FEBRUARY 14, 2025 – “It’s about another mile down the road,” said Cory, as we continued along Concord Boulevard south of the exit off I494. If I’d ever before driven down this route through an old and worn part of the Twin Cities, it was eons ago. Our destination was “1st Class Auto Sales” along a corridor that appeared to be “used car alley”—small “mom and pop” operations. Though the mercury was at a miserly 4F, the sun smiled directly at us, unrestrained by even the hint of a wisp of cloud. Cory’s car had officially died a month ago. Perfect on the outside but in need of a new engine under the hood (at a cost far exceeding the car’s value after installation), his vehicle had been parked alternately between the street in front of our house and a corner of our driveway in back. More than once I’d nearly smashed into it when backing Beth’s car out of the garage, forgetting that his lemon (Chevrolet) was an obstacle to be reckoned with. I’d surrendered my car to Cory until he (we) could find a replacement for him.
He and I—and Byron, Cory’s younger “older” brother—agreed that American cars, being notoriously inferior to Asian vehicles, were out of the running. The replacement search should be confined to Honda, Toyota and Hyundai. Byron directed us to CarGurus. For the next few weeks my inbox was overflowing with alerts. After a few dozen of these we were well educated as to the relationship among the four key parameters: price, year, make/model and mileage.
One specific car stood out—a 2013 Hyundai Sonata at “1st Class Auto Sales.” I phoned to ask a few questions and schedule an appointment. I had to re-schedule twice. On the third attempt I was informed that the vehicle had been subject to a recall notice and had been taken to the local Hyundai dealer for service. A week later, I called “1st Class” yet again and learned from the receptionist, one “Kim,” that the recall had resulted in a whole new engine, requiring yet another week to be installed!
The car—and, I assumed, its price—were simply not the same. I returned to the daily deluge of email notices from CarGurus.
Another week passed, but I found nothing close to the “deal” I’d found with that 2013 Sonata at “1st Class.” I called “Kim” back to check on the status of the engine replacement. As luck would have it, the car had just been returned by the Hyundai dealership and was back on the used car lot.
By this stage of my brief conversations with “Kim,” we’d become good buddies. She was African American, maybe in her 50s, gracious, cheerful, and definitely in charge of her world. Her son, however, was in charge of the business. I wanted to ask but was afraid of losing a negotiating advantage—was the “list price” the same, given that the 129,000-mile original engine had been replaced by a brand new engine? The best way to proceed, I figured, was to drive the 20 minutes to “1st Class Auto Sales” and dicker as needed. I had some good arguments, if little actual leverage. Worst case: the sticker price would now be double what it had been and we’d be scouring the Twin Cities for an alternative in Cory’s price range.
“We’ll be there tomorrow when you open—at 10:00, right?” I said.
“That’s right, 10,” said Kim brightly. “I’ll have the car pulled up front and all warmed up for you.”
The next morning—yesterday—found me scrambling. It was 9:45 when I concluded my call with John Cross (see yesterday’s post) and after 10:00 by the time I reached Cory’s apartment. It was approaching 10:30 as we pulled up to the small office under the sign, “1st Classic Auto Sales.” But true to her word the day before, Kim had arranged for the car to be parked in front and “all warmed up.”
We entered the little building and stepped into a compact combination business office, waiting area and refreshment outlet. The three customer chairs were occupied by an older Hmong couple and a slightly younger Hmong woman who didn’t seem to have anything to do with the couple. Behind a wooden desk sat a Black woman who spoke authoritatively into her phone. By her voice I knew it was “Kim.” Her desktop name plate confirmed her full identity: “Kimberly Peters.” Next to her name it identified her official titles and main roles in life: “Mom/Office Manager.”
Three feet from her desk was an improvised horseshoe-shaped set of work surfaces, crowded with the accoutrements of a very busy person: two computer screens and a keyboard; stacks of paperwork; writing implements; clipboards; sets of vehicle fobs and keys. If these things weren’t highly organized, they didn’t seem haphazardly placed either. There was a certain method and vitality to their arrangement that I found intriguing. A name plate facing the room bore the name, “James Peters” and his title—“Owner.”
