a psychological as anything, and I’m finally breaking myself of that dependence.

This is a great step forward. I am no longer am worrying about paying my insurance bill ($350, twice a year). I no longer have to worry about having money for gas. Vehicle registration, driver’s license transfers, inspections—no longer hanging over me. I never have to pay for parking again (unless a friend is driving and I want to be nice). No more tickets. No more costly repairs.

And if push comes to shove, I can just do what the kids in my neighborhood do—drive a loud-ass four wheeler or dirtbike down the street.

 

John Wenz has had a lot of cars, and a lot of jobs. 

31 Comments]]> John Wenz

I knew exactly zero people in high school who didn’t have a driver’s license. It was Western Nebraska—I knew more people who couldn’t ride a bike than I did people who couldn’t drive. That’s just how it was!

My first car was my brother’s 1987 Dodge Colt. Somewhere around the fourth alternator, it was decided that it wasn’t worth the repairs (even though my “mechanic” has typically been my father, who works for the price of “stand here and hold that light for a while”). I inherited my parents’ 1989 Chevy Corsica. At 240,000 miles, its timing chain went caput. I drove the family minivan for a while—a rear wheel drive Astro beast—before spending all of college driving a 1996 Chevy Corsica.

When I became the first of my siblings to graduate college, I was given money toward a new used car. After careful selection, I found what I wanted on Facebook of all places. We put the $3,500 down on a 1999 Saturn SC1. At the time, I had very logical thinking, especially for a 23-year-old. I wanted something with good fuel economy and at least not-horrible emissions, a requirement that became ironic this summer, when the car was scrapped after failing essentially every state inspection it possibly could. Including the emissions test. I got $200 for it, and for the first time in 12 years, I don’t have a car.

And I feel relieved. 

In 2007, the Saturn moved me and my stuff (mattress strapped to the roof), from Lincoln, Neb. to Philadelphia, Pa..; from Philly to Washington, D.C.; from D.C. back to Lincoln; and then from Lincoln back to Philly. (I’m done moving.) The east coast introduced me to people I once-thought-mythical—not just those without a car, but those without a driver’s license (by choice and not by court order or three strikes laws.) In Washington, my car fell into disuse because of readily available public transportation (so much so that one time I went to drive it and the battery was dead from slow-drain). Back to Lincoln? Back to frequently driving. Philly was walkable, but I worked in the suburbs, and found commuting by car easier than the regional rail lines. So I drove.

But now I’m car free. It’s different, though, from when I lived in D.C. and simply didn’t drive much—there, I still had the car. I’ve found that my Middle American dependency on cars is as much a psychological as anything, and I’m finally breaking myself of that dependence.

This is a great step forward. I am no longer am worrying about paying my insurance bill ($350, twice a year). I no longer have to worry about having money for gas. Vehicle registration, driver’s license transfers, inspections—no longer hanging over me. I never have to pay for parking again (unless a friend is driving and I want to be nice). No more tickets. No more costly repairs.

And if push comes to shove, I can just do what the kids in my neighborhood do—drive a loud-ass four wheeler or dirtbike down the street.

 

John Wenz has had a lot of cars, and a lot of jobs. 

31 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/you-mean-some-people-dont-drive-what/feed/ 31 Love My Ride, But Wife Says It Has to Go http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/love-my-ride-but-wife-says-it-has-to-go/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/love-my-ride-but-wife-says-it-has-to-go/#comments Fri, 12 Oct 2012 17:13:59 +0000 William Foster http://thebillfold.com/?p=15314 William Foster

Yesterday on portland.craigslist.org, one hundred and sixty-five of the “by owner” car ads contained the word “wife.”

 

“I bought it to make into a hot rod for my wife but after getting it home she changed her mind.??”

“I thought I would never get rid of it. My wife however has a different idea and is strong-arming me into getting a late model Lexus.”

“Wife doesn’t like it … my loss, your gain.”

“This was my wife’s fun car for the last three years, but she’s decided she wants something more ‘girly.’ Not that it’s not a great car for the ladies, but it is all sports car.”

“This is a 1998 Honda Accord. Manual transmission, 4cyl engine. It has a clean title and 192,000 miles, CA plates, we just moved to OR a couple months ago and my wife doesn’t want to drive manual so i have to sell it.”

“Reason we are sellying the car is that the wife wanted a truck, so no issues with the car.”

“I bought it for my wife and she doesn’t like it.”

“Make sure your wife is ok with this before you bring it home, it’s big, and eventhough it’s got camo paint you can see it well from the kitchen window.”

“Small dent in left quarter panel (stationary dent due to careless wife), but paint is fine and it is not easily noticed.”

“I bought it for my wife (Safety) and she doesn’t like it because it’s too big and hard for her to park.”

“Bought for wife but she cant drive it.”

“My wife rubbed the passenger side against a pole a few years back and made a pretty nice looking dent.”


“My wife was the primary driver for the past 2 years. Saying she drives like a grandma is an understatement.”

“the srvice light comes off and on but I had the code checked and its just an emitions thing most likely because someone that may or may not be my wife didnt get the gas cap on right once lol”

“We have a near perfect 1993 Wrangler 5 sp that my wife can’t drive,.”

“Truck runs strong despite the mileage, have no hesitations letting my wife or daughter leave town with it.”

