The “Ballad of the Facebook Marketplace Driver Deal”

Let me tell you about the last time I tried to sell something on Facebook Marketplace before I fully gave up and decided to just launch everything I own into the nearest ravine.

I was selling a golf driver—TaylorMade, barely used, only 19 emotional breakdowns and one beer-fueled triple bogey attached to its grip. Listed it for $200, which is honestly a steal considering I bonded with that club more than with most of my extended family. Within an hour, a guy messaged me. We’ll call him Dale because, well, of course his name was Dale.

Over text, we agreed on the price. No haggling, no weird questions like “Does it come with a goat?” or “Would you trade for a lava lamp and a signed photo of Larry the Cable Guy?” It felt almost… normal.

We set the meet-up for 6 p.m. at a gas station, because I am a dignified adult who closes high-stakes negotiations next to a rolling hot dog grill and a slushie machine that hasn’t been cleaned since the Obama administration.

Dale pulls up in a Ford F-150 that might’ve once been white, and steps out in cowboy boots and a sleeveless shirt that says Nashville Or Die. He had a full goatee, three visible earrings, and the aura of a man who absolutely owns a snake named Bocephus.

First thing he says?
“You mind if I tell you a little about my band?”

Now, what I should’ve said was, “Yes, I absolutely mind. Money or golf club. That’s the transaction.”
What I did say was, “Sure, man.”

Twenty-three minutes.

That’s how long Dale monologued about his outlaw country band, “Whiskey Trough,” their recent falling-out with a fiddle player named Kenny (who may or may not be a felon), and their dreams of opening for Travis Tritt’s nephew’s cousin. There was a whole bit about a gig they played behind a Jiffy Lube and how it ended in a fistfight over a harmonica solo.

Finally, I fake-checked my watch and said, “Cool stuff, man. Anyway, if you give me the $200, the driver’s yours.”

And here it comes.

“Well,” Dale says, “I only brought $150.”

My soul left my body and hovered near the gas station sign, wondering if I could start a new life as a Slim Jim.

But rather than storm off or say something adult like “Absolutely not,” I snapped and said the most deranged sentence to ever come out of my mouth:

“If you can sing Johnny Cash’s Hurt and make me cry, I’ll do it for $150.”

He didn’t hesitate. “No problem,” he said, like this was a completely standard part of any parking lot transaction.

And folks… he sang.

He sang.

Full eye contact. Zero irony. Guttural anguish. The man became Johnny Cash. He cracked on the word “empire” and my knees buckled. A single tear ran down my cheek. I thought about my childhood dog for no reason. I saw visions of past lives. At one point I think a raccoon stopped mid-garbage dive to listen.

When he finished, he stepped closer, voice soft:
“So we good for $150?”

I blinked. Cleared my throat. “No. Sorry. I don’t negotiate.”

He stared. I shrugged.

Dale turned on his heel, muttered something about “art not being respected,” climbed into his truck, and flipped me off with the full, twangy passion of a man who once loved and lost a steel guitar.

So I still have the driver. And if anyone wants it, it’s $200. Or $150 plus a Dolly Parton ballad so haunting it haunts me back.