The Odometer Man

A short story

Photo by Kelly Visel on Unsplash

“Happy anniversary,” Mark Crane said to his half-awake, half-asleep wife, who, after eight hours of bedtime, had twisted and turned so much that the blanket fully encircled her. 

Melanie’s eyes fluttered open, and she smiled. She pressed her arms against the blanket and emerged like a butterfly leaving its cocoon. 

Mark kissed her.

“Mmm, happy first anniversary, my love.” She slipped an arm around her husband and pulled him closer. “Kiss me again.”

“Gladly.”

She propped herself up on an elbow and ran her fingers through his thick, blond hair. “What an amazing year it’s been.” She smiled coyly. “Shall we make a baby?”

“Mmm. We should still practice until we’re ready.” Mark hated ruining the mood, especially on their anniversary, their amazing paper anniversary, but he needed to say it, though he was sure Melanie agreed because they’d talked about this more than a few times. “We can’t afford a baby now. Maybe in another year, perhaps two, we’ll—”

Melanie put her finger on his lips and slipped off her pajamas. “I know babies are expensive. Like you said, in a year or two. I can even wait three years. I’ll only be thirty-three then.” She kissed him long and wet on his lips, pressed her skin against his, and pushed him flat onto his back. “Let’s celebrate our anniversary properly and worry about money later.”

Mark always worried about money, but that worry vanished when she touched him.

When they had finished making love, Mark asked, “May I call you later about a problem?” 

“What kind of problem?” She already knew, but Melanie also knew that Mark would give her some specifics, which would let her start thinking about it.

“It’s a 2021 BMW 2 Series Gran Coupe.”

“Mileage?”

“Thirty-seven-thousand-ninety-seven miles.”

“Busy driver. Out of curiosity, do you know what they did to accumulate so many miles over such a short time?

“The seller is a contractor.”

“Makes sense. Contractors drive around a lot. And why not drive in style if you can afford to? I guess they worked on fancy houses. The kind of house we’ll have one day for our daughter.”

“Or our son.”

“You can be a little late for work, and we can try again for a son or daughter.”

“Two years, maybe three. Then we’ll have enough money for a son and daughter.”

“Twins. I like that idea. What do you want to turn it back to?”

“Twenty-two thousand and change, which will increase the sale price by twenty-five percent.”

“All right. I’ll start researching it. Electronic odometers aren’t impossible to rollback, but the hard part is making it undetectable even with an ECU diagnostic.”

“Can you do it?” Mark reached to the night table where there was a stack of glossy car magazines. He flipped through the batch, pulled out the BMW magazine, and passed it to Melanie.

“I always can. Call me when you’re alone with the BMW, and I’ll walk you through the process.”

Mark owned Star Used Cars at Greene Plaza Market in Gaithersburg, Maryland, a successful shop in large measure because of his odometer-rollback scheme, which had been easy when cars were analog but was difficult now that computers commanded vehicles. But the fact that it was supposed to be impossible to roll back a digital odometer undetected made their business even more profitable.

He wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this on his own because he didn’t have the technical skills needed to alter an electronic odometer. Melanie, a freelance computer security specialist, did. 

We’re a great team.

Did he feel guilty? Sometimes, a little. But he only turned back odometers far enough to match the rest of the car's age and appearance. If the car’s other interior and exterior parts gave off new vibes, Mark would set the odometer back a lot; if the car were worn and tired, he’d reset it a tiny amount. There was symmetry in aligning all an automobile’s components. What good is owning a car with a tired, old engine but with a transmission and drivetrain that feel as responsive as the day they left the assembly line? 

When a car ages, all its elements should age together, like a married couple growing old as one. 

Once, a potential buyer raised an eyebrow during a test drive of a Hyundai Palisade. “The steering wheel is askew,” the customer insisted, “but it’s only got eight thousand sixty miles. Something doesn't feel right, don’t you think?” 

“Could be.” Mark wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. His heart jittered. “I want you to be happy with the car, so if anything’s not to your liking, I’m not going to try to convince you otherwise.” He spoke quickly, hopefully not suspiciously quickly.

“I appreciate that.”

That’s when Mark realized he needed to ensure the cars’ parts remained synced.

Mark kept a record of cars whose odometers he’d reset in a key-locked stationary-store diary, the kind that school kids buy, at the bottom of a box of papers sandwiched between two other boxes of documents in the dustiest corner of his office that also happened to be the most dimly lit spot. Nobody would look, nobody would care; keeping the information there was safer than keeping it online or in his office safe, where he stored the cash that some customers used to buy cars.