“I got my wife this car about 2 weeks ago so she would go and get her lic. But she will not get it.”

“This was my wife’s daily driver, so it’s been a pavement princess and garage stored.”

“Wife owned for over 7 years !!”

“My wife was the second owner of the car and she got it 2002, her grandpa owned it before that.”

“Wife drove most of the miles!”


“Literally just purchased this rig from my friend when I was offered another rig. Wife says one must go.”

“Purchased this truck beginning of this year with plans of customizing it but wife says no plus she needs a small car so it needs to go.”

“I hate to sell this one but I have two trucks, the other is a 1987 F250 2WD and my wife says one has to go.”

“I bought this to restore myself but I probably jumped the gun with too many projects and the wife was upset with me…”

“I hate to see it to go, but I’ve got a baby on the way, and my wife is forcing me to sell all my toys.”

“Wife wants the car out of the driveway.”

“Wife says it is time to see it go so I’ve lowered the price.”

“This is my daily driver. Love it but wife said it has to go. It’s all stock inside except for kenwood Stereo.”

“I haven’t driven it for a few years because I got a company car. I finally decided (okay, it was my wife) it was a waste just sitting in my garage.”

“Has been very reliable for us for 14 years, but we have too many vehicles and the wife says some have to go.”

“I just don’t have the time or money to complete. Plus the wife says I HAVE to get rid of it.”

“4.0 liter V-6 5speed automatic. runs great! Wife says I can have only two cars so this must go.”

“My wife want the back yard back so it must go.”

“We now have 3 kids in private school, so according to my wife the car has to go :(”

“Its a great car and looks good. I just have too many cars at the moment and the wife is getting on me about it.”

“It has been a pleasure to drive and own, but my wife is pursuing opening a dog grooming facility, and so of course we have to make some sacrifices, and this car unfortunately is one of them.”

“Wife says it has to go.”

“Due to downsizing must sell the love of my life. No I’m not talking about my wife, I’m talking about my 1990 Chevy Silverado.”

“If I had the garage space, I would keep this vehicle until I died, though my wife may not approve.”

“i am selling my truck because i would rather pay off some bills so i can provide a better life for my wife and myself.”

 

William Foster lives in Portland, Ore. 

23 Comments]]> William Foster

Yesterday on portland.craigslist.org, one hundred and sixty-five of the “by owner” car ads contained the word “wife.”

 

“I bought it to make into a hot rod for my wife but after getting it home she changed her mind.??”

“I thought I would never get rid of it. My wife however has a different idea and is strong-arming me into getting a late model Lexus.”

“Wife doesn’t like it … my loss, your gain.”

“This was my wife’s fun car for the last three years, but she’s decided she wants something more ‘girly.’ Not that it’s not a great car for the ladies, but it is all sports car.”

“This is a 1998 Honda Accord. Manual transmission, 4cyl engine. It has a clean title and 192,000 miles, CA plates, we just moved to OR a couple months ago and my wife doesn’t want to drive manual so i have to sell it.”

“Reason we are sellying the car is that the wife wanted a truck, so no issues with the car.”

“I bought it for my wife and she doesn’t like it.”

“Make sure your wife is ok with this before you bring it home, it’s big, and eventhough it’s got camo paint you can see it well from the kitchen window.”

“Small dent in left quarter panel (stationary dent due to careless wife), but paint is fine and it is not easily noticed.”

“I bought it for my wife (Safety) and she doesn’t like it because it’s too big and hard for her to park.”

“Bought for wife but she cant drive it.”

“My wife rubbed the passenger side against a pole a few years back and made a pretty nice looking dent.”


“My wife was the primary driver for the past 2 years. Saying she drives like a grandma is an understatement.”

“the srvice light comes off and on but I had the code checked and its just an emitions thing most likely because someone that may or may not be my wife didnt get the gas cap on right once lol”

“We have a near perfect 1993 Wrangler 5 sp that my wife can’t drive,.”

“Truck runs strong despite the mileage, have no hesitations letting my wife or daughter leave town with it.”

“I got my wife this car about 2 weeks ago so she would go and get her lic. But she will not get it.”

“This was my wife’s daily driver, so it’s been a pavement princess and garage stored.”

“Wife owned for over 7 years !!”

“My wife was the second owner of the car and she got it 2002, her grandpa owned it before that.”

“Wife drove most of the miles!”


“Literally just purchased this rig from my friend when I was offered another rig. Wife says one must go.”

“Purchased this truck beginning of this year with plans of customizing it but wife says no plus she needs a small car so it needs to go.”

“I hate to sell this one but I have two trucks, the other is a 1987 F250 2WD and my wife says one has to go.”

“I bought this to restore myself but I probably jumped the gun with too many projects and the wife was upset with me…”

“I hate to see it to go, but I’ve got a baby on the way, and my wife is forcing me to sell all my toys.”

“Wife wants the car out of the driveway.”

“Wife says it is time to see it go so I’ve lowered the price.”

“This is my daily driver. Love it but wife said it has to go. It’s all stock inside except for kenwood Stereo.”

“I haven’t driven it for a few years because I got a company car. I finally decided (okay, it was my wife) it was a waste just sitting in my garage.”

