We repurposed an out-of-use gas station on Cerrillos Road into a used car lot – there was an office with a view of the lot, a shop with two bays and two exterior bathrooms. The local bank was not interested in financing us or our venture, so we used our savings.
We installed the metal and chain barrier required by the powers-that-be, begged and pleaded with those same powers to sign off on the existing bathrooms as ADA compliant-enough, fulfilled the New Mexico Auto Dealers licensing requirements, erected a tall, glorious illuminated sign, bought 22 nice late-model repos from the El Paso Government Employees Federal Credit Union, had them shipped to Santa Fe and opened for business.
I still remember the excitement I felt watching snow coming down in the early evening while a crane lifted the Auto Santa Fe sign into place. And how relieved we were when the auto haulers finally arrived and unloaded the inventory. How long would it take, we wondered, to ever get flush again?
Looking back, I think we were brave.
Selling our house, leaving family and friends and moving our young family to a new town to start a business was not just a venture, it was an adventure. In a town filled with unique personalities in the high desert of New Mexico. The Land of Enchantment. The cast of characters who shopped and bought and swapped and bartered at our little car lot changed over the years, but they were always colorful.
Like the snowy day I was manning the car lot while my son napped in his playpen in the shop. A wizened old man drove up in an ancient barge of a car, parked in front of the office and just sat there. Both hands planted on the steering wheel. Not even a glance at the cherry 1986 two-tone Dodge pickup with mag wheels or the ’88 turbo-charged Subaru wagon or the orange ’76 CJ5 Jeep Golden Eagle V-8. Deaf to their “Buy me!” “No, buy me!” “They’ll make you a deal – the rent’s due!”
While he clearly saw me sitting behind the desk, he didn’t come inside. Instead, he glared and honked. And honked. Bewildered, I shrugged on my coat and stepped outside. “Hi, can I help you?”
He cracked his window. “Fill ‘er up.” “Excuse me?” “Fill ‘er up.”
Hmmm. There were 20+ vehicles in varied colors and sizes strategically parked on the lot with bold, colorful prices painted on their windshields and balloons bobbing in the chilly breeze, but there were no gas pumps anywhere- hadn’t been for years. “Fill ‘er up with what?” I asked. He took a look around, threw his barge into reverse and peeled out.
Rolf, on the other hand, came in one day from out of nowhere with the clear purpose of purchasing a used car. The $2200 1984 tan VW Fox station wagon parked front and center. He was a retired dentist from Munich, Germany in pursuit of enlightenment. His plan was to buy a used car, drive it across the country, and then sell it back to us before returning to Germany.
It was an excellent plan.
He made and stayed with friends here and there so his travel expenses each year weren’t bad. His needs were simple. He loved to cook. And, for some reason, he bonded with our family as the years went on. Each visit, he’d bring us souvenirs from Germany, a toy or gloves or sweets, a cuckoo clock from the Black Forest, pay cash for a new used car, cook us a meal.
Rolf had trouble with English. We knew nary a word of German. We seemed to communicate through gestures and laughter. I guess Rolf found enlightenment through his travels and studies but we felt a bit concerned each time this gentle, naive soul waived “Auf Wiedersehen” and set off cross country – alone with his few belongings – in his new used car from Auto Santa Fe.
One evening, after a fine, fun meal, we stood in our circular dirt driveway and sent Rolf on his way with waves and shouts. Be careful. Have fun. It was the usual long drawn out send off. We reminded Rolf of the route he’d taken a few hours prior to get to our house out in the country and explained the opposite stops and turns needed to get back to where he was staying. With a nod and an affirmative thumbs out, he set out. We watched the taillights and turned to head back inside the house. But, in the blink of an eye, Rolf was back in the same spot he’d just left. “I am lost” he said mater-of-factly in his thick accent. Lost in a circular driveway? Is that even possible? we asked. “Ya.” “I am lost.”
We haven’t seen Rolf in over twenty years. But, I am lost, spoken with a familiar lilted accent, is code in our family for “I feel lost in my own circular driveway.”
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