Cash only:

I had a friend once who bought a lot. Not new items, not particulars found in shopping malls or department stores or even flea markets. He was a classified ad maven. He scoured them every day, and spent all breakfast on Sundays poring over the extra-large section. When a particular caught his eye, he reached for the phone (which was always on hand when he was looking) and called for details. He purchased cars, trucks, tools, barbecues, placemats, and more through the classifieds. His 600cc Ninja motorcycle / personal rocket / death trap was a classified find.

Mostly, he bought "toys." Toys in scare quotes because none of them were Fisher-Price or what-not. I mean, of course, adult toys, but unfortunately that means something else these days. You know what I mean. Motorboats, jet skis, mountain bikes. The things in our lives which serve only to entertain. He liked playing outside, which is why he didn't have a big TV or a loud stereo. Me, I like the indoors.

I went with him on many of his buys. One time I went when he was buying a pickup truck. We drove out of town, out into the low hills surrounding the city, to a farm house on acreage with no farm on it. The driveway was loose gravel and the property was pimpled with junk: old couches, sawhorses, busted farm equipment, rust and dirt and overgrown weeds everywhere. My friend told me the truck had been for sale for two weeks but he felt they'd been asking too much. He called everyday to verify it was still on the block. Then, on a weekday evening, he struck.

We met the woman of the house and she fetched the keys. Inside, I saw food boiling on the stove and three boys running around the house with pop guns. They followed us outside and continued burning off their steam while my friend started the engine and checked under the hood.

"It's in great shape," she said.

"Some of the seals look like they're crumbling."

"Oh, no. We've babied this truck."

I wouldn't want to be a baby in this household then. It was a beat-up truck. It'd seen some hard times.

My friend checked around once more and announced his offer. She bit her lip and threw her wash towel over her shoulder, obviously preparing to counter. Then my friend took a thick leafy bankroll from his front pocket and held it out.

"It's all there," he said. "I don't need a receipt."

That was all it took. She counted the money twice and told him it was his. The pink slip was in the truck of all places, folded in half and tucked in the sun shade. Somehow he knew she was ready to part with the truck and the pink slip proved it. He told me afterward that he'd waited two weeks before going out there because it was the thirtieth, the end of the month. Bills need to be paid, he said. You don't have to wait for the bank to clear cash.

I don't know why I remember this. My friend impressed me. I never thought of him as a salesman-type, and yet he had some of those instincts. It just seems to say something about human nature. His or the woman's, I'm not sure.