“Has been very reliable for us for 14 years, but we have too many vehicles and the wife says some have to go.”

“I just don’t have the time or money to complete. Plus the wife says I HAVE to get rid of it.”

“4.0 liter V-6 5speed automatic. runs great! Wife says I can have only two cars so this must go.”

“My wife want the back yard back so it must go.”

“We now have 3 kids in private school, so according to my wife the car has to go :(”

“Its a great car and looks good. I just have too many cars at the moment and the wife is getting on me about it.”

“It has been a pleasure to drive and own, but my wife is pursuing opening a dog grooming facility, and so of course we have to make some sacrifices, and this car unfortunately is one of them.”

“Wife says it has to go.”

“Due to downsizing must sell the love of my life. No I’m not talking about my wife, I’m talking about my 1990 Chevy Silverado.”

“If I had the garage space, I would keep this vehicle until I died, though my wife may not approve.”

“i am selling my truck because i would rather pay off some bills so i can provide a better life for my wife and myself.”

 

William Foster lives in Portland, Ore. 

23 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/10/love-my-ride-but-wife-says-it-has-to-go/feed/ 23 What We Want to Buy http://thebillfold.com/2012/08/what-we-want-to-buy/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/08/what-we-want-to-buy/#comments Mon, 27 Aug 2012 19:15:52 +0000 Mike Dang http://thebillfold.com/?p=11811 Mike Dang


The media (and businesses) would like to know why millennials aren’t buying things, and in a previous post, Logan said plainly that it’s because she doesn’t have money, and doesn’t feel secure about the economy. The Atlantic’s Derek Thompson is looking at millennial spending habits again in their September issue (“The Cheapest Generation”) looking at not only why we aren’t buying things (“we” being between the ages of 21-34, according to the piece—these numbers vary because no one seems to agree what the exact age range for a millennial actually is), but also what that means for the economy. The U.S. economy has been able to pull out of previous recessions precisely because previous generations demanded new homes and cars, which spurred construction and automobile manufacturing—industries that employ millions of blue-collar, middle class workers (my father being one of them). The demand for houses and cars isn’t as great this time around.

Not all of us are broke and feeling insecure. A lot of my friends are getting married this year, and others have babies on the way. They have just bought homes, or are saving now to buy homes. And some, who are single like me, and who aren’t planning on getting married or having children any time soon, are saving money and shedding as much debt as possible. That money isn’t just going to sit in the bank forever—we intend to spend it. So what do we want to buy?

Homes. Yes, we want to buy homes. I’ve had two millennial-age friends who have bought apartments in New York City (Brooklyn, specifically), and that idea seemed out of reach to me until I watched these friends save dilligently for years to do it. Reports of 30-year, fixed-rate mortgages reaching all-time lows this summer have been enticing—if you’re lucky enough to get one approved from the bank, of course. I still don’t believe I will ever be a homeowner in New York City, and am fine with renting for the foreseeable future, but hearts and minds change, and I can picture myself owning a home somewhere in the quiet countryside one day. And, yes, I will take the money I’m keeping in savings to buy it. I’d also like to add here that although I have a lot of friends who are getting married, I have a lot of friends who are also content with being single (which, is another popular Atlantic piece). We want homes that make sense for our single selves (which may explain the growing popularity of these tiny homes).

Thompson also argues that millennials have gone from wanting cars to wanting smartphones, because technology has come with a significant price tag (generations before us never had to budget for a $1,000+ annual cellular data plan), and has also given us access to things like Zipcar. Sure, Zipcar is great for big cities, but if I were to move back to the suburbs of Southern California, I’d definitely want to own my own car again. When I want to get on the road, I want to leave the house and hop in my car—not check an app and go hunting for an available car. My younger brother, who lives in California, feels the same way—he just used his savings to buy a new Honda (here’s another friend who just bought a car).

We know what we want to buy—well-designed, efficient, things that make sense for our lifestyles—and we’ll buy it when we’re ready (some of us already are!). Logan doesn’t have money now, but she will eventually (we are, after all, building a business together). And when the money is in the bank, it’ll be spent. So stop calling our generation “cheap.”

 

Photo: BrianTeutsch

31 Comments]]> Mike Dang


The media (and businesses) would like to know why millennials aren’t buying things, and in a previous post, Logan said plainly that it’s because she doesn’t have money, and doesn’t feel secure about the economy. The Atlantic’s Derek Thompson is looking at millennial spending habits again in their September issue (“The Cheapest Generation”) looking at not only why we aren’t buying things (“we” being between the ages of 21-34, according to the piece—these numbers vary because no one seems to agree what the exact age range for a millennial actually is), but also what that means for the economy. The U.S. economy has been able to pull out of previous recessions precisely because previous generations demanded new homes and cars, which spurred construction and automobile manufacturing—industries that employ millions of blue-collar, middle class workers (my father being one of them). The demand for houses and cars isn’t as great this time around.

Not all of us are broke and feeling insecure. A lot of my friends are getting married this year, and others have babies on the way. They have just bought homes, or are saving now to buy homes. And some, who are single like me, and who aren’t planning on getting married or having children any time soon, are saving money and shedding as much debt as possible. That money isn’t just going to sit in the bank forever—we intend to spend it. So what do we want to buy?

