Out the Door

It laid on the table before me; dotted and crossed with scratches that might have well been Sanskrit. The pressure increased; the pen beckoned me. Sign it and I could leave. No problem. My head spun, the light burned into my head; my stomach rumbled and I just wanted to return to my warm home, my little dog, my familiar confines.

But he wouldn't let me leave.

It started Tuesday. I drove to work, same as every day; except that fate stepped in and told me to take a different route. And I saw the sign.

Sale.

I need a new car. Four years ago, my old car, The Red Menace, went to the great junkyard in Earth City after she died on the highway on a breezy May night. I needed a car, but had no money. So like some Beelzebub or Mephistopholes, the car salesman conned me into leasing my car, the White Flight.

All I can say is I wish he would have kissed me as I signed the documents, because it would have made the reaming go that much easier.

So here I am. I've already exceeded the mileage limits on my car, and I have seven months remaining on the lease. Not good. At this rate, I'll be able to purchase a car for what I'll pay in penalties.

How can I earn your business?

He was smooth; he was friendly. The essence of sales. You want to believe him; you want to do as he says. But Sweet Jesus, I hate the way they throw numbers too and fro; hither and yon.

To me, numbers are an obsucre language. I don't speak math beyond a third-grade level. Fractions give me pause; algebra headaches; calculus? Forget it.

I gotta go.

I know I've grown as a person over the last few years. I'm not as accomodating or eager to please, and I've finally learned after all these years to say no. (However, if he would have been a cute blonde named Amy, I'd be driving that car right now).

I will probably buy it this week, but it's going to be on my terms, not theirs, and that makes me feel far, far better about the whole deal.

Until the car blows up after I take it off the lot.