A Trump parable: Guest opinion

A Trump parable: Guest opinion
as published in the online Oregonian 1/18/18
and print version in the Sunday edition 1/21/18
Note: an earlier version of this essay appeared in Otherthannow in 2016.

A car salesman sold me a lemon. It reminds me of Trump's presidency: Guest opinion

By Charles E. Kraus

A year into this presidency, I'm thinking about the time I mistakenly purchased a Chevy Corvair.

In 1968, I was just back from Vietnam. Shortly after arriving at my duty station in Norfolk, I sold my rather dilapidated Opel Kadett. It made a horrendous squeal when turning left. I was pretty sure if I kept driving the damn coupe, a wheel would fall off leaving me dead or wishing I was.

I headed for the nearest dealership. The salesman saw me coming even before I left base. He was a hot shot. I was a target: A city boy who knew about subway routes, but not much about cars. He was a salesman.  He knew about needs and desires.

 I'd been in ‘Nam, other occupied and not particularly interested when Ralph Nader's book, Unsafe at Any Speed, knocked the socks off Chevy Corvair sales. Dealerships were doing their best to dump inventory. I could get a new car on the cheap. 

The salesman assured me the vehicle was safe, reliable and affordable. Don't believe the bad press, he said in his confident-demeanor disguise. Dealers couldn't sell them if they were dangerous. Right? And keep in mind, the guy said, cars were not forever. You didn't like one, you traded for another. What was there to lose? Other than your life.

I could have a new model for only $1,700, coincidently, just the amount of my savings. I was being offered an opportunity to drive off with that new car smell filling my nostrils, seated in a new vehicle, steering wheel controlled by my very own hands.

Mr. Trump has me thinking about that car. About the attitude I had when I handed over the biggest wad of cash I'd ever held, and in exchange received promises and the keys to a vehicle that ended up just about killing me. 

The Corvair was an outlier, different than any of its American-made counter parts. Uniquely designed to shake up complacency -- the engine in the rear and the trunk in the front. There were Corvair clubs and Corvair motorcades, the salesman told me. He forgot to mention there were Corvair lawsuits. Corvair fatalities.

The car shut down suddenly while I was on the turnpike causing quite the commotion. Lots of skids, horn blasts and a few thuds.  On another occasion, it became so unmanageable while I was driving cross country that I ended up stranded in Lordsburg, New Mexico. For days. Awaiting parts. Lordsburg, New Mexico!

I'd sunk my bank roll, hopes and expectations into what was supposed to be a solution to previous car problems. But, I'd misjudged, hitching a ride on a sales pitch, an illusion rather than the genuine thing.   

Poor decision.  Didn't get me where I wanted to go.

I've been thinking about that.  About flamboyant salesmen and poor performance.  On what's promised and. what's delivered.