Chapter 7

In towns and their edges, used-car yards bustle under fluttering flags and bold signs promising “Good Used Cars.” Owners and salesmen, sleeves rolled and eyes sharp for weakness, plot how to start high, work buyers down, and leverage the woman’s approval to close the deal. Inventory ranges from ancient Dodges to battered Fords, lined nose-to-nose and cosmetically arranged to hide defects.

The sales routine runs on urgency and obligation: get families into a seat, take their time, and “sock it to ’em.” Mechanics disguise failures with quick fixes—sawdust in noisy rear ends, swapped yard batteries, turned tires to hide patches. The lots prize cheap jalopies they can flip fast, not reliable cars. Shill “bargains” draw customers inside only to be declared just sold.

A farmer seeking passage to California tries to bargain. Mocked for offering mules in a “machine age,” he’s maneuvered into a deal: the team and wagon are valued low, added to fifty dollars cash, plus a contract padded with carrying charges and insurance. Pressured by the seller’s feigned impatience and generosity, he signs, leaving with gas in a car likely to fail.

When another buyer returns to complain, the dealer refuses responsibility, claiming only to have guaranteed “an automobile,” not its upkeep, and shifts payment enforcement to a finance company. Dismissed, the man is run off as the operation resets for the next prospect.

By afternoon’s end, the yard thrums with spattering engines and relentless pitches. The dealers celebrate margins on lemons and traded teams, hungry for more jalopies to meet the migrant rush. The scene reveals an impersonal, exploitative marketplace feeding on dislocation and need.