The atmosphere is much like a casino/carnival. Everything is flashy and moves so quickly. I dream of scoring a Jaguar for $500. You may look at the miles of cars out back, but no touchy. Swarms of greasy men circle coveted cars ,or the pieces there in. I can smell the lack of morality wafting off the dealers in their cheap suits. Then the cars start rolling in. Men with microphones sputter numbers like your baby brother during dinner . Is the bid at five hundred or three thousand five hundred? Once the hood is popped the auctioneer starts chanting in some indecipherable tongue offering some thirty seconds to decide if this car worth the gas it rolled in on. I think, "Why yes, I'd love to drive that Pontiac Grand Am. Sir, I shall bid $800." With in nanoseconds the bidding is way way out of my price range. We humbly swim over to the proletariat line. The line where they were lucky the car made it into the building. The $500 Jaguar fantasy flushes away.
My brother sticks his ear to each engine trying to decide if there is a rod knock, whatever that is. I pester him for an answer as each car slips out of my grasp. Three hours later one passes his inspection. I bid. I am outbid. I bid again. Lather Rinse Repeat. Next thing I know, I am the proud owner of some shiny black station wagon that I would have never considered buying if it were on the street, but the engine sounded good... A feeling of sincere regret washes over me. I go through red tape hell to hand the government every cent I had after tax, title et al. I still have not even sat in my own car. Finally, they drive it up. I ask the guy, "Did it start well?" He said, "No. We had to jump it." My heart sank, but not quite as much as when I actually got a look inside. Previously, I only managed to see that a tape deck existed. I hadn't noticed the duct tape ghetto style interior that would haunt my vanity. Black stains everywhere, back seat stuck in down position. It didn’t even come equipped with a door key. I wanted to cry. Depression quickly turned to fear as I realized I was simply not strong enough to turn this steering wheel. I'm driving away in my fully legal piece of shit, feeling the transmission slip with my pride. (The mack daddy of all repairs) The power steering pump was regurgitating. Gusts of oil fumes reached inside the car. The tires had little interest in staying attached. I think it was then when it occurred to me. The only reason cars go to auction is if there isn’t even one day left. If there were one day left, they would still be driving it. The repossessed cars were well over five grand and a huge rip off at that. I will spend another grand to make this embarrassing ghetto grocery getter into something less than a death trap. All sales are final. Government car auctions are evil.

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.