I sold a mediocre car to Carvana for a lot of money, and I don’t feel bad about it

My grandfather-in-law, Jimmy, is a hero.

Like, an actual hero.

He fought as a Marine in World War II and was wounded in the Battle of Guam. He received a Purple Heart and returned home to North Carolina, where he worked his way up to become fire chief for one of the largest cities in the state. He saved lives and protected homes, and in 1967, he personally hired the city’s first Black firefighter.

Like so many from his generation, Jimmy grew up with very little. As an adult, he treasured his cars and kept them in top shape. Ford was his go-to brand, and his most opulent buy was an early 1990s Lincoln Town Car, painted white. He drove this car into his nineties, until family pressure to downsize to something safer and more economical led him to a 2016 Ford Fusion.

Accolades came gushing in: Jimmy, his relatives said, this is a great car! It’s so modern. I know you’re saving some gas. He beamed.

Comfortable power seats, an FM radio, good visibility, power steering that didn’t take too much strength to use. The infotainment system required virtually zero interaction if you only ever listened to one FM station, and the climate control always stayed at the same setting. It started, it stopped, it was a perfectly mediocre car.

He drove the Ford diligently for a few years. Family gatherings, quick trips to the store or barber shop, things like that. He was proud of it. It was his link to the outside world, his independence.

“I’m gonna run out to the store, I’ll be back later,” he’d say.

His wife of 70 years, Peggy, would quickly make an excuse for him to stay. “Jimmy,” she’d say, confidently, “we went to the store yesterday. We’ve got everything we need.”

Jimmy would return to his chair to watch black-and-white movies. “I remember when this film came out in theaters, just a few years ago.”

“Me too, Jimmy.”

Some days, this daily scenario did not play out so favorably. Some days it was an argument. On the good days, though, a weight seemed to have been lifted for them both. He wouldn’t be worried about groceries, wouldn’t dwell on his sense of independence; she would avoid, one more time, the difficult conversation about why Jimmy should no longer drive.

In the pandemic, the Fusion languished for two years. The battery died and the tires began to show signs of rot. Jimmy’s urge to drive turned into random inquiries about the car, concern for its condition. The Ford became a burden. Unnecessary confusion and stress for him.

It was time.

A family member took the car to Jimmy’s favorite dealership for routine service. This was in January of 2022, when used-car prices were at a historic high. They hadn’t even pulled the Ford into the service bay when an offer came in.

Every family has their designated car person. The one you call when you can’t choose between two seemingly identical yet different models. When you hear a tapping sound on left turns. When you think you’re being overcharged for a sensor that might not even be real. A car decider.

“Hey, they want to give us $13,500 for the Fusion. Like, right now. I think Jimmy only paid like $22,000 for it.”

“Wow. Um, sure. Let’s get this off our plate. And they could use the money.”

I felt good about that number. A private sale would almost definitely bring more, but this way, we could avoid what we feared there: potential buyers coming to Jimmy and Peggy’s place, pointing out every visible flaw in order to get out of paying a veteran as much as they should. And Peggy having to explain to Jimmy why random people were in his house.

Then, automotive serendipity. An immaculately timed Carvana commercial.

“Wait,” I said.

As I excitedly explained to a family member how this weird and gimmicky company that sells cars from giant vending machines just gave us an instant offer of $19,633 for a Ford that most people wouldn’t give a second look, it felt like overpromising. Not only did it sound as if I was trying to sell them on some kind of multilevel marketing scheme, I had unwittingly taken over the entire endeavor simply because I had seen a TV ad promising “a new way to buy a car.”

Carvana wouldn’t move past the offer phase until they saw a new state title with my name on it. A few weeks, one power of attorney, and lots of overnight mail later, I owned a really boring Ford that I planned to sell immediately. The Fusion was car number six in my driveway, and according to Carvana’s “techno-wizardry,” it was more valuable than a couple of well-kept “you don’t see those every day” BMWs and a supercharged English SUV. A 2016 Ford Fusion—one step up from base trim, not even heated seats—was now my flagship.

The online process that came next made me feel as if I were trading cryptocurrency or unloading a monkey NFT. It seemed like I had to get this done quickly, before someone found out. Send us a handful of mediocre pics from your phone, the website said, click a few boxes marked “I Agree,” and Jimmy and Peggy will get their money. Save one phone call to schedule the pickup time, I had no live interactions with a human until the day came to hand over the keys.

The truck came from Myrtle Beach, over an hour south, carrying one driver and one trainee. Both were neatly dressed and cordial. They stumbled through an awkward introduction and ID verification, and off we went.

The driver/salesman/inspector/trainer began with a walkaround, a once-over.

“Kind of a deep scuff there . . . ” he said. The trainee gave a little nod. My eyebrows rose. I had worried about that scuff. It was visible in the photos submitted, but had anyone even looked at those? Was all this just based off mileage and VIN?

The driver carried on: “ . . . but we can overlook it.”

He started the car, checked the odometer, and that was it. Done deal. The hood and trunk were never opened. No look at the driveway to check for fresh leaks. The trunk could have held . . . anything. After a few taps on a tablet and a payment confirmation in my inbox, I had to ask:

“How is this Ford Fusion worth twice as much as the stately English SUV over there?”

“Aw, man, that’s a good-looking truck, but it’s all trends and algorithms. The company has a formula.”

Right. Trust the formula. Keep the vending machine stocked.

I helped take off Jimmy’s North Carolina Purple Heart rear plate and U.S. Marines front one. Then I watched the truck haul the Ford away. I have always felt sad, getting rid of a car, and this was no different.

A few weeks later, Jimmy lifted up from his chair decisively, aiming for the garage. “I’m gonna head to the store, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Jimmy, we sold the car a while ago, remember? We got that check for $19,000?”

“Oh, right,” he said. “We really got a great price.”

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