A large computer system pulsated underneath the outward-facing portion of the master desk setup. Cory noticed it and in a low voice close to my ear, he remarked that it looked custom made and a very powerful system. Much later in the proceedings, Kim divulged that her son ha, in fact, built it himself and used it for “that crypto- . . . what do you call it?” whereupon Cory said, “Cryptocurrency?” and Kim replied, “Yeah! That’s it! Cryptocurrency!”
While Kim took care of the phone business, which seemed to be related to the Hmong couple, Cory and I migrated toward the wall-mounted television screen facing out of the half of the room where various refreshments and beverages were tastefully arranged for purchase. The TV was turned to the local station, KSTP. If this was a “mom and pop” . . . er, “mom and son” operation, it exuded energy and financial viability, housed in quarters that were comfortably functional without unnecessary frills.
Once the Hmong couple had concluded their apparent purchase of a vehicle and the other Hmong woman had completed whatever business she had, Kim turned to Cory and me. After a cordial greeting, she asked for Cory’s driver’s license, handed him the fob, grabbed a dealer’s plate, and led us out the door for a test drive. She didn’t join us for it, so while Cory drove, I looked the car up online. The asking price hadn’t changed since the replacement engine had been installed. “Perfect,” I said to Cory.
The car drove beautifully at all speeds, including on I494, braked well, shifted well and produced no troubling sounds. Inside and out it was immaculate, and under the hood—yes, there was a brand new engine. The tire treads, we figured, had a good year or more of life. In any event, a windshield sticker stated that a six-month, 4,500-mile third-party warranty was included “at no additional cost.”
When we reapproached Kim’s desk, I showed her my phone screen with the car at the previously advertised price. “So, this is your asking price, yes?” I asked.
“Yes, uh-huh,” she said.
I couldn’t believe our good fortune. No mark-up for the new engine. “How much can I get you to come down from that?” I asked.
“Oh, I think my son needs that price for the car,” she said. She gave no hint at concession and provided no signal that she would ask her son, who had yet to appear inside the office. I made an executive conclusion: she wasn’t kidding. Even before the new engine had been installed, CarGurus had rated the price as being $750 below value. Now with the new engine, the price could just as well have been nearly doubled, I figured, and the car would still be underpriced. Sometimes, I figured, a person gets lucky buying a used car, and the car at hand was exactly such a case, and I could honestly say to myself that I’d satisfied my need to test the asking price.
While Cory completed the paperwork and procured insurance, etc., I chatted with Kim. I was curious about her son James and the enterprise he’d established, which, I realized, included a U-Haul franchise (not to mention the refreshment racks inside). How long had he been in business and how had he gotten into it?
“Oh, he loved cars before he was old enough to drive one,” she said ebulliently. “He’d be takin’ things apart, puttin‘ ’em back together, takin‘ ’em apart again—there was just no stoppin‘ him. But then he studied computers in college and got all interested in ’em.”
“How long has he been in the used car business?” I asked again.
“Seven years ago,” she said. “He said he always wanted to come back to cars.”
“Wow! Interesting,” I said. In the course of my side chat with Kim, I noticed that James—whom I’d not yet met—had entered and exited the office several times. Each appearance was accompanied by a burst of energy, as he held his phone between his ear and his shoulder to keep his hands free to manipulate papers and keys. He was of slight build, wore clean blue jeans, a short black leather jacket over a black sweatshirt, lots of necklaces and a white knit cap. He’d stride to his keyboard and peer briefly but intently into his computer screens before turning on his heel and walking straight back out into the frigid air.
“I get the idea,” I said to Kim, “that your son never sits down.”
“You’re right. He never sits down,” she said with a laugh. “He owns several apartment buildins too and manages them. He’s got things goin‘ on all day long.”
Just then I looked over Kim’s shoulder and through the window just behind her desk. A freight train crept slowly along the rails that must’ve been immediately behind the little office building. “Gosh, but that train is close!” I said.
