The Demonstration Ride

It all started when I decided to buy a new car, one of those hot, new, Japanese
imports, the Yakamura Extra-Van. Sure, I would have preferred a Volvo, anyone would, but they're just too damn expensive for a research chemist's salary. Hell, the way things turned out, I could have bought the Volvo, the top of the line wagon with all the safety extras--if it weren't for that damned salesman.

I've never told anyone this story, especially the guys at the lab. To tell you the truth, I don't even like thinking about him. But ever since I saw his picture in the newspaper it's been eating away at me. Salesman of the year! I can't believe it! I'd sure like to tell someone my story, so, if you don't mind, I guess I'll tell you.

Hell, I don't even know where to start. I guess the beginning is as good a place as any.... Say, you won't tell anyone, will you? It'll just be between us friends, right? Okay, I'll do it then. Just take another tug on that bottle of pale-ale and listen to what a screwed up place this country has become.

When the old odometer starts to slip past a hundred thousand miles, I start to think about buying a new car. The process of finding a replacement usually takes a year, sometimes more. There's plenty of research to be done, issues to address. It's almost like taking on a part-time job.

I'd babied my old Volvo wagon for almost eight years. I'd gone through two "No Nukes" bumper stickers, and was halfway through my third set of Michelins. Trish had just given birth to our third child, Jenny, and was bugging me about getting one of those mini-vans. At first I said no; everyone knows mini-vans aren't safe. They don't have to meet the same safety standards as a passenger car.

"No car rolls over like a Volvo, Trish," I informed her. "You could roll down the side of a hill and still be able to drive it to the shop."

"You've never rolled the Volvo over, Wendell," she reminded me. "You never drive over fifty, even on the interstate."

"If everyone drove like me do you realize how much oil we could save in just one year? Don't you know this country is sucking the poor planet dry?"

"Yes, Wendell, you've told me. At least a thousand times."

"We have a responsibility, Trish. Those rednecks out there don't give a damn that the planet's being ruined by their pick-ups and RV's."

"What's this got to do with getting a mini-van?" she interrupted. "Jim and Donna have one of those new Dodges. It's real convenient, especially with a baby in a car-seat."

"A Dodge?" I asked, my face starting to turn red. "An American car? You want me buy an American-made piece of crap?"

"I knew you'd say that, and I looked into it. It's got a Japanese engine, Wendell."

"Yeah? Well what about the rest of it? Lousy American quality, built by drunks and dope addicts!"

She didn't speak to me for three days, and I knew that if I was ever going to have any peace, I'd have to relent. "But I'm going to do it the right way, Trish. An automobile is a major investment, and if you expect me to put out good money, it's got to be smart money!"

I began my research by doing a background check into all the major automobile manufacturers. There were important issues to consider. Were they politically correct? What's their country's policy on climate change? Do any of the materials used in their vehicles come from the rain forest?

In the end, I had to compromise on my political priorities a little. Everyone knows about the Japanese and the slaughter of whales, but I couldn't find a mini-van made anywhere else that would come close to being acceptable.

It didn't take me long to zero in on the new Extra-Van. Yakamura Heavy Industries was a big Japanese firm. They'd been around for years. Built troop transports during the Second World War. It was their stand on nuclear arms that first drew my attention. They sponsored the nuclear weapons freeze petition that was presented to the U.N. last spring. Paid the expenses of activists that came from all over the world.

A damn fine company!

Of course, the fact that I respected them didn't mean I trusted the company completely. It is my opinion that all major corporations are inherently evil. They are driven by profits, and in my book, profits mean they'll rip-off anyone if given the opportunity. So I continued my research. I studied all the latest data from the non-profit consumer magazines. I even sent off for copies of the Federal government's crash tests and looked the data over myself. Because of my wife, I had to work quickly. After two intensive months, I had made my decision. There was no doubt about it; the Yakamura Extra-Van was at the top of its class.

Now all I had to do was buy one.

You know, if I were the head of this country, I'd socialize the automobile industry. It's obscene that car dealers make a profit from automobiles. Why is that? I'll tell you why. I went to school for six years to become a chemist, and it galls me that any idiot right out of high school can become a salesman and make more money than I do. There's no justice in it. I mean, what do they do? Do they create anything? No. Are they concerned about the damage we're doing to this world? Are they concerned about the homeless? I think not! Sure, I'll calm down. It's just that it's got me thinking about how unfair things are!

