Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Pandora’s Box
wow, things have been quiet here at the ‘hut. Not only are visits down, but most all of them seem to be brief, random websearchs for various weirdo stuff I’ve mentioned over the years. Of particular interest lately: a speed racer image, the Very Berry cereal box, the Black-and-Mild cigarette box, and people searching for “schvitz Cleveland.” By repeating these phrases, I am likely to double my traffic today. But not my readership, because I don’t think any of these folks are actually reading the site. They’re just window-blogging - like window-shopping, but on line. Anyway, I’m basically now doing the literary onanism thing - self-satisfaction through literature, or whatever it is I’m posting here. I write for myself; if you’re here to read it, I hope you enjoy it. And on that subject:
He said it was his sister’s car.
We were shopping to replace one of the old red soobs - we’d been up and down the bay, checking out any number of questionable people selling even more questionable vehicles, and I was getting pretty jaded. It had gotten to the point that I could count on being lied to, misled and tricked. The world seemed to be full of slimeballs selling scuzzbucket cars, and we just kept our expectations low as we went from one to the next.
My daily commute home takes me past one particular place we visited to see a car during those dark days. Of all the sleazemongers we met during that journey of automotive inquiry, I think the guy we met that evening was the sleaziest. In fact, I bet he’d have been proud to have won that title, that’s how sleazy he was. He was swarthy and his skin sort of shone with a sheen of sweat and grease. Black hair fell in gloopy shocks over his face and an anemic moustache sputtered its way under his thumb of a nose - a moustache that mostly served to accentuate his round wobbly jowls. His eyes were dark and shifty. A paragon of credibility was not the first thing that came to my mind when I laid eyes on him that night.
We’d arranged to meet him after work at an auto body shop on Geary between the ‘loin and the civic center, a sort of orphaned district without an actual name of its own. I think I was sort of ‘dressed for success;’ he was in a blue-grey jumpsuit with somebody’s name stitched over the breast. Even at the time, I doubted it was his.
The car in question was not noteworthy in itself - another in a string of pre-owned four-door station wagons, hatchbacks and small vans. It was a bit more tired and worn-out than most that we checked out, as I recall, but it was also priced to sell. I wanted to believe it wasn’t a deathtrap money pit. At least, to give it the benefit of the doubt, we took it out for a spin.
Kel sat in back, I drove, and the dude in the jumpsuit rode shotgun. We pulled into traffic neatly enough and puttered around the neighborhood for a few minutes. I’d asked my stock question, “why is this car for sale?,” and he was telling me about his sister, how she got it for grad school and now she didn’t need it anymore, or something; he’d checked it out for her when she’d bought it a few months ago and she really hadn’t used it much since then, or something; and anyway, he was definitely telling us it was his sister’s car. So we could trust him. I mean, he’s a brother, and all.
We’re stopped in traffic. I ask about the paperwork on the car - registration, insurance, all that. He pops the glove box to show me. The plastic door drops open; several empty lowbrow beercans fall straight into his lap and roll to the floor. Behind them tumble several familiar plastic sachets, flat and square, linked end to end - a floppy little chain of cut-rate condoms cascades in an accusatory prophylactic gesture toward his crotch.
He giggles, embarrassed, and tries to stow the evidence, but it’s too late for that. We’ve seen it all. And how can we buy this car from this man now? He had proven himself, and by extension, his car, unworthy of any credibility. After all, his sister is obviously a total slut.