“Yessiree it is,” said Kim. “It took me a while to get used to it after I agreed to come work for my son. I used to watch ’em at first, but then I got used to them, and now I don’t bother to look. One time, though, the train stopped and by gosh I watched the engineer get off and walk over to that gas station next door and buy himself a snack! He then walked back to the engine and the train moved on.”
Her anecdote was doubly amusing. In the first place, I’d never heard of a whole train stopping so the driver could hop off and grab a snack; back when I worked in downtown Minneapolis, I’d seen firefighters stop their big rigs outside of Target and hop off to grab some grub, but I’d never imagined that a train, which is subject to all sorts of strict scheduling and dispatch procedures, could be stopped at the whim of its engineer so he could buy a bag of chips. In the second place, I was amused that Kim herself was amused by the same thing that I found surprising and entertaining.
While she managed her end of the paperwork for Cory’s new car, I decided to use the restroom, the door to which was directly opposite the main door to the little office. I’d expected a facility on a par with an old gas station restroom—small and just clean enough not to be disgusting. I should’ve known better with Kim being both mom and office manager. The room was spacious and so clean, it sparkled. A year’s supply of TP was loaded on an industrial gauge stand. The soap dispenser was high tech, as was the paper towel dispenser. Only one anomaly existed: the running faucet and the printed sign taped to the mirror behind it, which read, “DO NOT TURN OFF THE WATER OR THE PIPES WILL FREEZE.”
When I re-entered the main room, a new person was seated in one of the three visitor chairs. I soon observed that he was a close acquaintance of Kim and James. Also African American, he wore jeans, a thin down jacket, knit cap, sunglasses and a faux diamond earing. He had a good laugh and seemed to be a good soul. I was curious about him, and when he made some remark about the cold weather, I found my opening.
“But the bitter cold can hang on for only so long,” I said, “and in any event, never as long as we can hold out against it, right?”
“You got that right!” said the man.
Bingo. What ensued was a stirring and inspirational exchange with a 44-year old Black guy with a huge heart, a genuine interest in the world, a strong love for his kids, and long-standing admiration and respect for his boyhood friend, James Peters, the consummate American entrepreneur. We talked politics, church and religion, and about the down and dirty struggles of life. I asked him what he thought of America’s prospects, and it didn’t take long to see that he was very much a “glass half full” kind of guy. When I volunteered my name, he readily offered his own—Tony C______—and rewarded me with a hearty handshake.
While we talked in earnest, periodically I glanced out the window to see James outside striding from one U-Haul truck to another and attending to other matters on the used car lot. Occasionally, he’d breeze into the office—talking business on his phone—to check things on the computer screens or sift efficiency through paperwork on his desks; then he’d disappear again, out into the cold.
When it came time to leave, I thanked Kim for all her efforts and told James that his remarkable focus and energy were an inspiration. Mom and son had spent all of 10 seconds, if that, expressing their strong disapproval of the New Regime before turning back to matters at hand. In their example I saw great hope. Unsung and unnoticed amidst the fireworks out of Washington, D.C., people like Kim and James form the feet, the heart, the backbone of this country. They are unstoppable because they are unflappable, and their positive contributions to this world can be honored best by us emulating their remarkable attitudes.
Tony makes three. When I extended my hand and said good-bye, he wrapped his arms around me and told me how much he’d enjoyed our conversation.
“You know, Tony, I gotta tell you—and Kim and James here,” I said, looking at one, then the other, who were standing nearby, “I’m leaving here with a whole lot more hope than I had when I came in. You are the America that all of us should want it to be. If you keep the faith in this country, I’ll keep the faith!”
With that, we said good-bye. Cory slipped into his new used car with the brand new engine, and I followed in Beth’s car as we headed north to St. Paul (Cory) and Falcon Heights (me). Ever since, a steady flow of more “shock-and-awe” edicts have poured over the dam of ineffectual restraint. If the rate and volume are designed to break us, I won’t allow myself to fall for the tactic. I have a strong hunch that neither will Kim, James nor Tony. They’re too good, too smart, too strong, too “first class,” too American . . . to allow the disruptors to destroy this country.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
1 Comment
This read is encouraging!
Thank you.