My father, the crook and the British sports car

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I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when he learned about the crook who stole my British sports car.

It was the spring of 1988 and I was a senseless 26 year old. I’d just quit a sales job I hated to resurrect a stone masonry business I ran during my college years.

When my father learned I gave up a salary to work hard labor, he had one question: “What the heck were you thinking?�

Since I no longer had a steady salary, I decided to cut my expenses. I put my 1986 Firebird up for sale, then I used my meager savings to buy a 1976 MGB convertible.

It was rusted out and needed work, which prompted my father to ask: “What the heck were you thinking?”

But I had a master plan: I’d buy the car cheap, restore it, then drive around in style WITHOUT car payments. And when I eventually would sell the car, I’d do so at a handsome profit.

Things didn’t work out that way, of course.

I was unable to sell the Firebird for what I owed on it. To complicate matters, the MG would break down about once a month and the cost of the repairs was a lot higher than my Firebird’s car payment.

Undaunted, I carried out my plan. I worked hard rebuilding stone walls. I paid my cousin to repaint the roadster, but I was flat broke and still unable to sell the Firebird.

After I took a job at a small advertising agency, I figured I could get $4,900 for the roadster — it was in pristine condition by then — but I wasn’t getting any interest. Until the crook showed up.

He drove a brand new Nissan Maxima, so I figured he had some dough. He said he loved cars and had a dozen of them. He said he wanted the roadster as a gift for his girlfriend.

He asked if he could have his mechanic look the car over and I didn’t hesitate. I gave him the keys. He returned an hour later and agreed to pay me the full $4,900. He’d return the following day with a cashier’s check.

Finally, I thought, my suffering was over. I didn’t know that the fellow was a con artist wanted in several counties.

I didn’t know the Maxima was stolen or that he made a duplicate key for my car. When I got home from work the next day, my car was gone — taken right out of my garage.

As it goes, the crook found the insurance card and title I had secretly hidden under the back seat and sold the car to a used car dealer.

Luckily, the police found the car and brought it back. I finally sold it for $3,300 — a $1,500 loss.

When my father got the details, he had but one thing to say: “What the heck were you thinking?�

I’m not sure what I was thinking then, but here’s what I’m thinking now: Some people think fathers aren’t important, but I’d be lost if my dad’s good sense didn’t finally penetrate my thick noggin.

We lost my dad a few years ago and we miss him dearly, but his good sense guides me still.

I now own a paid-off truck and was never dumb enough to buy a British sports car again!

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