When I was wholesaling cars I used to go to Fresno Auto Auction occasionally, usually when I had an old beater that didn’t sell at the auction in Sacramento. I’d drive down early in the morning put my turd in the sale with a fresh polish on it, and hope it would sell for a bit more than it brought in Sacramento. Then I would have to buy something to drive home.

One morning I’d registered my car for the sale and was wandering around. Fresno Auction was small, only four lanes, and not very many late model cars, mostly pots for the pot lot guys. I found I could usually buy a decent late model car there for a bit less, but competition for the pots was fierce and they would sell for more. It was still early, but one lane started running and the first car through the lane was a really nice looking old Ford F-100 Ranger pick up. It was a short bed, dark shiny metallic blue with chrome and brushed aluminum all over it. It looked really nice, so I went to look closer.

The auctioneer started the bidding as I was looking in the window at the new looking cloth seats. The a/c was blowing cold and the motor sounded good. I could hear the auctioneer going  a mile a minute, “I got a thousand over here, over there eleven hundred, and now twelve, I have twelve!” I looked around. I was the only person there. I looked out the door to see if there were some someones hiding their bids outside the door, but there was no one around. Except for the motor sound and the auctioneer running his mouth, nothing.

I looked at the auctioneer, he asked if I wanted in for twelve hundred. The truck was easily worth twenty-five hundred, so even if something was wrong I was safe, so I nodded and he smiled again and said SOLD! There was always that moment right after I handed my buyer’s card to the auctioneer when I’d wonder what’s wrong with this car?! I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. This had to be a bad buy. I thought, “No way can I buy this truck for twelve hundred, but I was an owner now.”

I went out to more closely inspect my buy, just knowing it had a tranny problem or overheating problem, or metal shavings or water in the oil. It had to be bad. I drove it around the lot, looked under it, over it, checked all the lights and fluids. I looked for bad bodywork, hidden flood damage, and tested the nice aftermarket stereo. The truck was perfect. I still had my doubts but decided I would drive it home a hundred and seventy miles away. I’d find out for sure then.

The only thing I found wrong with that truck was whoever owned it had taken off the outside mirrors on both sides so it had none. I drove home. It ran good, drove straight, stopped like new and the brand new white letter steel radials were mounted on some nice aftermarket chrome mags and they were balanced. There were no vibrations, no wind noise, no rattles; The truck was about as perfect as any I’d seen or owned. It showed seventy thousand miles on the odometer and, though it was a fifteen-year-old truck I began to believe it.

I decided the next day I was going to eat all my profit and buy the truck for my self. I put new mirrors on it and drove it. I bought a tow dolly and it went wherever I went, always ready to buy a car and tow it home. I kept that truck for a couple of years and drove it all over the place. I put over a hundred thousand more miles on it, did the normal maintenance stuff, tune-ups, and a timing chain at one time, and brought home countless buys I made while I drove it. It looked good and still drove good, no wind noise, no rattles, and the A/C still blew icicles when I decided to sell it. I’d bought a really nice Dodge Van and decided it was van time. I sold the Ford pick up for forty-nine hundred dollars. I still see that truck driving around town once in a while thirty-five years later. It still looks new. Bet it’s worth even more now. I should go see if I can buy it back.