Yesterday morning I was at my barber's for the regular shearing. My car was backed up in a slot next to the picture window, with the attached logo of the dealer prominent on the tail.
An elderly gentleman with thinning dark hair saw me come in. He said, "What d'you think of that car?"
"Love it," I said.
He nodded. "I had one just like it. Same color inside and out; chrome wheels, ever'thing. Wish I hadn't given it up. Don't like this Lucerne much."
A thought fired in my brain. "When'd you trade yours?"
"Near about a year and half ago."
"That's when I bought mine! Wait. Who was the dealer? Crown Buick?" He nodded. "You're kidding!"
Yes, unless there were two granite metallic-over-cream Park Avenues with chrome factory wheels passing through the dealer in August of 2007, this gentleman was the previous owner of my car.
He didn't have much to tell me of its history. He'd had no warranty issues, had had all the service done at the dealer at the right times. ("Oil? Whatever the Crown service people recommended.") He'd been in Texas for Katrina, so no flooding, which I knew. He'd gotten 20-21 mpg in town, 30-31 on the highway, as I do. The Lucerne was a disappointment, despite having the same V-6 engine as the PA.
Why had he gotten rid of the big grey car? He said he'd leased it to his company, and it had "depreciated out," so he had to trade it. "Wish I hadn't."
The weird thing isn't that I ran into him. The barber shop is only a mile from the dealer, he lives only a mile or two farther away, and has been going to this shop for his trims for years, as have I. The odd thing is that this is the second time it's happened to me!
In 1999, I bought my second Mercedes, a dark grey 420SEL. It was in superb condition, so I entered it that summer (show-only) in the club car show for charity. During the show, an older fellow came up to me and said, "How you like that car?"
"Love it."
"Used to be mine."
Turned out he'd traded it for the next generation S-Class, the W140, and regretted it!
I guess the moral is, you live long enough and you'll see a lot of patterns in your life repeating, whether it be girlfriends, jobs, or cars. . . .
An elderly gentleman with thinning dark hair saw me come in. He said, "What d'you think of that car?"
"Love it," I said.
He nodded. "I had one just like it. Same color inside and out; chrome wheels, ever'thing. Wish I hadn't given it up. Don't like this Lucerne much."
A thought fired in my brain. "When'd you trade yours?"
"Near about a year and half ago."
"That's when I bought mine! Wait. Who was the dealer? Crown Buick?" He nodded. "You're kidding!"
Yes, unless there were two granite metallic-over-cream Park Avenues with chrome factory wheels passing through the dealer in August of 2007, this gentleman was the previous owner of my car.
He didn't have much to tell me of its history. He'd had no warranty issues, had had all the service done at the dealer at the right times. ("Oil? Whatever the Crown service people recommended.") He'd been in Texas for Katrina, so no flooding, which I knew. He'd gotten 20-21 mpg in town, 30-31 on the highway, as I do. The Lucerne was a disappointment, despite having the same V-6 engine as the PA.
Why had he gotten rid of the big grey car? He said he'd leased it to his company, and it had "depreciated out," so he had to trade it. "Wish I hadn't."
The weird thing isn't that I ran into him. The barber shop is only a mile from the dealer, he lives only a mile or two farther away, and has been going to this shop for his trims for years, as have I. The odd thing is that this is the second time it's happened to me!
In 1999, I bought my second Mercedes, a dark grey 420SEL. It was in superb condition, so I entered it that summer (show-only) in the club car show for charity. During the show, an older fellow came up to me and said, "How you like that car?"
"Love it."
"Used to be mine."
Turned out he'd traded it for the next generation S-Class, the W140, and regretted it!
I guess the moral is, you live long enough and you'll see a lot of patterns in your life repeating, whether it be girlfriends, jobs, or cars. . . .