Well, let me tell you, there hadn't been an automobile salesman born that is going to make a big commission off of me, not Wendell Stewart. I'm more intelligent than them, I'm better educated than them, and I'm determined to beat them at their own game.

Why didn't I go to an auto broker? Are you crazy? That's for suckers, my friend! All the auto broker does is buy the car from the dealer and sell it to you. That means two idiots are making a profit on the car. No, if you're smart enough, you can do it yourself and cut out the middleman.

The first thing you have to do is find out what the dealer pays for a car. Hell, I've even tried to find out what it costs to manufacturer the car, but those fascists keep that secret locked up tighter than the formula for the H-Bomb. But finding out what the dealer invoice is is simple really. My insurance company will provide a computer print out on any model for ten bucks a pop. Then, just to make sure that the insurance company isn't in cahoots with the automobile manufacture, you can buy books at any large magazine store that will tell you what the dealer pays for the car.

Of course, knowing the invoice is of only marginal value. You really can't believe them. Some manufacturers place incentives on the slow moving models to help the dealer sell them. I tell you, the ways they can rip you off is mind-boggling!

Eventually the time had come to see the mini-van in person. Unfortunately, that means going to a dealership, something I really hate to do. I decided to make my initial inspection late at night after they were closed. That way I could inspect the vehicle's fit and finish unmolested.

I went to Livingston Yakamura, at the new auto mall out by the interstate. I called up and found out they closed at 8:00. I got there at 10:00. The place was real quiet but well lit. There was an entire row of Extra-Vans to examine. Of course, they were locked up, so I couldn't inspect their interiors, but for now I was content with just looking at the outside and comparing the sticker prices with those generated by the computer. I also brought a flashlight and a tape measure to make sure the gaps between the body panels were uniform.

I had just leaned over to see what brand of tires they were using on the vans when I heard something behind me.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" a voice said from behind.

My heart skipped a beat. I bounced up quickly, sure that a mugger had slipped up behind me. But I was wrong. It was a man about fifty, slight build, with graying hair. He was wearing a pair of Levi Dockers and a cardigan sweater. He wore a white shirt, a dark tie, and a huge smile. He reminded me a little of Mr. Rogers from T.V.

"You know," the man said, "after some guys retire they take with them a mental picture of their former jobs. They carry that memory with them forever. For me, it will always be the lot late at night, after everyone has gone when things are peaceful and still. When I look at all the cars, lined up neatly in their rows, it's almost like nature. Its like a quiet forest before a summer rain."

I was speechless. I could only stare at the smiling man. Just another nut case, workaholic, automobile salesman with nothing better to do after work except wait for a late-night straggler like me.

He held out his hand. "My name is John Montanaro. What's yours?"

I shook the hand, it was warm and dry, the hand of a salesman, the hand of a man who hadn't done an honest day's work in his entire life. I reminded myself that the battle for a good deal starts with the handshake. I couldn't let this guy get the upper hand! "Wendell Stewart," I replied, griping his hand firmly.

"Mr. Stewart, may I call you Wendell?"

"Sure," I replied. Here it comes, I thought. The sales pitch!

"Wendell, I see you are interested in one of our new Extra-Vans. You know, I think people make the decision to buy an automobile much too quickly. They go on a lot, see a color that they like, and buy on impulse. Never buy on impulse, Wendell, that's my advice. Take your time. Cars aren't like an endangered species. They're not going to disappear from the earth. They're not flesh and bone. They're only iron with paint on them, only as good as man made them, and destined to wear out in only a few short years. The decision to buy is not something taken lightly. It should be planned and considered carefully.

"Now if you don't mind, I'm going to open up my office and get you a full-color brochure on the Extra-Van, but I'll only do it on one condition."

"What's that?" I asked. Here it comes!

"That you read it, cover to cover, small print and all. I want you to know as much about the vehicle as I do. Then, when you've completed your homework, we can talk again. I will listen to your questions, and answer them if I can, and together you and I will find the perfect vehicle for you and your family, and the perfect deal to go along with it."

