The Thunderbird Chronicles: Is that Blood?
In my last posting, I basically stated that my first day owning the Thunderbird was an adventure. It goes beyond the first day. It goes to the first interaction with the previous owner, Joe, via e-mail when inquiring about the car: "Pete first off I would not hesitate one minute to jump into this vehicle & drive cross country to California." Well, that is pretty strong and definitive for a car that had been unregistered. Was it salesmanship? Yes. Was it impassioned? Yes. Did I like it? Yes. Was it true? Probably not. Who cared? No one. I was on Craigslist looking to buy a car.
Joe was fun, open, full of energy and like no other 70-something year old I had every met; he was a straight up Energizer bunny and generally a pretty awesome guy in my interactions with him. He was retired and his only real vice was cigarettes. Joe happens not to be his real name; I call him Joe because he reminded me of a Joe Pesci character; more in the mold of Leo Getz than Nicky Santoro. Anyway, he lived alone in a house he built on a farm with his horse, cat, deer and wild turkeys.The wild turkeys and deer just hung around the property and he fed the turkeys.
When we were having our Craigslist correspondence back in August, I initially backed out of trying to purchase the car as I contemplated putting the whole idea of getting a Galaxie or Thunderbird on hold. In my anecdotal observation of the marketplace, Super Coupes tended to get bought quickly, so when I backed out my thoughts were probably wont be another one worthwhile for a few months. Surprisingly a month passed and Joe e-mailed me asking if I was still interested in the car. He was knocking $500 off the price as he needed the space for a skid-steer. I causally told Joe I would go down and take a look, but inside me there was excitement to see what condition the car was in and to confirm or deny all that is right and wrong with Craigslist car purchases. With that in mind, I drove down to Rhode Island.
The Bird's body was okay for its age. The sub-frame has some rust issues, the interior was literally all chewed up from years of dogs and cats having their way with the leather, but just about everything electronic worked on the car; windows, sunroof, lights, power seat beats, power seats, diagnostics. The radio turned on but there was no sound and the automatic ride control was stuck in FIRM mode. We both took turns driving it. It shifted okay, but the shifter was well worn and it braked like a 25 year old car. Joe was really passionate about his Thunderbird and relayed story after story, from the day he bought it to the recent tune up he did on it. He said that it made him sick that he was giving it up. After driving around, we discussed a deal and agreed on $2000 pending the check clearing. I think both of us thought she will be in good hands. I left with the bill of sale but felt there was something missing.
Now, out of state sales can be tricky. In Massachusetts there are a number of documentation hurdles to address when trying to register and title a vehicle. Generally speaking, if you have no title you will be very hard-pressed to register an out-of-state car. Rhode Island does not issue titles for cars before 2001. So, I would only be able to use the last active registration, which for the Thunderbird was like 8 years ago. With that sort of gap, different thoughts enter your head: why so long off the road? Are there any liens or taxes owed? With no title, how am I to know? Is this a Craigslist scam that I thought could not happen to me? Will MA accept the registration and other necessary docs so I can get a title and register it? Would it be better to buy a DeLorean instead? In thinking about these things, to my annoyance I had forgotten the registration. I called Joe to confirm that I could obtain it prior to the check clearing in order to get the ball rolling on the paperwork and plates and he agreed. However, that meant a return trip. After sharing my interactions with the lady of the house, she thought Joe sounded cool and interesting as well. She wanted to meet him and see his property and animals. We drove back down the same day as it was a pretty nice late summer afternoon.
When we arrived, he greeted us and I introduce my wife. We all sat, chatted and discussed the fact that he had owned night clubs, and was in construction and had made a lot of money. My wife and Joe discussed their connections to Hartford, CT. After this bit of small talk, he gave me several registrations but there was something peculiar about one of them (a little more on that later). In any case, he sent us on our way. As we were leaving, we noticed his pistol near the door and thought, "yeah, the guy lives alone on a farm."
The next day, I told a co-worker of my weekend adventure and described Joe and how great of a guy he seemed to be. Her words were basically, "you just met and made a deal with a mobster." It was basically tongue-in-cheek but then, your mind wanders and paranoia creeps in a little. You think of stereotypes and look for connections real or imagined: he owned night clubs; he was into construction; he lived alone on a large plot of land; he was armed; he needed the space for a skid-steer. Each one of those points you can turn into some irrational justification that he is in the mob. It all makes sense for some half-cocked mafia B movie. However, then comes the registration, that damn registration. It was undeniably covered in blood splatter. What are the odds of that?
Later that day, I took the documents to the RMV to get the car registered/titled. As I turned over the documents, the clerk looked at me and blurted out in a confounding tone, "Is that blood? Looks like you had yourself a big accident." I responded, "Yeah, that's what I thought, but it's not mine" which apparently was a reasonable enough response to the clerk. I held my tongue in saying the blood was from some poor sap buried in the field of the guy I bought the car from. It's wise not to talk about mobsters, murder and buried bodies when you are handing a government employee a blood stained registration and other documents with your name on it. I was at the RMV not in The Departed. At the end of the day, the idea Joe was a mobster was still all tongue-in-cheek and coincidence. Nevertheless, with the transaction completed and plates in hand, it was all about waiting for the check to clear.