Homes. Yes, we want to buy homes. I’ve had two millennial-age friends who have bought apartments in New York City (Brooklyn, specifically), and that idea seemed out of reach to me until I watched these friends save dilligently for years to do it. Reports of 30-year, fixed-rate mortgages reaching all-time lows this summer have been enticing—if you’re lucky enough to get one approved from the bank, of course. I still don’t believe I will ever be a homeowner in New York City, and am fine with renting for the foreseeable future, but hearts and minds change, and I can picture myself owning a home somewhere in the quiet countryside one day. And, yes, I will take the money I’m keeping in savings to buy it. I’d also like to add here that although I have a lot of friends who are getting married, I have a lot of friends who are also content with being single (which, is another popular Atlantic piece). We want homes that make sense for our single selves (which may explain the growing popularity of these tiny homes).

Thompson also argues that millennials have gone from wanting cars to wanting smartphones, because technology has come with a significant price tag (generations before us never had to budget for a $1,000+ annual cellular data plan), and has also given us access to things like Zipcar. Sure, Zipcar is great for big cities, but if I were to move back to the suburbs of Southern California, I’d definitely want to own my own car again. When I want to get on the road, I want to leave the house and hop in my car—not check an app and go hunting for an available car. My younger brother, who lives in California, feels the same way—he just used his savings to buy a new Honda (here’s another friend who just bought a car).

We know what we want to buy—well-designed, efficient, things that make sense for our lifestyles—and we’ll buy it when we’re ready (some of us already are!). Logan doesn’t have money now, but she will eventually (we are, after all, building a business together). And when the money is in the bank, it’ll be spent. So stop calling our generation “cheap.”

 

Photo: BrianTeutsch

31 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/08/what-we-want-to-buy/feed/ 31 Adventures in Negotiation: A Hubcap, A Tire, And A Car http://thebillfold.com/2012/07/adventures-in-negotiation-a-hubcap-a-tire-and-a-car/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/07/adventures-in-negotiation-a-hubcap-a-tire-and-a-car/#comments Tue, 10 Jul 2012 17:40:52 +0000 Brian Blickenstaff http://thebillfold.com/?p=7979 Brian Blickenstaff

When I pulled in through the chain-link gate and parked in the small dirt turnabout, the only person in sight was an overalled, middle-aged white man, whose size and demeanor brought to mind Lennie Small, the Steinbeck character. He was sorting hubcaps. The yard was full of them, stacked on racks and piled in heaps. I needed one, and I hoped Lennie could help. I was at Cadillac Corner, a junk yard and something of a cultural landmark in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. In Mississippi, junk yards are not hard to find. But while most junk yards are, well, yards full of junk, Cadillac Corner deals almost exclusively in hubcaps, thousands of them.

I’d come because last summer, the rear, drivers-side hubcap spun off my ’06 Corolla somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis. Under normal circumstances, getting a new hubcap is something I could procrastinate on for years. But these were not normal circumstances. This was April 2nd, 2012. On May 15th, my wife and I were moving to Germany, where she’d recently accepted a job. We were liquidating our American life. I needed to sell our car, but first, I needed a new hubcap.

Here’s the thing about hubcaps: They have immense aesthetic power. Remove just one and you can make an otherwise well maintained car look like that jalopy your friend drove in high school—the one with the rust and the chipped paint and the missing hubcap. A car with three hubcaps is probably worth $1,000 less than the same car with four. Online, I’d found some for my car’s make and model, but they were mostly sold in sets of four, for $200. The single hubcaps I encountered on Ebay cost around $60 each. I figured Cadillac Corner could beat $60.

I had an ulterior motive for visiting Cadillac Corner too: I was selling my car on Craigslist and I wanted to learn to close a deal. Or, in any case, I needed some practice negotiating. What better way to practice than haggling over parts in a junk yard? I tend to be a timid negotiator, which probably leads me to lose out on most deals. I wanted to learn to be stronger under pressure. I wanted to learn to win. 

I’d recently listened to Slate’s series of podcasts on negotiation, and I had some ideas about how I could take my game to the next level. I was eager to try what I’d learned. According to Slate, once a financial negotiating grinds to a standstill, one can still achieve a better deal by negotiating for things other than money. In my case, I’d brought a used tire with me to Cadillac Corner. I hoped to use it to sweeten a deal.

When I hopped out and waved, Lennie looked at me and then glanced toward the trailer, which sat by some trees in the back of the lot. No one was there. A look of worry crept across his brow as he turned toward the mechanics’ garage and its adjacent pile of tires. Still nobody. He was alone. I told him why I’d come. He mumbled something about asking the boss, walked toward the trailer and disappeared inside, leaving his loaded dolly right where it stood.

When he reappeared, he told me I needed to speak with Don and motioned for me to follow him over to the mechanics’ garage. Inside, three men lay on the floor, peering under a vehicle. When we walked in, they looked up at us all at once, and there was an awkward beat in which Lennie and I waited for one another to speak. When I eventually asked for Don, a previously unseen fourth man emerged from behind a nearby support beam as if he’d been hiding there, waiting for us to make our move. He looked about sixty-five, was slight in stature, and wore a days’ old, porcelain beard. This was Don. He seemed nervous.