Without waiting for a reply, he was off. I watched suspiciously as he opened the showroom, and turn on the light to a storage room. Within minutes he was back with a brochure and a business card. He was the smoothest salesman I had ever met, but there was one thing I was certain about: he wasn't going to get my telephone number!

"Here," he said, handing me the brochure. "Take this with you, now. Show it to the wife. Call me if you have any questions. The number's right there on the card."

He placed his hands behind his back, and smiled at me sincerely, making no attempt to ask me for any information that would help the idiot harass me. For an awkward moment we stood staring at each other, he with that grin, me feeling a strange mix of comfort and unease. Was this guy for real? Had I met the "Mr. Rogers" of automobile salesman, the only man in his profession with a shred of ethics?

"Well, I guess I'll be getting home," I said. "Got to get up early and go to work."

He nodded his head and said, "Fine, Wendell, fine. It's been most pleasurable speaking to a person like you. In this business it's rare you find someone who likes to do things the proper way."

I backed off a few feet, nodding my head in agreement. "See ya'!" I said and hurried back to the Volvo.

On my drive home, I gave the man considerable thought. Was he for real? He certainly seemed to be. Maybe, just maybe I had lucked into finding the one salesman in a thousand who wasn't brain-dead! Of course, that didn't mean I would cut the guy any slack. He won't be getting rich on me, not Wendell Stewart!

Back home, I went to my den and opened the brochure across my desk. Automobile brochures are of limited value. Sure they're filled with full-color, glossy photographs, and a listing of standard features and options, but they tell you little about what's beneath the surface. A less intelligent person could easily be suckered into buying without a full investigation into the merits of the vehicle and the company that made it. But at least I had something to show Trish and get her off my back!


The next day I left for work early. I drive the old Nissan Sentra Trish's father gave us second-hand after our middle child, Tom, was born. There's not much left of it, but it's enough to go back and forth to the lab. I work staggered hours, thereby avoiding the nasty, air polluting, morning commute. That allows me to leave work at 3:00 in the afternoon, and be home in exactly twenty-two minutes. If I work just an hour longer, the return commute lengthens to almost an hour!

I called Trish during my lunch hour. The telephone rang a dozen times, but there was no answer. I found that odd. I knew she had gone grocery shopping that morning, but she should have been home by then. I tried again a half-hour later, but there was still no answer. I started to get worried. Where the hell was she?

At 2:15 she called. "Where have you been?" I asked.

"You wouldn't believe the day I've had, Wendell!" she answered. "The Volvo died in Purity's parking lot!"

"What do you mean, died?"

"It wouldn't start! I called the auto club and they towed it to Hank's."

"What did he say?"

"I haven't had a chance to talk to him! I had groceries to get home! Thank God that nice man from the Yakamura dealership happened by!"

"What man?" I asked, my heart turning cold. The image of the smiling John Montanaro came to my mind.

"I was waiting for the tow truck when he drove into Purity's parking lot. He gave me a ride home."

"The salesman gave you a ride home?"

"Salesman? Who said anything about a salesman? It was their service shuttle. The driver told me he had just dropped off a customer at the store. He saw my predicament, and offered to help. Thank God he was there!"

My blood pressure lowered a little, but I was still suspicious. "What was this man's name? What did he look like?"

"Why are you asking all these questions, Wendell?"

"Trish, just answer me, will you?"

"His name was Tim, a young man about twenty or so. Would you mind telling me what's on that suspicious mind of yours, Wendell?"

I sighed with relief. For a brief moment I thought that salesman was up to something. I guess I was being a little too paranoid! Now that I thought about it, I remembered reading something about Yakamura. Doing things like helping people with car trouble was their policy, good public relations, and good for attracting potential customers.

"It's nothing, Trish. Just my imagination getting away from me, I guess."

"That new Yakamura Extra-Van is just wonderful!" she said. "It swallowed up two weeks of groceries and Jenny's car seat like it was nothing. You really should test-drive one, Wendell."

"I guess I might have to, won't I? Damn it! I hoped the Volvo would last a few more months. I haven't completed my research!"

"You're buying a car, Wendell, not trying to find a cure for cancer. Is it necessary to know every nut and bolt to buy one?"

"Don't start that again, Trish! I do things my way--the right way. I'll call Hank and find out what's wrong with the Volvo. Maybe it's nothing big. Maybe I can buy a little more time."