A couple of days later, my dad, Pedro Sr. and I drove down to pick up the Bird. I introduced him to Joe and they were like old buddies, hitting it off quickly. They basically made fun of my "young age" and if it continued a few minutes longer, I might have been told to go play in the field while the grown ups talked. Joe had some errands to complete and literally left us alone at his property to prep and take the car. The thought crossed my mind, who leaves total strangers alone at their house? Is it a pretty cool, chill old guy without any worries; or is it a connected guy not worried about you taking things because they would find you and stuff you in the back of your own trunk? As we were leaving, Joe came back and we exchanged final pleasantries and he reminded me about the factory alarm and how he misplaced the door key-code. I took it under advisement but probably should have done a little more then say okay and wave bye.
The Bird drove relatively well at highway speed and was a decent cruiser. The shifting was something to get used to. In addition to vagueness and feeling worn out, it was notchy. In the grand scheme of things, this should be of no surprise given that the M5R2 transmission was used in trucks. As I made my way back north with my dad as my wing-man, we stopped at Pep Boys in Providence for some extra coolant. I locked the door which set the alarm. When I came back, the alarm tripped. This is when I got the sinking feeling of I should have taken the issue of the alarm with no key-code more than just under advisement. Usually the main key will disable the alarm when you try to start it. Well, no dice...no original key...no key-code...no start...no shutting off a very loud horn blaring away in the parking lot. Do you know how it feels you have a car alarm blaring away for 3 minutes at a time and have everyone looking at you like are you going to shut that off? It's embarrassingly long. I could get it to stop honking at me like a tugboat in the harbor, but I could not disable or reset the alarm without that damn code, which meant I could not start the car.
I was not familiar with this car's fuses, power control module and other items that could have been helpful to know in a situation like this and now it was getting dark and I was 50 miles from home, dead in the water. I told Pedro Sr., who lived 30 miles away, he could leave and I would get someone to assist or have it towed home and sort it out in the morning. Pedro, Sr. is a very loving man and my dad, so telling him to leave got me the Top Gun look of "I'm not leaving my wing-man." I assured him it was okay, but could tell he felt like he was abandoning me by not seeing the Bird reach it's final destination, or at the very least cross state lines into Massachusetts. However, eventually he went home. After few more minutes of tinkering a call was reluctantly placed to AAA, but they could not do any better than me. So, the Bird was towed back to Boston under the cover of darkness.
With some internet sleuthing and help from a mechanic around the corner from my house, we got the factory key-codes and got the Bird running again in short order. Over the years, I think Joe got creative with the wiring or lost many sets of keys and changed out door key cylinders as often as the Cleveland Browns changed coaches. The keys are mismatched and the key that opens the door is different than the key that starts it. This is one of the fringe benefits of purchasing a Craigslist Special. You are liable to get a car and a previous owner with a few surprises. Yet, I can say, I had a smile on my face the whole time.
Joe was fun, open, full of energy and like no other 70-something year old I had every met; he was a straight up Energizer bunny and generally a pretty awesome guy in my interactions with him. He was retired and his only real vice was cigarettes. Joe happens not to be his real name; I call him Joe because he reminded me of a Joe Pesci character; more in the mold of Leo Getz than Nicky Santoro. Anyway, he lived alone in a house he built on a farm with his horse, cat, deer and wild turkeys.The wild turkeys and deer just hung around the property and he fed the turkeys.
 |
| The Bird |
When we arrived, he greeted us and I introduce my wife. We all sat, chatted and discussed the fact that he had owned night clubs, and was in construction and had made a lot of money. My wife and Joe discussed their connections to Hartford, CT. After this bit of small talk, he gave me several registrations but there was something peculiar about one of them (a little more on that later). In any case, he sent us on our way. As we were leaving, we noticed his pistol near the door and thought, "yeah, the guy lives alone on a farm."
The next day, I told a co-worker of my weekend adventure and described Joe and how great of a guy he seemed to be. Her words were basically, "you just met and made a deal with a mobster." It was basically tongue-in-cheek but then, your mind wanders and paranoia creeps in a little. You think of stereotypes and look for connections real or imagined: he owned night clubs; he was into construction; he lived alone on a large plot of land; he was armed; he needed the space for a skid-steer. Each one of those points you can turn into some irrational justification that he is in the mob. It all makes sense for some half-cocked mafia B movie. However, then comes the registration, that damn registration. It was undeniably covered in blood splatter. What are the odds of that?
Later that day, I took the documents to the RMV to get the car registered/titled. As I turned over the documents, the clerk looked at me and blurted out in a confounding tone, "Is that blood? Looks like you had yourself a big accident." I responded, "Yeah, that's what I thought, but it's not mine" which apparently was a reasonable enough response to the clerk. I held my tongue in saying the blood was from some poor sap buried in the field of the guy I bought the car from. It's wise not to talk about mobsters, murder and buried bodies when you are handing a government employee a blood stained registration and other documents with your name on it. I was at the RMV not in The Departed. At the end of the day, the idea Joe was a mobster was still all tongue-in-cheek and coincidence. Nevertheless, with the transaction completed and plates in hand, it was all about waiting for the check to clear.
 |
| No surprises in the trunk |
 |
| In the driver's seat; note cigarette lighter and ash tray. Kids, your car charger used to be the port for the cigarette lighter. |
With some internet sleuthing and help from a mechanic around the corner from my house, we got the factory key-codes and got the Bird running again in short order. Over the years, I think Joe got creative with the wiring or lost many sets of keys and changed out door key cylinders as often as the Cleveland Browns changed coaches. The keys are mismatched and the key that opens the door is different than the key that starts it. This is one of the fringe benefits of purchasing a Craigslist Special. You are liable to get a car and a previous owner with a few surprises. Yet, I can say, I had a smile on my face the whole time.
Comments
Post a Comment