"Reality"

Not that Scottie knocked himself out to sell me the Caddy, he nevertheless has that subtle, almost imperceptible demeanor of someone an expert at forcing a smile while discharging a tiresome daily chore.

Before a salesman has you on the hook, of course, there are no other concerns for him in the entire universe. His complete and utter attention hangs on your every word and bodily nuance. The moment he gets you to say, "Yes," though, his urgency and focus is gone, ....sort of like a big cat, freshly gorged on firm, young gazelle.

None of this bothers me in the least. I am preoccupied with my own thoughts, namely, "What in the hell is that guy doing out there, anyway?" I squirm impatiently in the steel chair beside Scottie Chase's desk. Fastening four license plate screws and administering a quick sponge bath doesn't take a frigging eternity!

While the detail man washes the dust off the Fleetwood, I pay Scottie's secretary fifty some odd bucks for a radiator flush that a cousin of mine had recommended I have done. My cousin knows all about the 4100 (roll eyes here) and says that their bad rep resulted from strange electrolytic reactions between the coolant and the alloys in the engine block, causing the coolant to penetrate the cylinders....
(I think someone once said that it was possible to know just enough to hurt one's self)
....Anyway, taking no chances at the time, I ordered the flush. Judging by the fine appearance of the car and the low mileage, though, I am not overly concerned with it this morning.

In the middle of my musings, the Caddy suddenly rolls up in front of the showroom office. Her sheer volume fills the picture window and the chrome trim beckons me hypnotically, sparkling playfully in the morning sun.

The time has finally come, ....right now, ....after weeks of sweet anticipation! I hastily collect up the various paperwork, the spare keys, and my trusty old cassette case. Finally, all the niggling little civilities are discharged with a formal parting handshake, and I'm out the door. The new sled and I roll majestically out on to Main Street!

Outwardly, ....making our first brand new steps together, we most certainly look regal, restrained, and tastefully dignified ....Inside, though, I'm as giddy as a freshly kissed schoolgirl, gloating uncontrollably with a smile on my face a mile wide. Playing in wonderment with the seat adjustment switches and gawking helplessly around the cavernous interior, I am hard pressed to even watch where I am driving.

"Celebrating early?" inquires the lady at the liquor store cash register, ringing up the fifth of Crown Royal I place on her counter.

"Let's just call it a little finder's fee for the guy who found me my new car, yeah, ....and for me, too!" I tell her, nodding through the store's picture window at the gleaming waiting Caddy.

"Nice, huh?" I smile.

The clerk gushes appropriately, all Ooh's and Aah's as I leave with the bottle, walking on air.

Settling back in the driver's seat, the old car fires up instantly when I turn the key. Before setting out for Paulson's, I pause to savor the moment. Dialing the air conditioner down to 60°, I set the fan on auto. Cool air blows immediately from the dashboard vents cutting through the white glowing shafts of brilliant morning sunlight, and I reach for the cassettes with a light and joyous heart.

Hmmm... what shall we christen her with?? Cut right to the chase with a little AC/DC to test out the old tape deck? ....Mmm, yes, ...."Thunderstruck" should blow any leftover old cobwebs out of the sleeping speakers quite nicely!

"You've been ....THUNDERSTRUCK!" ....I can already hear the music in my head as I push in the tape, ....but the deck refuses to accept it.

"Wha..?"Instantly sensing the worst, I take the tape out with forced optimism, and squint inside the little door trying to find an obvious, easily-fixed type obstruction.

Nada.

I try inserting the tape again, ....and again, it won't go in. The tape refuses to settle in the loading carriage as if something is jammed inside.

FUCK!

On top of the dysfunctional cassette deck, I have somehow disconnected the radio circuit trying to feed in the fucking tape. I spontaneously mutter a series of denigrating and sexually explicit epithets at the nonplussed old war wagon, ....something completely unthinkable only a moment before.

Suddenly, I am extremely warm, my cheeks and ears flushing heavily. Now, sitting there stewing, sunken deeply in the rich, dark, sun-drenched, thickly velour-swathed interior, drops of sweat bead up and roll down from my balding pate and the air from the vents no longer seems very cool.

No tape deck, ....no a c, ....well, ....what did I expect, anyway? ....Looks like my brand new car really is eighteen years old.

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Why is it fucking 92° outside, anyway, ....ten miles from the Canadian border, in the middle of fucking September? God, I am pissed. Finally, desperately poking into the tape deck with my brand new ink pen (for my brand new log book), I trip something inside and the radio mercifully comes back to life. I roll down the windows and make a beeline for Paulson's, trying to cool off the flush of the irritating disappointment.

About half way there (Paulson's hacienda is a few miles outside of town), I notice in disbelief that the odometer has not registered any mileage since I left Chase's. A muted click is audible, every time a tenth should roll by, ....I'm guessing, ....and the drum with the digits skips and jumps in synch with the clicks, though it doesn't turn over. Great! So much for my low mileage '83! What next?

I am not cooling off very well.

My erstwhile trusted, car-shopping mentor and I have issues. Our conceptions of a test drive are obviously not quite the same. Let's see what miracle cures he can magically apply to bolster my rapidly evaporating new Caddy euphoria now, ....the euphoria he had himself so persistently engendered.

It is not yet 9:30 AM when I arrive at Paulson's. Before he emerges from the backroom, I have the Crown Royal planted in the middle of the kitchen table, de-boxed and de-bagged, the top lying to one side, cap seal brutally torn asunder.

I gaze, detached, still in a state of semi-shock, at the handsome Caddy, parked innocuously out in the driveway. My mind begins conjuring wild, shifting images, and I daydream, ....everything becoming surreal and liquid, ....the car now an abstract sculpture, ....a blurry, black-and-white frame from some long ago defunct tv arts programme....

Snapping me back to the present, Paulson finally comes out from the back.

"We need ice and glasses," I mumble, the most enthusiastic greeting I can muster.