I pointed to my car, explained the situation. Don walked across the yard to a series of head-high bookshelves filled with hubcaps. Near the fence, he stopped, reached up, and, like a veteran librarian searching for an obscure text, pulled down my Corolla’s exact hubcap. If my memory serves, he didn’t even look to see if he were grabbing the right one. He just knew.
“It’s twenty dollars,” he said. “You want me to put it on for ya?” Cadillac Corner is full service.

Something about the way he said, “twenty dollars,” and then went to work on my wheel seemed final and nonnegotiable. I wanted to counter-offer; I wanted to say “sixteen,” but I couldn’t. I chickened out. I just took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
As he crouched and snapped the hubcap on, I remembered the spare tire in my trunk. This was my chance. I figured the tire was worth at least twenty dollars, maybe more. I would settle for an even trade, I thought. I popped the trunk and had Don evaluate it. He turned it over in his grease-blackened hands, feeling the barely-warn treads, thinking. Then he left for the trailer. Like Lennie, he had to ask the boss.

When he reappeared, he shouted across the yard: “Four dollars.”
“Four dollars?” I repeated, dumbly.
“Four dollars.”
I knew I was getting taken on the tire, but, on the other hand, I needed to get rid of it. I couldn’t bring it to Germany and I’d considered throwing it away before I realized I could probably sell it. Plus, $16 seemed like a deal on the hubcap. I shrugged, handed the man a twenty and took my change. But I knew I could have done better. I knew I’d failed in the negotiation. I didn’t know the value of the items but Don and the boss did. They were experts. I hadn’t done my research. Always do your research.

After showing the car half-a-dozen times, I stopped placing too much hope in potential buyers. I think some people shop for cars for fun, like others go to the mall just to pass time. By late April, I began to worry we wouldn’t sell our car before we left.  But then, on the first of May, my phone rang. I was on my bike when I felt it vibrate in my pocket. A week before, I showed the car to a young couple form Columbia, Mississippi, a fulltime student and an offshore oil rig technician. I was excited to see their number on the phone’s screen. Nobody had ever called back before.

The oil worker didn’t waste any time: “What’s the lowest price you’ll take?” he asked. By now I’d analyzed and learned from what had gone wrong in my hubcap deal. I’d researched my car’s value and knew what I wanted for it. Most importantly, I’d set everything up so I was in control. I’d intentionally listed the car for a higher price than it was worth—at $8,800 instead of $8,300—hoping a counter offer would align with the car’s actual value. Furthermore, I’d learned the importance of being the first to name a price. With my asking price already on Craigslist, I could anticipate the counteroffer instead of negotiating my way up from a buyer’s initial offer. But I wasn’t prepared for the oil worker’s question. He’d basically asked me to lowball myself. If I answered honestly I knew he’d make an even lower counter offer.

I stuttered for a moment, wondering what to say. Finally, I told him to “make me an offer.” I think my voice cracked. “I’ll give you $7,500,” he said.

I started to panic. This guy was good, and his offer was way below what I really wanted for the car. “How about $8,200?” I countered. My anxiety was screwing with my self-confidence. I sounded weak, I thought. Why couldn’t he have called when I wasn’t on my bike, when I had my notes in front of me? He sighed into the phone and didn’t say anything for a moment. “What about $7,900?”

This was progress, but it wasn’t good enough. The Slate podcast suggests coming up with limits before entering into a negotiation so you don’t get caught up in the excitement of the back-and-forth and accidentally deal below (or above) what you’re willing to earn (or spend). My wife and I had agreed that $8,000 was our low limit, and I told the oilrig worker as much.
He said he had to talk it over with his wife and we hung up. We’d come to a temporary ceasefire. As I got back on my bike I couldn’t tell if by holding firm on my limit I had done well and was now in control of things or if I’d just destroyed the sale over a $100 disagreement. Later, I explained everything to my wife. “Why didn’t you just take $7,900?” she asked, as though she thought I’d lost my mind. “You’re right,” I said.

Sometimes negotiations aren’t about getting the perfect deal but about getting what’s best under the circumstances. With our impending move, it was more important to have $7,900 in our pockets than it was to wait for the best offer, for the $8,300 we thought the car was worth. I called the oil worker back. He sounded relieved.  But when I hung up, I couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe I’d called him when he’d been having the same conversation with his wife. Maybe if I’d waited…

 

Brian Blickenstaff is a writer based in Heidelberg, Germany. He lived in Mississippi for six years. He has written for Slate, ESPN and the Classical, among other publications.

3 Comments]]> Brian Blickenstaff

When I pulled in through the chain-link gate and parked in the small dirt turnabout, the only person in sight was an overalled, middle-aged white man, whose size and demeanor brought to mind Lennie Small, the Steinbeck character. He was sorting hubcaps. The yard was full of them, stacked on racks and piled in heaps. I needed one, and I hoped Lennie could help. I was at Cadillac Corner, a junk yard and something of a cultural landmark in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. In Mississippi, junk yards are not hard to find. But while most junk yards are, well, yards full of junk, Cadillac Corner deals almost exclusively in hubcaps, thousands of them.

I’d come because last summer, the rear, drivers-side hubcap spun off my ’06 Corolla somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis. Under normal circumstances, getting a new hubcap is something I could procrastinate on for years. But these were not normal circumstances. This was April 2nd, 2012. On May 15th, my wife and I were moving to Germany, where she’d recently accepted a job. We were liquidating our American life. I needed to sell our car, but first, I needed a new hubcap.