Melanie agreed record-keeping was essential, even if the records revealed illegal activity. “So we know which cars don’t have turned-back odometers in case somebody claims otherwise, and we can anticipate any problems in the unlikely event somebody suspects we did what we did. There’s a risk in keeping a record of our modifications, but there’s a risk in not keeping a record.”

In the unlikely event, Mark thought. In the unlikely event of a water landing, the words Captain Sullenberger spoke to his passengers minutes before he landed Flight 1549 on the frigid Hudson River.

Mark leaned forward on the BMW’s thick leather seat. “Call Mel,” he instructed Siri, and three seconds later, her lilac voice serenaded his ears. 

“Hi, love.”

“I’m ready.”

“It’s not easy, and it’s not hard, but you’ll need an hour,” she said

“As much time as it takes.”

“Here’s what to do.” 

Mark transmitted the code Melanie had sent to his phone via a secure Proton file by Bluetooth to the car’s computer. The seven packets, responses, and system reboots took only forty-five minutes to rejuvenate the BMW’s odometer. 

Success!

“That wasn’t difficult,” Mark said. Unlike working on an analog odometer requiring physical tools, he could modify a digital odometer while the car was still on the outdoor lot.

“Good. The problem is that each car, and often each different model year of the same car, requires a different set of instructions to reset the odometer. There’s no universal system. I’m sorry I must walk you through the process each time.”

“No problem. We’ll be able to sell this car for at least five thousand more than we could have with the original odometer setting. Five thousand dollars for less than an hour’s work isn’t bad.” 

“Agreed. And twenty of those a year is one-hundred-thousand dollars we didn’t have.”

“Forty is two hundred thousand. We’ve got a good thing going, love. You know, I think—”

A double honk interrupted Mark. “Hey, gotta go. A customer’s here.” Mark glanced at the BMW’s rearview mirror as a vintage car with an extraordinary baby-blue paint job pulled into the space behind him. The driver waved, but Mark couldn’t tell from his wave if the driver was a seller, buyer, or lookie-loo. He’d find out in a moment. “See you later.”

“Don’t forget, you have to sell the BMW.”

“It will sell itself. See ya.”

Mark met the man, who had also exited his car, in the space between the two vehicles. He stood about six feet tall, a couple of inches shorter than Mark, and was about three decades older. He had thick, swept-back gray hair and matching eyes. 

Good posture for a guy in his sixties, Mark thought, and he keeps in shape, too. I should be so fortunate when I’m old. 

The man wore a leather jacket over his white button-down shirt. 

“Hi. I’m Mark Campbell. Welcome to Star Used Cars.” Without skipping a beat, Mark added, “That’s a gorgeous vehicle. A 1952 Ford Custom, right?”

“That it is.” 

“May I?” Mark hovered his hand an inch over the car.

“Go ahead.”

Mark whistled and ran his fingers along the car’s topside. The metal tingled his fingertips as if feathers infused it. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, though it was a surprising one.

With its high and wide headlights and curved chrome bumper, the car front seemed to smile at him. 

“So, Mr—”

“Fletcher. Sidney Fletcher.”

Mark pumped his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Call me Mark. Are you here to buy or sell?”

“Today, I’m here to sell. Can I sell this to you, even though it’s old?”

“Of course you can. But you said ‘today.’ Do you plan to buy a car, as well?”

“No, but you sold my son a Toyota Camry two years ago. That’s what I meant.”

“A repeat customer of sorts. I’m delighted.” Mark bowed.

“My son died in that Camry. Car crash.”

Mark’s knees went weak. He dry-swallowed. 

Was this a car that I had—? 

“Oh no. I’m so sorry. I…I…”

“Thank you. It’s not your fault. Drunk driver ran the red and barreled into the driver’s side at sixty miles per hour. Can you imagine? Driving sixty miles an hour at eleven p.m. on Connecticut Avenue in DC.” He shook his head. “Terrible, terrible.”

A thought slipped into Mark’s mind: Is this a fake sob story to get me to give him more for his used car? Maybe. 

“I can’t imagine your loss. If there’s anything I can do—”

“Do you have kids?” Fletcher asked.

“Not yet. My wife and I hope to soon.”

“Well, cherish them every day.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Fletcher wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn’t mean to burden you with my grief.” He exhaled a long breath. “What do you say you take a look at my car and make me an offer?”

An hour later, with the paperwork complete, the check written, and the Ford moved into the garage, Mark sat in the driver’s seat and examined the odometer, which read 60,084. That’s 160,084 miles because the odometer had made a complete cycle around the 100,000 mark back to the start. 

Mark templed his fingers, reversed his hands, and stretched out his arms over and past the steering wheel. It had been a year since somebody sold him a car with a mechanical odometer, an odometer he could set back himself without Melanie’s help. 

