An old friend was about to leave Costa Rica for good. He sold his house, his other property, all of his possessions except his car. He called me on his way out of the country and asked if I could help him sell it. I’ll give you ten percent, he said. Sure, I said. I knew his car, a 12 year old SUV. He had been the only owner. He gave directions to a mechanic who was doing some minor work to get it ready for sale. Although Costa Rica is a buyer’s market for cars, it seemed like an easy grand to be made.
The next day I picked up the car. The first indication that maybe the sale would not be so easy was the driver’s seat. It was broken and a bit unhinged, and if I shifted my weight too much I ran the risk of toppling backward, not a good feature when driving down the highway. My friend was a heavy smoker and the seat was pocked with burn holes. He was also the owner of two large dogs that usually rode with him, so the passenger seat was gashed and had stuffing seeping out in various spots.
I called him. Told him that the first thing any prospective buyer would see was two destroyed seats. He found a junkyard that had two decent seats from the same make and model of car. A week later I picked them up at the import export place. My mechanic brother-in-law pulled out the old seats and mounted the new ones. I placed some ads, but then pulled them when I noticed the odometer hadn’t changed. I called my friend again. His response was nonchalant.
I imagined him shrugging his shoulders while he told me that it had only been a year or so since the odometer stopped registering. As if it was not important. The first question a lot of people ask is how many kilometers does it have, I told him. He wired me the money to fix it. I asked the mechanic to add some kilometers to the odometer– likely the first time he had ever heard that request. You don’t want me to turn it back? He asked. That’s the usual request. No amigo, I said. Throw an extra 10,000 kilometers on it. Just to be somewhat honest.
I was living on the coast. The summer heat was intense during the day. The air conditioner had two speeds– full blast and emphysema. One froze you in three minutes and the other was ineffective, like on its last gasp. My friend always used the expression “factory air” which I didn’t like, because I worked in factories when I was young and saw nothing positive about the air in a factory. I knew what he meant, and he wanted me to include it in the ads, but I refused.
I had my own car, but drove his once or twice a week. I had received two offers, both a couple grand below what my friend wanted. I could have used the commission but he was adamant. Not enough! he would say. One day I was driving it on the Costanera and heard a sudden whine, and noticed it was now running at 3,000 rpm. I pulled over. The car was now running in double traction, 4×4. Nothing I did got it back to regular drive. I drove back home very slowly, hazard lights flashing. A mechanic who specialized in automatic transmissions quoted a repair price of 750,000 colones.
My friend decided he could use the car in the US after all. A few days later a guy showed up at my house with a flatbed truck. He loaded it and headed for a shipping business in the San Jose area. No good deed may go unpunished, but a failed attempt at a good deed goes forgotten. I never heard from my old friend again.