Here’s the thing about hubcaps: They have immense aesthetic power. Remove just one and you can make an otherwise well maintained car look like that jalopy your friend drove in high school—the one with the rust and the chipped paint and the missing hubcap. A car with three hubcaps is probably worth $1,000 less than the same car with four. Online, I’d found some for my car’s make and model, but they were mostly sold in sets of four, for $200. The single hubcaps I encountered on Ebay cost around $60 each. I figured Cadillac Corner could beat $60.

I had an ulterior motive for visiting Cadillac Corner too: I was selling my car on Craigslist and I wanted to learn to close a deal. Or, in any case, I needed some practice negotiating. What better way to practice than haggling over parts in a junk yard? I tend to be a timid negotiator, which probably leads me to lose out on most deals. I wanted to learn to be stronger under pressure. I wanted to learn to win. 

I’d recently listened to Slate’s series of podcasts on negotiation, and I had some ideas about how I could take my game to the next level. I was eager to try what I’d learned. According to Slate, once a financial negotiating grinds to a standstill, one can still achieve a better deal by negotiating for things other than money. In my case, I’d brought a used tire with me to Cadillac Corner. I hoped to use it to sweeten a deal.

When I hopped out and waved, Lennie looked at me and then glanced toward the trailer, which sat by some trees in the back of the lot. No one was there. A look of worry crept across his brow as he turned toward the mechanics’ garage and its adjacent pile of tires. Still nobody. He was alone. I told him why I’d come. He mumbled something about asking the boss, walked toward the trailer and disappeared inside, leaving his loaded dolly right where it stood.

When he reappeared, he told me I needed to speak with Don and motioned for me to follow him over to the mechanics’ garage. Inside, three men lay on the floor, peering under a vehicle. When we walked in, they looked up at us all at once, and there was an awkward beat in which Lennie and I waited for one another to speak. When I eventually asked for Don, a previously unseen fourth man emerged from behind a nearby support beam as if he’d been hiding there, waiting for us to make our move. He looked about sixty-five, was slight in stature, and wore a days’ old, porcelain beard. This was Don. He seemed nervous.

I pointed to my car, explained the situation. Don walked across the yard to a series of head-high bookshelves filled with hubcaps. Near the fence, he stopped, reached up, and, like a veteran librarian searching for an obscure text, pulled down my Corolla’s exact hubcap. If my memory serves, he didn’t even look to see if he were grabbing the right one. He just knew.
“It’s twenty dollars,” he said. “You want me to put it on for ya?” Cadillac Corner is full service.

Something about the way he said, “twenty dollars,” and then went to work on my wheel seemed final and nonnegotiable. I wanted to counter-offer; I wanted to say “sixteen,” but I couldn’t. I chickened out. I just took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
As he crouched and snapped the hubcap on, I remembered the spare tire in my trunk. This was my chance. I figured the tire was worth at least twenty dollars, maybe more. I would settle for an even trade, I thought. I popped the trunk and had Don evaluate it. He turned it over in his grease-blackened hands, feeling the barely-warn treads, thinking. Then he left for the trailer. Like Lennie, he had to ask the boss.

When he reappeared, he shouted across the yard: “Four dollars.”
“Four dollars?” I repeated, dumbly.
“Four dollars.”
I knew I was getting taken on the tire, but, on the other hand, I needed to get rid of it. I couldn’t bring it to Germany and I’d considered throwing it away before I realized I could probably sell it. Plus, $16 seemed like a deal on the hubcap. I shrugged, handed the man a twenty and took my change. But I knew I could have done better. I knew I’d failed in the negotiation. I didn’t know the value of the items but Don and the boss did. They were experts. I hadn’t done my research. Always do your research.

After showing the car half-a-dozen times, I stopped placing too much hope in potential buyers. I think some people shop for cars for fun, like others go to the mall just to pass time. By late April, I began to worry we wouldn’t sell our car before we left.  But then, on the first of May, my phone rang. I was on my bike when I felt it vibrate in my pocket. A week before, I showed the car to a young couple form Columbia, Mississippi, a fulltime student and an offshore oil rig technician. I was excited to see their number on the phone’s screen. Nobody had ever called back before.

The oil worker didn’t waste any time: “What’s the lowest price you’ll take?” he asked. By now I’d analyzed and learned from what had gone wrong in my hubcap deal. I’d researched my car’s value and knew what I wanted for it. Most importantly, I’d set everything up so I was in control. I’d intentionally listed the car for a higher price than it was worth—at $8,800 instead of $8,300—hoping a counter offer would align with the car’s actual value. Furthermore, I’d learned the importance of being the first to name a price. With my asking price already on Craigslist, I could anticipate the counteroffer instead of negotiating my way up from a buyer’s initial offer. But I wasn’t prepared for the oil worker’s question. He’d basically asked me to lowball myself. If I answered honestly I knew he’d make an even lower counter offer.

I stuttered for a moment, wondering what to say. Finally, I told him to “make me an offer.” I think my voice cracked. “I’ll give you $7,500,” he said.

