For over ten years, the left side of my garage had been occupied by a 1965 Jaguar, and the left side of my garage by Mark’s winter-sensitive diesel cars. Oh, I know my previous blog posting included me oohing and aahing about the beautiful crystals that had formed on my windshield, but on that same morning it just didn’t seem right that I was on my tenth year scraping my windshield while Mark went off merrily to work without even turning on the defrost.
Add to that the fact that Mark had let slip recently that he’d driven the Jaguar exactly three hours before it came to rest in our garage for ten years, and I went a little crazy, I suppose. I took matters into my own hands a couple of weeks ago: I got online and typed in “value of a 1965 Jaguar” and stumbled upon a site called Merit Motors that buys and sells Jags. I asked Mark to describe his Jag and sent a note. Within minutes, I received an email asking me to provide more information and photos. Well, that got Mark’s attention, and soon we were in the garage removing a few thousand items from around the Jag, wiping it down and taking photos. I’d just sent the first four photos when the phone rang. Mark answered a few questions and moments later, the Jag was sold. The check came a few days later and even when we learned it cleared, we still were in disbelief.
Then we received a call that someone was coming to haul the Jag away!
My knight in a shining truck and car hauler was a young man already towing a red Dodge Charger and a red Ford Fusion on his trailer. After backing the Fusion off the ramp, the young man asked if the Jag was running, and when we said no he suggested that if I just got inside the Jag, he and Mark could probably push it down the driveway. Did I mention the Jag had sat idle on flat tires for over ten years? I jumped in anyway, Mark grunted and pretended to push, and we were on to Plan B.
After getting Mark out of the way, I jumped behind the wheel and uh, “drove” the Jag as it was dragged down the driveway and into the road. Our driveway is about 20 feet long. It was a very short ride.
- Here I am enjoying the last of my ride
After the young man removed the tow strap, he attached a cable from the truck trailer to the Jag and the Jag was slowly dragged onto the truck. Mark steered. It was almost hard to watch. Not really.
Soon the car was all secured. This is Mark right before I made him wave good-bye. Kind of looks like he’s gonna kill me, doesn’t it?
Soon after, the Jag disappeared down the street. Forever.
I was about to run into the garage to pee on all four corners of MY side of the garage so it was clear it was MINE, when Mark thanked me for selling the Jag. He said it was a huge monkey off his back and he was glad it was gone.
“So let me get this straight?” I said exasperated. “You drove the Jag for three hours before it came to rest in our garage for over ten years, during which time I swore quietly under my breath as I scraped my windshield and only occasionally hinted that it’d be nice to park my car in the garage, and now I come to find out that you’re happy it’s gone?”
He nodded.
You all know what happened next. I beat Mark to a pulp, the weather turned warm and it didn’t matter that my car was in the garage at last because IT’S BEEN WARM EVER SINCE. It won’t be until November that I’ll reap the benefits of my patience. And by then, Mark will probably have another car.
And that led me right back to peeing on all four corners of my side of the garage, just in case.
What I wonder, Amy, is why the tow truck has a New Jersey area code on its phone number – is the Jag going to end up in Jersey? In my driveway?