The ancient Pontiac coughed its way to a stop at the curb in front of my house. The two occupants appeared oblivious of the thick smoke emitting from the engine compartment. In the back seat along with two shotguns, was an assortment of beer cans that had obviously been tossed at random from the front.

Slightly unsteady on their feet, they emerged and assumed what they hoped was the posture of a friendly used car salesman. I rushed to the scene and began desperately to search for the latch that would release the hood and make an attempt to extinguish the threat of fire. “Don’t worry about it;” they said in unison. “We’ll arrange the payments to suit you,” slurred the driver. “This baby is good for many thousands of miles,” “Hardly broken in.” chimed his partner.

Refusing to allow me access to the cause of the smoke, they continued with their presentation. “Owned by a little old lady who only drove it to Church;” said the driver. “Kept it in a steam-heated garage;” added the passenger.

The smoke by this time, had diminished to the point that the dull gray paint was visible. “A little polish, and this gem will shine like new money.” The driver insisted. “Go ahead. Kick any tire,” “You’ll see that it’s solid as a rock.” “They don’t make vehicles like this anymore.” said the passenger; as the sales pitch continued.

When both the driver and the passenger realized that they could not finalize the sale, they agreed to the hood being raised. When As the smoke cleared, it was immediately evident that this vehicle had suffered a major catastrophe.

In the side of the engine was a gaping hole where a piston had burst through the thick metal of the block. The oil spattered, wooden floorboard, was charred and the smell of burning rubber permeated the air.

“Just a minor problem, that a pair of vice-grip pliers and a piece of hay-bale wire will fix.” said the driver. “You’re still welcome to ‘KICK ANY TIRE.” The passenger insisted. Are you positive you don’t want to buy it?”

When they both finally decided that their sales pitch had fallen on deaf ears; they resumed their station inside the still smoking vehicle. With a bit of effort; they started it and drove off, leaving behind a huge puddle of oil on the curb.

The dull grey, Pontiac sat in a field for a number of years until two employee’s from “HIGH-CLASS JUNK YARD” agreed to remove it. On the tow truck was a spare battery that they installed in the monster. One of them climbed inside, turned the key and the engine roared to life. Laughter from my two friends was heard for two blocks as the man ‘DROVE’ the “Cream Puff” to the junk yard.

At this point, I had to agree with the two who tried so hard to sell me this vehicle. It’s a well known fact that; ‘They don’t make them like that anymore.’