A guy walks in, his tale of woe between his legs. He begins by wanting things he cannot pay for. Wants to have me give him a break. Make a deal. Be, you know, a good guy.
Obviously he doesn’t know me.
I did my best to explain the situation to him quickly (pay = stuff/no pay = no stuff) then stopped talking. Sadly, he didn’t.
He figures the hard luck sell will melt my evil heart. The problems began with the beginning of his story. He tells me that, before the shit hit the fan, he was a high end automobile salesman.
I am not casting aspersions upon this mans, ah, how should I say? Acuity, comportment, or dress but if he were selling dirt it wouldn’t be high end dirt.
“Yeah, it was great. Because I was a top salesman they gave me a three hundred thousand dollar car to drive around in. It’s all about image, you know.”
Yes, I think, it is.
Is that a dollop of peanut butter on your shirt?
At least I hope it’s peanut butter.
Now that he has my attention, he brings me from visions of him sipping an Antarctic Nail Ale in a Lamborghini Murcielago LP640 to his current state, nipping a Natty Light in a Nissan.
“You know it’s gotta be tough. I went from selling ten, twelve high end cars a month to not being able to get work. And I had years of experience. But, in this economy, people just aren’t buying.”
That’s right, people aren’t buying but I see plenty of rich motherfuckers shelling out huge cash for some big ticket shit.
“I mean, I could probably get work selling shitty cars but that’s impossible. Once you’ve sold cars like Jaguars and lamb more ghinis you can’t step back.”
No, please, let’s step back. Even if for a word or two.
Did he say, right into my ear hole, that he sold Jaguars and lamb more ghinis? Yes, he said lamb more ghinis. I rewound it in my head to make sure. I Zapruder’d that shit until I had 100% certainty that he said lamb more ghini.
I’m may not be the best judge of character or virtue but I’m beginning to think he may be lying to me about a few things.
“Besides,” he says. “I probably couldn’t work anyway. Yeah, I got that carpet tunnel.”
Two things sprint into my head (I’m not kidding, these two thoughts hit simultaneously with such ferocity I was momentarily skull fucked):
1) I hope it’s not shag carpeted. That would wreak havoc on city MPG.
2) The only way that could be a tragedy in his profession is if he was giving hand jobs with each test drive.
Slowly, I begin to regain my sight, vision, and mental focus.
Sadly, I begin to regain my sight, vision, and mental focus.