He was in his element. 

Mark glanced at his watch, which read 7:15 p.m., and then at the car’s clock, which also said 7:15 p.m. 

When was the last time a vintage, analog auto clock displayed the correct time? I don’t think one has ever existed in automotive history. Great car, great condition. 

Star Used Cars’ expansive garage had four car lifts that let Mark and his two mechanics (they were not involved with the odometer rollbacks) work on multiple cars simultaneously. The cement garage was hot and sticky in the summer and cold and dry in the winter, but on this October evening, it was comfortable. In addition to the cars and lifts, five workbenches adorned the large structure. Myriad wires connected a dozen power tools to electrical outlets, looking like black snakes tangled in each other. A locked corrugated door sealed the windowless garage shut. No one would disturb him while he worked.

Mark opened the paneling that enclosed the circular speedometer and odometer gauge, a unit the size of his hand that also contained analog gauges for temperature, oil, and battery level. To roll back the odometer, he needed to carefully rotate each of the odometer’s digits.

Mark attached the speedometer-odometer unit to a vise on his workbench and retrieved a watch movement tool, a fine instrument consisting of a metal handle and plastic-toothpick-like point, from the drawer. The plastic would leave no marks on the odometer.

Setting the odometer back from 60,084—160,084—to 8,187—118,187 to buyers—would take no more than ten minutes, not including the time to reinstall the gauge mechanism and reattach the wires. He selected 8,187 because it felt random. 

He moved the digits on the rotating cylinder slowly to prevent tell-tale wear from having spun them backward. 

Starting with the rightmost digit, Mark prodded the dial. A faint ping, like an echo, bounced back from the garage’s metal door, which struck him as odd because the dial itself was soundless. It’s probably a pigeon flying into the door.

The numeral 4 passed by 3, 2, 1, 0, 9, and 8, landing on 7. 

Another ping echoed, and when the dial reached 7, the garage door glowed red as if something had heated the metal.

Mark didn’t feel heat; instead, the air around him seemed cooler. He shivered and rubbed the newly sprouted goosebumps on his arm.

He refocused on the odometer.

Mark left the second-most right cylinder alone because it would remain an 8.

He rolled back the third wheel from 0 to 9 slowly so he wouldn’t go past 1 because doing so would necessitate rotating the cylinder again, increasing the risk of detectable wear. 

As the 1 clicked into place, the garage vibrated like it was on the edge of an earthquake. 

A passing truck.

Next came the final wheel Mark needed to adjust: 0 to 8.

The room rumbled again; the garage’s walls groaned with a human-like voice, and the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling flickered. He gripped the workbench with his left hand as he rotated the wheel with his right, drops of stress-sweat dripping onto the table, steading his hands and intensifying his focus, because if he messed this up, he might not be able to sell the car. 

Nobody buys a car with known odometer tampering. 

A sharp electrical smell became painfully sulfurous as Mark clicked the number into the 8 position, completing the rollback. 

An instant after he put the 8 in place, all the digits on the odometer set themselves to zero; the display read 00000.

A loud pop from the ceiling as one of the fluorescent tubes blew, and then the second exploded, sending white and silver sparks every which way, and there was no light and no sound, just total darkness for a full minute, during which time Mark wasn’t sure if he breathed. He blinked, and the garage was gone. 

All of Star Used Cars was gone. Where his business had been, two cows stood inside a fenced field. He was inside that fenced field, too, holding the odometer and standing next to the old Ford, which glowed blue under the moonlight like the paint was phosphorescent.  

A farm? Where did that come from? Where am I?

Mark’s legs wobbled, and dizziness threatened to topple him. He walked to the car—where did the workbenches go?—and sat on the driver’s side. As he placed the odometer apparatus on the passenger seat, it bumped against the glove compartment door, popping it open, and revealing a white envelope inside. Somebody had written Mark Crane on the envelope.  

Mark switched the passenger’s light on and read.

As I said, my son died when a car crashed into the Toyota you sold him. The Toyota with the rolled back odometer, the car whose engine failed at an intersection because it was older and weaker than you declared. That’s when, where, and how my Steven died. You killed him.

Do you know where you are? Have you figured that out yet? I imagine you have, or you suspect. Farmland. That’s what this part of Gaithersburg was in 1952. Your business is gone. Your wife is gone. Your world and all you know and love are gone. 

You send odometers back. I sent you back. 

Mark’s stomach roiled. He exited the car, dropped to his knees, and cried. 

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If you enjoyed The Odometer Man, I think you’ll also like my story The Dark Web.