I started to panic. This guy was good, and his offer was way below what I really wanted for the car. “How about $8,200?” I countered. My anxiety was screwing with my self-confidence. I sounded weak, I thought. Why couldn’t he have called when I wasn’t on my bike, when I had my notes in front of me? He sighed into the phone and didn’t say anything for a moment. “What about $7,900?”

This was progress, but it wasn’t good enough. The Slate podcast suggests coming up with limits before entering into a negotiation so you don’t get caught up in the excitement of the back-and-forth and accidentally deal below (or above) what you’re willing to earn (or spend). My wife and I had agreed that $8,000 was our low limit, and I told the oilrig worker as much.
He said he had to talk it over with his wife and we hung up. We’d come to a temporary ceasefire. As I got back on my bike I couldn’t tell if by holding firm on my limit I had done well and was now in control of things or if I’d just destroyed the sale over a $100 disagreement. Later, I explained everything to my wife. “Why didn’t you just take $7,900?” she asked, as though she thought I’d lost my mind. “You’re right,” I said.

Sometimes negotiations aren’t about getting the perfect deal but about getting what’s best under the circumstances. With our impending move, it was more important to have $7,900 in our pockets than it was to wait for the best offer, for the $8,300 we thought the car was worth. I called the oil worker back. He sounded relieved.  But when I hung up, I couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe I’d called him when he’d been having the same conversation with his wife. Maybe if I’d waited…

 

Brian Blickenstaff is a writer based in Heidelberg, Germany. He lived in Mississippi for six years. He has written for Slate, ESPN and the Classical, among other publications.

3 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/07/adventures-in-negotiation-a-hubcap-a-tire-and-a-car/feed/ 3 I Can Walk Everywhere, But Still Love My Car http://thebillfold.com/2012/06/i-can-walk-anywhere-i-need-to-go-but-i-still-love-my-car/ http://thebillfold.com/2012/06/i-can-walk-anywhere-i-need-to-go-but-i-still-love-my-car/#comments Mon, 18 Jun 2012 17:40:55 +0000 Brittany Shoot http://thebillfold.com/?p=6536 Brittany Shoot

People are often surprised by my passionate attachment to my car, a champagne-colored, diesel-powered 1987 Mercedes Benz named Stan. Sometimes they’re surprised because I’m a girl (and they are sexist), or because I’m a vocal environmentalist. But mostly it’s because I live in downtown San Francisco. The fact that I live within walking distance of (most) everything awesome and still own a car confounds nearly everyone I meet.

I’d dreamed of a car like Stan most of my life, and five years ago, I found him in a Boston suburb for $3,000, cash. A family was unloading their patriarch’s estate, and I jumped at the chance to care for his ride and give it his name in memoriam. Since then, Stan the Mercedes has been up and down the eastern seaboard half a dozen times, locked in storage for several years while I lived overseas, and driven from Boston out to California last fall only days after he was dusted off. He’s a hell of a trusty ride.

When I moved to California, I made my personal journey of westward expansion in my favorite car—and when I arrived, I wanted to keep my wheels. I did, and that’s why, even in a neighborhood with a plethora of car-sharing options around, I have come to proudly defend the cost of car ownership. 

Since I bought Stan outright, my regular costs are cheap insurance and exorbitant parking. I have the cheapest insurance, ever. Because my father was an Army reservist, I have what is possibly the most coveted car insurance in the country. United Services Automobile Association (USAA) insurance coverage (plus myriad financial services) is only available to individuals and the families of those who have served in any branch of the U.S. Armed Forces. With every bill, I think, Thank you for your service. (Actually, no, I’m horrible and just think, Thank you for the cheapest insurance, ever.) I pay a mere $42 a month ($504 a year) for coverage. This does not include collision protection, because, though Stan may be a priceless treasure to me, he isn’t worth anything if he gets smashed up.

My cheap insurance is balanced out, however, by my massive parking costs. I pay $300 a month ($3,600 a year) to park Stan in a nearby public garage. Even if I could outsmart the hotel valets in my neighborhood and score a street spot, street parking rules around here mandate that you move your car every 72 hours. I decided to buy my way out of that inconvenience, and so, every time I want to drive somewhere, I make the 10-15 minute hike straight up Nob Hill, where I’m sure Stan is waiting for me, ticket-free.

To own my car, that’s $4,104 annually before fuel and maintenance gets factored in.

There is a Zipcar hub with 16 spots in the garage where I park Stan, and a few times I’ve wondered if that would be a smarter option. Here are the Zipcar rates for San Francisco:

The cars available under the Occasional Driving Plan start at $78/day for full-day rentals (weekends rates, including Fridays, jump to $94/day). There’s also a $60 annual fee and $25 application fee to consider. At those rates, it would cost $1,957 to take a Zipcar out for a full day twice a month— $2,341 if those days were both weekend days. It’s up to $3,829 if I rent a Zipcar for a full day once a week—$4,597 if my daily car day is a weekend day. These prices include some fuel (the first 180 miles per trip) and maintenance.