Well, I called Hank, and the news wasn't good. The entire electrical system had shorted out! "How does a thing like that happen, Hank? It's a Volvo, for Christ's sake!"

"It's an old Volvo, Mr. Stewart, and I recommend you treat it like a good ol' dog that's doing nothing but peeing on the carpet. It's time to put it down."

So that was it. I had three kids, and only one working car. I had to make a decision. That night I sat down with the Extra-Van brochure and reluctantly chose the model and options. The color I left to Trish. Then, I made a list of all the Yakamura dealers in the tri-county area. There were only three, but I knew exactly what to do. The next day was Saturday, and I would take the weekend and visit each one. I would use my computer printouts to play each salesman against the other. I would end with John Montanaro, a salesman so weak he didn't even have the nerve to ask for my phone number. Getting the best deal out of him would be like taking candy from a baby!

As far as I was concerned this was war. I started early. I left Trish, the kids and my barking dog at home. I had a good breakfast, drank plenty of coffee, and eased the old Sentra out on the interstate and headed twenty-seven miles east to the first Yakamura dealer on my list.

I visited two dealers that day. At the first, I did my visual inspection of the mini-van's interior, making sure it had dual air bags, anti-locking brakes and the other safety items I deemed critical.

"All twenty-three safety items are outlined in the brochure," an exasperated salesman named Ali assured me. I never believe what a company puts in their brochures. I checked each item myself except for the interior door-beams. No one was willing to tear open a door panel for me to examine them.

At the second dealer I concentrated on price. I spared with a salesman for a hour, and his boss for another. According to my printouts they were trying to make a $500 profit on me! That's entirely too much money in my book! Can you believe they even had the audacity to ask me to leave?

By the time I got home that afternoon I was confident Sunday would be my day. I would visit the Yakamura dealership right here in Livingston, armed with enough information to go in for the kill, and John Montanaro would be my man.
I called John and made an appointment for late in the day on Sunday. The time of day is strategic, because it's best to deal with a salesman when he is tired and about to go home.

"5:00 will be perfect for me, Wendell," John said easily. "I'll mark you down for then. And again, I would like to thank you for considering me and Livingston Yakamura. I'm sure this will be the beginning of a fruitful relationship."

"Just be prepared to sharpen your pencil, John," I warned.

He laughed. "You don't have to worry about that, Wendell. I will earn your business, I promise!"


The trap was set. I arrived at the dealership thirty minutes early, parking my car a full block away. I selected a spot to enter that would buy me a few extra minutes to inspect the mini-vans without John Montanaro hanging all over me. I had everything I needed; a calculator to double-check his figures, a clipboard with my computerized price list, and my own computer generated list of options.

I eased myself out of the car and walked stealthfully toward the side entrance near the parts department. I slipped through the gate and walked around the back of the service department toward the storage lot in the rear. From there I made my way down two rows of trucks until I was at the far end of the line of Extra-Vans. There were about thirty of them, all lined up, bright and shiny.

To my surprise no one approached me, even though I was certain a group of salesmen drinking coffee by the showroom door had spotted me within minutes of my arrival. I used the time to my advantage, looking over the equipment on each mini-van carefully. Eventually, I found one that would be acceptable.

I looked at my watch. I had been there, alone, a full twenty minutes, yet no one had made the slightest move to help me. This was very odd, and even a bit annoying. I mean I wanted my space, but....

"Find the one you like?" a voice asked from behind me.

My heart jumped into my throat. I turned quickly to see John Montanaro beaming at me.

"Gee, there I went and startled you again, Wendell," he said, holding out his hand. "Please forgive me! Believe me, I don't make a habit of that!"

"That's, that's okay," I said, trying to regain my composure. I laughed nervously.

"I saw you out here, but I wanted to give you enough time to look things over without me breathing down your neck," John explained. "It's important that you make the right choice, a choice that you and your family will be happy with for years to come."

"Yes, of course," I replied. There was something odd about this man, something I was having a hard time pinning down. I had never met someone who seemed so determined to make me happy. It bordered on eerie.

John looked lovingly over the line of mini-vans. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" he said. "State-of-the-art Japanese technology. Did you know that the life expectancy of these vehicles is twenty years? Why that's long enough to see your family grow up. Heck, long enough for a grandchild or two!”

