I Blame Dave Ramsey

Rachel Ariel

Word Count 1172

I blame financial guru Dave Ramsey for everything that happened and should probably sue him for six thousand dollars.

I was twenty five years old, newly divorced with a mess of finances, including a joint loan with the ex on a perfectly lovely 2005 Ford Explorer (though I’m pretty sure the heater went out moments after we bought it).

In his infuriating book, Total Money Makeover, Ramsay recommends the following:

· Stop spending money on stupid shit.

· Don’t take out any loans except a mortgage.

· Ten percent of income to savings, ten percent to charity, and no more than forty percent to housing expenses. (As a teacher, that left about fifty dollars a month for food, gas, clothing, entertainment.)

After my ex and I sold the Explorer, I needed another mode of transportation. Following Ramsey’s advice, I knew I didn’t want another loan strapping me to monthly payments on top of student loans so I started my used car search at the best place possible in 2011, Craigslist. When I saw the ad for the Mazda pickup truck, it spoke to my country girl’s heart. Plus, with a manual transmission, I knew I’d feel cool driving it. (Coolness is not an allowable attribute if one is following the Dave Ramsey plan.)

I met the young woman selling the truck and looked it over. It smelled of Febreze-covered cigarette smoke. Someone had vacuumed the interior and wiped down the dash. We’d met at a neutral location so, clearly, it ran fine. It fit my price range and seemed like a good buy at three thousand dollars. She drove the truck and followed me to the bank so I could withdraw the money.

 Rookie Mistake #1: I walked out of the bank and gave her the cash. Now, pause for just a second, and think of all the things that could have happened next. Don’t be like me.

Rookie Mistake #2: After purchasing, I took the truck to the mechanic because I’d heard it was a thing you should do. They said the sway bar and some link things were busted, the brake pads were gone, and other random problems totaling twenty-five hundred dollars. I didn’t see a choice beside making the repairs and putting the balance on my credit card. Next time: mechanic first, cash to seller second.

Rookie Mistake #3: The previous owner, let’s call her Jessica because that was her name, didn’t have the title when I purchased the truck. She still owed some money on it, and I assumed she’d send along the title once she paid off the loan. (I assumed this because we’d agreed upon it.) But the registration expired before I received the title. I took the plates I had from the Explorer and put them on the truck to extend the sticker date a few months. But those expired, too.

I drove around with expired tags for a year and a half before being spotted. I knew once the patrol car drove behind me for more than thirty seconds that he was running the plates. Lights flashed; I pulled over.

“The plates on this vehicle aren’t actually registered to any car,” he said.

“I know, Officer.” I reached into the back seat for the folder I kept with all the documentation showing my attempts at contact and the filing paperwork for the small claims lawsuit. (Because I was a young, white woman there were no negative ramifications for reaching into the backseat while the officer stood by the open window.) “Here’s what I’ve tried to do.” I flipped through the pages while sharing a summary of the saga. I left Dave Ramsey out if it. The officer took my copy of the expired registration listing Jessica’s name and last known address. When he returned, he passed the paper back to me and said, “I thought I recognized the name. We’re looking for her, too.”

In addition to repeated mailings and filing a small claims case, I also called the lienholder listed on the registration. A lovely customer service agent informed me that yes, in fact, the loan had been repaid and the title mailed to the listed owner.

What the actual fuck?

Jessica used my money to pay off the loan, likely received the title, and refused to send it to me. Around six months later, I drove the truck to a horse ranch about forty miles from home to attend a training clinic with a friend. She brought a couple of her horses and met me there. Not yet summer, the Sunday morning was refreshingly warm. I turned down a long dirt road then slowed as I approached the driveway. I crested the hill, and the truck stopped. The engine revved with no forward movement. I shifted to first gear. Nothing. I tried reversing. Still nothing.

  Another clinic attendee, hauling a trailer full of horses, pulled up behind me. She helped me turn and push the truck into the drive. It was downhill, so I shifted to neutral and coasted the quarter mile to a covered parking spot by the barn.

 One person guessed the clutch went out. Another thought it was the transmission. Their layman’s repair estimates ranged from twelve hundred to four thousand dollars. By the end of the day, I’d decided—fuck Dave Ramsey and financial peace, I refused to dump more money into a lemon (that I didn’t even own!)—it was time for a brand-new car.

 On Monday morning, I called AAA and joined as a premium member, guaranteeing me seventy-five miles of towing. Tuesday morning, I called AAA and requested a tow from the horse ranch. I’d brainstormed all the possible places I could responsibly off-load this two-ton weight. A scrap yard required a title. The Humane Society required a title. Any dealer required a title.

 I borrowed a friend’s car and met the tow truck driver at the ranch.

“Where am I taking this?” he said.

“The park-n-ride off Woodmen.” It was the only option.

“Not a repair shop?”

“No.” He just stared at me. “Long story,” I said.

The winch hauled the truck onto the flatbed. “That lot has a 72-hour parking limit. What are you going to do then?”

“It’s okay. You can drop it there.”

“What about your house? A friend’s? I can leave it along the curb. That’ll give you more time to find a shop.” He sure tried.

“The park-n-ride works great.”

I followed him to the lot and thanked him as he lowered the truck to its final resting place. Once he pulled away, I emptied all my personal property and removed the license plates that belonged to no vehicle. I left the key in the ignition and the doors unlocked.

The truck stayed in the lot for four months. I got used to its presence—a slow-healing wound—part of me for so long until one day I no longer felt the pain of separation.

Two weeks after walking away, I bought a brand new 2013 Ford Escape and named it Ethan.

Rachel lives and writes in Colorado with a view of Pikes Peak. Primarily a creative nonfiction writer, she's also working on her first novel. She is a candidate in the MFA Creative Writing program at Mississippi University for Women.