Betty, my wife, had said it was time to trade her old '85 Sentra for a new car, stressing the point that ten years is a long time. So, a couple of weeks ago, we spent some time on CompuServe getting information and ratings on the latest that Detroit and Tokyo have to offer. We tentatively decided on a Toyota Camry.

Friday morning, bright and early, on our way to the dealership to wheel and deal, we said what the heck, let's just give it a wash! I mean, how could it hurt? Went to that drive-through carwash down on highway 51. Got the #2 option, where latino immigrants rearrange the dirt on the dashboard.

Everything was going so well, until time to start the car and leave. But then: Grrrrrr-rrrrr-rrrr. Grrrr-rrrrr-rrrr-rrrr. Nothing. I tried. Betty tried. Juan tried. Ernesto tried. Betty went inside to call the motor club . Never one to give up, I kept trying to crank our newly-washed cream puff. Finally the engine caught! Just as Betty was telling the motor club our location, she spied me tooling around the parking lot. She hurried off the line: "My husband's tooling around the parking lot. Bye."

Ah, life was good...all the way to Providence Road. As we merrily crossed that busy artery, something alarming began to happen, namely the engine began to choke and cough and not propel the rest of the vehicle in a consistent and satisfactory manner. "Houston, we have a problem," I radioed Betty, and turned left onto a quiet side street. We coasted to a stop and let the Sentra die in peace.

Oh, darn! This ruins everything. Checking the glove box to see if it contained a book "How to Use Your Old Car as a Trade In, Even If It's in a Repair Shop Down the Street," I had an uneasy feeling that things were not rosy, possibly not even beige.

It was 11:00 am. Betty and I walked about a quarter mile to the nearest house to call the motor club again, then back to the car to wait for a wrecker to come. We sat in the sun on the curb. Then we walked out to the highway and stood watching the cars and trucks fly by. Then we crouched in the shade of a spindly tree. We sat on the curb again. During breaks in the traffic you could hear the hum of nearby bumblebees. Betty jumped up. "It's been an hour. I'm going to go call again," she said, and off she went.

"Hmmm," I thought, "Wonder if the passage of time might somehow have made the car once again crankable." I turned the key; the engine whimpered to life. It seemed OK, so I drove down the street just to prove I could. I met Betty, who was returning with news that the wrecker would be along in about 10 minutes. We parked near the highway, keeping the engine running just in case. Things were looking up.

By the time the wrecker arrived, I had devised a scheme to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. I told the driver, whom I shall call Bubba, to simply follow us toward Independence Boulevard. If the car stalled again, then he could tow it to the repair shop. If towing was not necessary, I would turn into the Toyota dealership, and he (Bubba) would go bye-bye.

It ran wonderfully. By the time we hit Independence, Betty had upped the Sentra's asking price by $1,000 (although earlier, while sitting in the hot sun, she had reduced it by $1,500). As we approached the destination, Bubba, with that mechanic's natural ability to sense that things are as they should be, sailed by and tapped his horn in salute.

Later, our salesman, a pleasant young man with a heavy Middle Eastern accent, seemed to tell us that the person who checked over our old Sentra was very impressed with the it's appearance and how well it ran. Or he could have been saying that the sentry was depressed and it appears he fell in the rain. Whatever.

By mid-afternoon we finally got home with Betty's shiny new Camry. Beautiful car; drives like a dream. I think her feelings can best be summed up by her exclamation as she turned into the driveway: "Now I'm somebody!"

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Copyright © 1996 Reno Bailey