"I don't believe that twelve years number for a moment," I replied. This guy wasn't going to bullshit me! "That's a number made up by an advertising agency. It's not provable."

John nodded. "Maybe you're right, Wendell. I won't argue the point. To tell you the truth, I don't like the idea of selling you a new car only once every twenty years!"

The balance of power was shifting. I felt like I was taking control. "Okay, John, here's the thing. I will give you $100 over invoice for this mini-van. Take it or leave it. I have another dealer that has already agreed to my price, but I'd rather buy it from you. You seem like a nice guy."

"$100 over invoice," he repeated, stroking his chin. "I'll have to think that one over, Wendell, but I'm sure we can come to terms. Have you driven the Extra-Van yet?"

"I've done my research. I got on the Internet. I’ve read all the reports. I know all I need to know. I don't need to drive it."

“Tell me, Wendell, what size shoe do you wear?"

"What does that have to do with buying a mini-van?"

"Everything," John said with a sigh. "Let's say you wear a size 10. If you bought a pair, even if the salesman showed you it was the right size, would you try them on?"

"Of course I would!"

"Why?"

"Because you have to make sure they fit. If you wear them out of the store, you can't return them."

"That's exactly my point, Wendell. You are standing beside a Pacific Blue, 2011 Yakamura mini-van. It's one of thirty I have in stock. I'm sure it will provide you and your family with many years of enjoyment. But what if, Wendell, what if this is the one mini-van out of a thousand that has something wrong with it? Would you want to buy it?"

"No way!" I replied. "If it's not perfect, I don't want it!"

John Montanaro reached into his pocket and produced a key. "Then let's just make sure, shall we? Because like that pair of size 10's, once you drive it off the lot, you can't bring it back."

He had me there. Even though I didn't want to admit it, he was right. It would be stupid not to put the van through its paces. It was a logical extension of my research! "Okay," I conceded. "You win. Let's go for a drive."

John climbed into the van and expertly pulled it from its narrow parking spot. He popped the power door lock and gestured for me to get in. "Let me drive first," he said. "I want to make sure everything's okay!"

I sat next to him. I breathed in that new car smell, and I'll admit I got excited, though I was careful not to show it. Driving the Yakamura was going to be a pleasure, and at that moment I was feeling very happy. It was the right mini-van, the right equipment, and the right salesman. I had done well.

"Wendell, if you don't mind, I have a special course I'd like to take you on. It will take twenty minutes or so. I feel it will really show you all the things you need to know about how a Yakamura feels and drives. And it will also give me a chance to explain the Yakamura buying experience, a way of selling cars that's unique to the industry."

I glanced over at him. Yakamura buying experience? What the hell did that mean? It didn't sound like a hundred bucks over invoice! But I kept my mouth shut. Let the idiot have his way, let him think that he's got me over a barrel, and then I'll come in for the kill.

John drove about five or six blocks, droning on about the Extra-Van's suspension and steering. I knew more about the Van than he did, but I let the fool think he was selling me.

He was driving along the eastern side of Stoneham Park over by the interstate. I figured he'd pull over in front of some nice scenery that would make the mini-van look extra-good and let me drive, but instead of pulling over, he headed up the on-ramp and took the interstate north. I looked out the window, watching the town below, only half-listening to the sales-pitch. I told myself to be patient. The man was like a washing machine that had to go through all its cycles.

We'd been on the interstate for about five minutes when I noticed that he had stopped talking. I pulled myself from the window to see John Montanaro staring straight ahead at the early evening traffic. That was when I had my first inkling that something was wrong.

The man's expression had completely changed. His animated, foolish face, filled with the same eagerness as a dog wanting to please its master, was gone. In its place was a look that chilled me. His eyes had gone blank, his face slack. It carried absolutely no expression.

What could the man be thinking? Maybe he was realizing that he was about to make a sale but not any money! I couldn't help myself. I started to laugh. John didn't respond. He just continued to drive, drive past the city limits, drive until we had long passed the twenty minutes allotted for his 'special demonstration'.

The sun was starting to set, and I was regretting my laughter. I looked around at the thinning traffic, wondering what was going on. "I thought you wanted me to drive?" I asked, using my most confident voice.