But here’s where it gets tricky. When I do take my car out, I take it out. When my best pals from Boston came out to visit last month, we took the car out several days in a row, driving down Highway 1 to Big Sur, over the Golden Gate to Muir Woods, and crossing the Bay Bridge to hit up the best eateries in Oakland. For those three days (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday), we’d have paid $252 for all-day Zipcar rental, plus extra for mileage if we did more than 180 miles/day. On the day we drove to Big Sur, which is 300 miles roundtrip with absolutely no detours, we would have paid an extra $54. That one-day Zipcar rental would have cost at least $148, or more than a third of the $342 monthly for Stan.

And that’s when I stopped doing the math. I take my car out at least a few times a month. This weekend I put 350 miles on it. And maybe I don’t actually come out ahead of my car-sharing friends, but that’s okay. By keeping my car, I get all the perks of private ownership—my personal assortment of maps and supplies in the backseat, trunk, and glove box; my own music selection and radio pre-sets—and never have to wonder if a car will be available or how much I’ll spend to borrow it. And of course, most of my car-less friends don’t hesitate to hit me up for a ride. Not that I mind. In fact, I kind of love it.

 

Brittany Shoot wants to join a car club. She never tweets and drives.

15 Comments]]> Brittany Shoot

People are often surprised by my passionate attachment to my car, a champagne-colored, diesel-powered 1987 Mercedes Benz named Stan. Sometimes they’re surprised because I’m a girl (and they are sexist), or because I’m a vocal environmentalist. But mostly it’s because I live in downtown San Francisco. The fact that I live within walking distance of (most) everything awesome and still own a car confounds nearly everyone I meet.

I’d dreamed of a car like Stan most of my life, and five years ago, I found him in a Boston suburb for $3,000, cash. A family was unloading their patriarch’s estate, and I jumped at the chance to care for his ride and give it his name in memoriam. Since then, Stan the Mercedes has been up and down the eastern seaboard half a dozen times, locked in storage for several years while I lived overseas, and driven from Boston out to California last fall only days after he was dusted off. He’s a hell of a trusty ride.

When I moved to California, I made my personal journey of westward expansion in my favorite car—and when I arrived, I wanted to keep my wheels. I did, and that’s why, even in a neighborhood with a plethora of car-sharing options around, I have come to proudly defend the cost of car ownership. 

Since I bought Stan outright, my regular costs are cheap insurance and exorbitant parking. I have the cheapest insurance, ever. Because my father was an Army reservist, I have what is possibly the most coveted car insurance in the country. United Services Automobile Association (USAA) insurance coverage (plus myriad financial services) is only available to individuals and the families of those who have served in any branch of the U.S. Armed Forces. With every bill, I think, Thank you for your service. (Actually, no, I’m horrible and just think, Thank you for the cheapest insurance, ever.) I pay a mere $42 a month ($504 a year) for coverage. This does not include collision protection, because, though Stan may be a priceless treasure to me, he isn’t worth anything if he gets smashed up.

My cheap insurance is balanced out, however, by my massive parking costs. I pay $300 a month ($3,600 a year) to park Stan in a nearby public garage. Even if I could outsmart the hotel valets in my neighborhood and score a street spot, street parking rules around here mandate that you move your car every 72 hours. I decided to buy my way out of that inconvenience, and so, every time I want to drive somewhere, I make the 10-15 minute hike straight up Nob Hill, where I’m sure Stan is waiting for me, ticket-free.

To own my car, that’s $4,104 annually before fuel and maintenance gets factored in.

There is a Zipcar hub with 16 spots in the garage where I park Stan, and a few times I’ve wondered if that would be a smarter option. Here are the Zipcar rates for San Francisco:

The cars available under the Occasional Driving Plan start at $78/day for full-day rentals (weekends rates, including Fridays, jump to $94/day). There’s also a $60 annual fee and $25 application fee to consider. At those rates, it would cost $1,957 to take a Zipcar out for a full day twice a month— $2,341 if those days were both weekend days. It’s up to $3,829 if I rent a Zipcar for a full day once a week—$4,597 if my daily car day is a weekend day. These prices include some fuel (the first 180 miles per trip) and maintenance.

But here’s where it gets tricky. When I do take my car out, I take it out. When my best pals from Boston came out to visit last month, we took the car out several days in a row, driving down Highway 1 to Big Sur, over the Golden Gate to Muir Woods, and crossing the Bay Bridge to hit up the best eateries in Oakland. For those three days (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday), we’d have paid $252 for all-day Zipcar rental, plus extra for mileage if we did more than 180 miles/day. On the day we drove to Big Sur, which is 300 miles roundtrip with absolutely no detours, we would have paid an extra $54. That one-day Zipcar rental would have cost at least $148, or more than a third of the $342 monthly for Stan.

And that’s when I stopped doing the math. I take my car out at least a few times a month. This weekend I put 350 miles on it. And maybe I don’t actually come out ahead of my car-sharing friends, but that’s okay. By keeping my car, I get all the perks of private ownership—my personal assortment of maps and supplies in the backseat, trunk, and glove box; my own music selection and radio pre-sets—and never have to wonder if a car will be available or how much I’ll spend to borrow it. And of course, most of my car-less friends don’t hesitate to hit me up for a ride. Not that I mind. In fact, I kind of love it.

 

Brittany Shoot wants to join a car club. She never tweets and drives.

15 Comments]]> http://thebillfold.com/2012/06/i-can-walk-anywhere-i-need-to-go-but-i-still-love-my-car/feed/ 15