I think I contractually obligated myself to hold onto my car for 12 more years. It’s a verbal contract, but possibly binding nonetheless.
Today is an awesome day; the temperature is pushing 60 degrees F, the sun is shining, and it was perfect for putting the top down on the car while I was out running errands (read: I was paying bills and realized the cable and electric bills are due today and mailing wouldn’t get them there in time.) I pulled into a parking space in front of the Comcast office and was greeted by a tiny voice, “Your car is pretty.”
On the sidewalk, clutching his mom’s hand, was a little boy, four years old. I thanked him and said I thought it was pretty, too. I didn’t mention it drives like crap right now. Aesthetically, it’s still fairly spiffy.
“I buy it?”
His mom started to stammer, and I tried not to laugh. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“No.”
“But if you buy it, you can’t drive it. Maybe when you’re sixteen you’ll get your driver’s license, and then you can buy it.”
“Ok.”
He and his mom started to walk away, and as she guided him towards their minivan she laughed, “He’s going to find you in twelve years…”
I’m going to charge him for all the years of storage.
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