I was driving to Roanoke today, and as I drove past a used car lot, I saw out of the corner of my eye a pale green 1974 Cadillac Coupe Deville on the lot. I knew I had to stop and check it out on my return trip.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Cadillac man. As best I can figure, my love affair with Cadillacs began when I was a little kid watching Ghostbusters multiple times per week. Over time, my love of the ECTO-1 — which of course began life as a 1959 Miller-Meteor ambulance/hearse Cadillac professional chassis — gradually morphed into a love of all things Cadillac. To this day, the 1959 Cadillac remains my dream car, followed by the 1967-1978 Eldorados.
Whenever I see a sweet old Cadillac, I often stop just to find out how much the owner wants for it. I don’t know why I do this. I think I’m hoping to find an owner who will say, “Yeah, this old gal runs like a top, but I gotta get rid of her, on account of she’s haunted. She’s yours if you tell me a story about a man who tried to do something that ended poorly for him but hilariously for those observing him.”
The ’74 Coupe Deville isn’t necessarily one of my favorites, but it’s still a beautiful piece of American iron that would look pretty good with me behind the steering wheel. I pulled into the parking lot of the used car dealership and struck up a conversation with the owner, a barrel-chested man of 75 who chain-smoked menthols and told me the tale of the car.
His great uncle, he said, was a bootlegger and timber man who bought it brand-new. He kept the car in his temperature-controlled garage, driving it only occasionally, until he sold it to another relative (also a bootlegger) in 1995. That relative also kept it in a temperature-controlled garage and only drove it once or twice. Every few months, he’d change the fluids, pump the brakes, and add some fuel stabilizers. His wife was a paraplegic, and one of her favorite past-times was retiring to the garage and wheeling herself around the car, waxing and buffing it to a high sheen. Then that relative died, and the barrel-chested man inherited it.
It was, quite possibly, the most pristine 1974 Coupe Deville in our universe or any parallel universes. The paint was immaculate. The interior looked untouched.
It had 9,000 miles on the odometer.
“I’m thinking $15,000,” the owner said.
I am possessed of an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Cadillacs manufactured between 1950 and 2000, along with their Kelley Blue Book values. This was a reasonable figure.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s about right. You probably won’t get that here, though. I expect you might be able to sell it locally for nine, maybe ten.”
He swept an arm across the Cadillac’s endless sea-foam expanse. “What would you give me for it?”
“Sir,” I said, “any honest answer I give you would be so insulting that you would want to punch me in the face.”
He then announced that his cellulitis was acting up and he needed to sit down. He folded himself into his Buick and proceeded to tell me about his career as a minor country music star, his love affair with the 1941 Ford, and also his cellulitis. This went on for perhaps twenty minutes or so.
“Sure you wouldn’t give me ten for it?” he asked, puffing a menthol Marlboro.
“If I had ten, I’d buy it,” I said.
“Almost too nice to drive, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t have a garage or anything.”
“Aw, shit,” he said. “I wouldn’t sell it to you, anyway.”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Cadillac man. As best I can figure, my love affair with Cadillacs began when I was a little kid watching Ghostbusters multiple times per week. Over time, my love of the ECTO-1 — which of course began life as a 1959 Miller-Meteor ambulance/hearse Cadillac professional chassis — gradually morphed into a love of all things Cadillac. To this day, the 1959 Cadillac remains my dream car, followed by the 1967-1978 Eldorados.
Whenever I see a sweet old Cadillac, I often stop just to find out how much the owner wants for it. I don’t know why I do this. I think I’m hoping to find an owner who will say, “Yeah, this old gal runs like a top, but I gotta get rid of her, on account of she’s haunted. She’s yours if you tell me a story about a man who tried to do something that ended poorly for him but hilariously for those observing him.”
The ’74 Coupe Deville isn’t necessarily one of my favorites, but it’s still a beautiful piece of American iron that would look pretty good with me behind the steering wheel. I pulled into the parking lot of the used car dealership and struck up a conversation with the owner, a barrel-chested man of 75 who chain-smoked menthols and told me the tale of the car.
His great uncle, he said, was a bootlegger and timber man who bought it brand-new. He kept the car in his temperature-controlled garage, driving it only occasionally, until he sold it to another relative (also a bootlegger) in 1995. That relative also kept it in a temperature-controlled garage and only drove it once or twice. Every few months, he’d change the fluids, pump the brakes, and add some fuel stabilizers. His wife was a paraplegic, and one of her favorite past-times was retiring to the garage and wheeling herself around the car, waxing and buffing it to a high sheen. Then that relative died, and the barrel-chested man inherited it.
It was, quite possibly, the most pristine 1974 Coupe Deville in our universe or any parallel universes. The paint was immaculate. The interior looked untouched.
It had 9,000 miles on the odometer.
“I’m thinking $15,000,” the owner said.
I am possessed of an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Cadillacs manufactured between 1950 and 2000, along with their Kelley Blue Book values. This was a reasonable figure.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s about right. You probably won’t get that here, though. I expect you might be able to sell it locally for nine, maybe ten.”
He swept an arm across the Cadillac’s endless sea-foam expanse. “What would you give me for it?”
“Sir,” I said, “any honest answer I give you would be so insulting that you would want to punch me in the face.”
He then announced that his cellulitis was acting up and he needed to sit down. He folded himself into his Buick and proceeded to tell me about his career as a minor country music star, his love affair with the 1941 Ford, and also his cellulitis. This went on for perhaps twenty minutes or so.
“Sure you wouldn’t give me ten for it?” he asked, puffing a menthol Marlboro.
“If I had ten, I’d buy it,” I said.
“Almost too nice to drive, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t have a garage or anything.”
“Aw, shit,” he said. “I wouldn’t sell it to you, anyway.”