For the first time in five miles he looked over at me, his eyes boring into mine. "Oh, you'll drive, Wendell. The Extra-Van will provide many years of enjoyment."

"I didn't realize I had bought it yet," I said firmly.

"You will, Wendell. Believe me, you will."

I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. Maybe now wasn't the time to put the idiot in his place. Dealing with a salesman can be like dealing with a mad dog. Sometimes it's best to be diplomatic. "Do you think maybe we should be turning back, John? We've been gone a long time. It must be getting close to quitting time."

"It doesn't matter. I have my own keys. I can finish up the transaction myself after we have out little talk."

"Talk?"

"We're going to have a little sales meeting, just you and I," he replied. "As my father used to say, 'I'm going to tell you how the cow eats the cabbage'."

With that, he pulled off the interstate. We were now somewhere in the country near the county line. I had lost track of exactly where we were. John drove purposely. He seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Maybe I should have said something else, but I didn't. I could only look straight ahead, and wonder what the hell was going on, and hope that things hadn't gone too wrong.

It was almost dark when he eased the Extra-Van onto the gravel shoulder of the pot-holed country road. We were parked alongside a field. Long rows of some unknown crop disappeared into the darkness.

"What the hell is going on, John?" I asked. "Why are we stopped here?"

"Nothing to get your liberal ass stirred up about, Wendell. Don't worry, you'll be home in time, drinking a glass of chardonnay, shaking your self-satisfied head at the world news on National Public Radio and feeling oh, so good about yourself. Well, maybe I'll be putting a little dent in that. Perhaps put a permanent crack in your politically-correct personality."

"How dare you speak to me that way!" I cried.

"Well at least I have the balls to tell you what's on my mind, my friend. I can only guess what you've been thinking about me. Bet you thought you were going to screw another automobile salesman, didn't you? Bet you put a lot of time and thought into it, didn't you? Bet you had it figured right down to the last yuppie penny of yours how you were going to prevent me from making an honest living!" He paused for moment. "Am I wrong, Wendell? You don't even have to answer. I see it plastered all over your sorry face.

"I know you, Wendell. I've been dealing with people like you all my life. I know you've been doing your homework. Bet you call it research, don't you, like buying a car is as important as finding a cure for AIDS? Well, I've been doing my research too, Wendell. Now, what do you think of that?"

I was afraid to ask, but I did anyway. "Wha-what research?"

John Montanaro reached into his back pocket and brought out a small spiral-bound notebook. "You've got a pretty wife, or so I've heard."

"When did you see my wife?" I almost shouted.

"Calm down, Wendell. I didn't see her. My son did. His name is Tim. He drives the courtesy van. He picked her up at the grocery store parking lot the other day after that unfortunate incident with your Volvo."

"Your son?" I mumbled. "What did he do to my car?"

John shook his head sadly. "There, there, Wendell. Do you think I would be a party to something like that? Do you think I have to resort to vandalism in order to sell such fine vehicles as this Pacific Blue, Yakamura Extra-Van?"

I was speechless. He looked at me hard, his eyes glowing with anger. He waited for me to answer, but I didn't reply. I didn't know what he and his son had done, and I was rapidly getting to the point where I didn't care. The only thing important now was getting out of this.... Alive? Did I really think that? Had something as trivial as a car sale been reduced to a matter of life or death? No, God! No!

"I see in your eyes you believe it, Wendell, not that it matters. It's in the past. Your 'No “Nukes' bumper sticker on the rusted fender of your precious Volvo will never be cruising the streets of our fair town again. But not to worry. There's plenty of room on the bumper of the Extra-Van!"

"You expect me to buy a car from you after speaking to me that way? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm your salesman, Wendell. The last car salesman you will know in your life. You see, Wendell you are going to buy this mini-van, and as for a discount.... What did you say, $100 over invoice? Well, you can just forget that, my friend. You are going to pay list price, Wendell, full boat, dealer pack sticker and all, the whole enchilada. And you are going to finance it--with us. That spotless credit of yours will earn you the right to pay twenty-percent interest."

"Full list? Twenty-percent interest? Are you nuts?" I screamed.

