In 1982, I started my computer analyst career at a military base near Macon, Georgia. At the time, I was driving a 1967 Volkswagen Beetle that was in poor condition. It had a dented body, a front headlight pointed up toward the sky, no heater, and the engine was on its last legs. It had little power and made noises while running.
I decided to buy a better car and found a two-year-old Toyota Corolla at a Macon dealership. I drove it, wanted it, and made a deal that involved trading in the Beetle. The salesman told me to return the next day, and we’d finish the deal. I lived about twenty miles from this dealership, and I prayed the VW would make it home, which it did.
The next day, I drove to Macon, and the Beetle’s engine was loud, clanging, and sputtering. The gas gauge was on empty, but I refused to spend more money on that car. I was a little afraid to stop, afraid it might not start again.
As I drove onto the dealership lot, the VW engine made a loud noise and died. I coasted into a parking space, went inside, signed papers, exchanged keys, shook hands with the salesman, and drove away in my Toyota. As I drove away, I saw a couple of mechanics standing around the VW, looking confused.
To this day, I don’t know if the VW’s engine died or if it simply ran out of gas. Maybe I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t.