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A Serious Buyer
By
R.G. Larsen
Andy looked at the sleek, new Chevrolets on the lot. A brilliant red compact stood out from the others. Negotiating with the sales staff was surprisingly easy. His check and credit accepted, he waved goodbye to his trusty Mercury Marquis, whose appearance belied its 276,000 miles. The new Chevy took only fifteen, not twenty-four, gallons and went five hundred miles on a tank.
The next morning he drove coastward to whisk through curves that had challenged the Marquis. The gas gauge dropped quickly. He pulled into Ocean Beach to watch the white of breakers against the blue of ocean and pushed the seat lever to recline the driver’s seat. The seat went fully back but would not return. Perplexed, he tried the same maneuver with the passenger seat. It, too, locked in a down position. He opened the door to attack the mechanism when a woman stepping from an auto that had pulled in next to him said, “Excuse me, but I believe there is something leaking from your automobile. It smells like gasoline.” Now, he understood the dropping gas gauge.
Without his seatbelt, he drove back as fast as traffic permitted, the gauge precipitously announcing that his arrival at the dealership would be a matter of chance. If traffic were heavy, he might need more than the gallon or two that he reckoned still remained in the tank so he stopped at a service station to fill up. The tank lid wouldn’t open. He pulled the lever again. Nothing happened. Gas continued to leak as he fumbled with the lid, breaking a fingernail as he tried to pry it loose. “Could he make the dealership?” he wondered as he sped through the city. With a sputter and a cough, the Chevy died in the main driveway. “Serves you right, new car and all that,” he yelled at the impassive windows that displayed new models.
***
The service manager moved the Chevy into a bay, where a mechanic found the filler hose defective. Unable to free the seats, he called his lead mechanic. “The seats will have to come out, I’m afraid.” After twenty minutes, the service manager approached him where he had taken refuge in the sales room. “The mechanism is defective, we’ll need to order parts.”
“What about the gas cap lid?”
“Is that a problem?” the service manager asked.
The salesman who had sold him the Chevy appeared as if by magic. “They’ll get you back on the road in a few days,” he offered.
“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Do you have transportation?” asked the salesman.
“What are you talking about?” his voice rising sharply. “My transportation is sitting there with a leaking gas tank, seats that won’t come up, and a filler lid that doesn’t open.”
“Maybe the planets were in a strange alignment,” joked the salesman. “We don’t usually have problems with this model.”
“Really?” he said, surveying fifteen similar autos in a rainbow of colors ready for sale. “Let’s open the gas lids on a couple of those,” he suggested.
“No problem, Andy,” beamed the salesman. But there were problems. None of the gas lids were operable.
“Now how about getting me some transportation?” He felt his face getting warm.
“A replacement vehicle isn’t automatically provided so we offer rental vehicles, but they are usually all gone by this time on a Saturday.”
“I came in here and bought a new car that doesn’t run, and you are going to try and charge me for a rental vehicle?” he fumed.
The salesman backed up. “I’ll see what I can do,” he stuttered. It was fifteen more minutes until he reappeared and offered him a set of keys that looked all too familiar. The old gold Marquis with its black brougham top waited outside. Its grill resembled a smirk. Sunlight reflecting off one headlight appeared to wink at him as he walked around to open the driver’s door.
In the weeks that followed, the repair staff drove his car oftener than did he, and the old Marquis became a common sight as it came and went. He discovered a pencil-sized hole in the rain gutter on the roof when washing the Chevy. The heating/cold air cables were mistakenly strung between the exhaust manifold and the engine instead of being secured brackets. When they melted on a trip to San Jose, they locked the heater full on. He drove back with the windows down.
The Chevy was getting less than nine miles-per-gallon. The mechanics, whom he had come to know by their first names, apologized. “We just fix these,” they said, “not build them.” The exhaust valve replacement laid him up for another week. Once the filler hose was fixed, the leaking gas continued. After finding small hole in the tank, Andy threatened to drive it back onto the showroom floor. The salesman managed to avoid him.
It was after his twenty-seventh repair order and the failure of what he called the “fucking starter,” caused by a “ fucking misshapen bell housing” that required the “fucking engine” to be removed for the second “fucking time,” Andy went from upset to a maniacal calm that hid his rising blood pressure. He had been stranded numerous times and had to call for a tow into the dealership, where the starter invariably worked when the service manager turned the key. Finally, one of the mechanics drove the Chevy only to have it happen to him, leading to the bell housing replacement.
He drove the Marquis to the dealership and parked it inconspicuously. The Chevy was almost ready. His lawyer explained that as long as they kept repairing it, he couldn’t return it; he might simply buy another, as they would probably give him his sales price back if he bought up to a better model. He tried the door of a beautiful, blue Caprice. It was locked. There was a metallic-green Impala, also locked.
Entering the showroom, he was greeted by a salesman. Several others looked up casually. They had a system; it was this man’s turn. “Can I help you today?” the salesman offered.
“Yes, I was looking at the models outside, but they are all locked?”
“We only open them for serious buyers,” he replied.
Another salesman, one who had seen him enter, thrust himself between them. He hollered at the first man. “Leave the room. Go somewhere else, now.” Then turning to him, “I’m sorry, “that should not of happened. I am really sorry.”
“How did you get between us so fast?”
“I saw your eyes. I heard his remark. I was sure you were going to hit him”
“I was,” Andy replied, “I may yet.”
“I can unlock any auto you want. I am very sorry.”
Andy looked at him. “I’ll just go see if my car is ready at the service department,” he said.
He drove out in the Chevy, hardly aware of his surroundings, the keys to the Mercury still in his pocket. Ten minutes later all of the lights began to flash on his dashboard. They said: danger, smog malfunction, driving further may damage engine. “That’s it; that is fucking it!” he screamed as he pulled into a gasoline station and refilled the tank. The new filler tube and tank, like the last, had begun to leak, also. He picked up a package of matches from the counter when he paid.
It was a downhill run to the dealership. When he arrived, he noticed that there were no vehicles between the driveway and the plate glass of the showroom. There were no salespersons at their stations but many on the lot. No one had moved his trusty Marquis to a back lot yet. He felt for the keys in his pocket and smiled as he rocketed down the hill. “Might be a rough ride,” he said, “but I am a serious buyer.”
Copyright © 2005 R. G. Larsen
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