John looked down at his notebook. "You have three lovely children, Wendell. Abbey, she's seventeen. Very pretty, I might say. Tim took a shine to her." He held up a photograph of her taken from a telephoto lens as she emerged from school. "You must be proud of her, straight "A" student, cheerleader. She'll miss the Volvo too. Until it finally broke down, she and her boyfriend, Chad I believe is his name, had been having sex in the back of it twice a week."

I was starting to turn red. Honestly, I don't ever remember having been so angry, so horrified.

"Your son, Tom, is eight. Nice kid, but he likes to cross streets without looking. You really should talk to him about that."

John grinned at me. "And that wife of yours, alone all day in that big house with the baby. It’s got to be boring. I bet she's about ready for a change of pace."

"You're threatening me? You're threatening my family?"

"Your family is safe, Wendell, if you're smart. It's simple, really. It's up to you. All you have to do is buy the car on my terms."

"And if I don't?"

John shook his head. "You don't want to even think about that, my friend. Believe me, it's not worth it."

"You're bluffing," I said.

John reached into his pocket and brought out a cell telephone. He quickly punched in a telephone number. Someone answered on the first ring. "Tim?" he asked. "Do you have it?" John smiled and looked at me. "You have a dog, Wendell, a cocker spaniel? I believe his name is Cookie?"

I started to feel very uneasy. "Yes," I replied carefully.

"Tim," John said into the telephone. "Kill him."

He handed the telephone to me. I took it reluctantly and held it up to my ear. On the other end I could hear barking and then the screams of a dog in pain, a dog being tortured. "No!" I yelled into the telephone. "You leave him alone!"

Before I was aware of what was happening, John snatched away the telephone. "It's too late, Wendell," he said. "You really should try and make your decisions more promptly."

I fell back on my seat, panting with fear. "My dog? You killed my dog you bastard?"

John shrugged. "Let's just say he's gone on to a better life." The man laughed, a slow, menacing laugh, a laugh that said he was enjoying this immensely. "I'm sure he'll be much happier without you," he added. "Now, what do you say, Wendell? Do we end this all right here, or will we have to get nasty? It's up to you."

"You go to hell!" I screamed.

"That's a distinct possibility," he said with a smile. "But that's a few years down the line, and I have cars to sell. Do you know where your daughter is tonight, Wendell?"

My eyes widened. "She's at home!"

John looked down at his notebook. "According to my son, she's at her high school. She's helping with the decorations for a dance, I believe. My son really likes your daughter, Wendell, but just between you and me, he wouldn't make a very good son-in-law. He has too many odd hobbies."

"What are you saying to me?"

"Chad was going to pick her up at 9:00, I believe, though I doubt he will regain consciousness by then. Don't worry, Tim and the courtesy shuttle will be there! Wendell, did you know you can fold these seats down into a bed?"

A primal part of me took over, and I lunged at him. The man was quick. Before I knew it, he slapped me hard across the face with the back of his hand; I flew back against the passenger-side window. My head hit hard, and for a moment I thought I was going to black out.

"That was fun, Wendell! Did you notice the quality of Yakamura's safety glass? Would you like another demonstration?"

I shook my head and looked over to see the barrel of a gun pointing at me.

"Perhaps, I was mistaken about you," he said slowly. "I had hoped for peaceful cooperation, but you have more balls than I thought. Perhaps I should kill you here, right now, and bury your body out in that field. I don't want to do that, Wendell. It's not my wish to hurt you or your family. I would lose a sale. I don't like losing sales, my friend. But then again, there is your wife.... She'll be getting the insurance money, and as they say, life must go on."

He had me. I knew that if I said one more thing, I would be pistol whipped until I was senseless--or maybe even worse. I told myself to do whatever the man asked. There would be evidence. I'd get my revenge one way or another.

"Okay, John, you win. I'll do whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."

"I'm glad you've decided to be reasonable, Wendell. Believe me, I don't like getting nasty. To be truthful, it takes the fun out of the sale!"

He laughed loudly, pleased with his stupid joke. When he was finished he looked at me, an amused smile plastered on his stupid face. "Cheer up, Wendell! It's not all bad. I'll see to it that you get your money's worth. You will never have to worry about your investment. If anything goes wrong, anything, just call me. I'll take care of it, and I'll even provide a free loner when your car's in the shop."

"Somehow, John, I don't think I'll be in the mood to talk to you much after we've concluded our business here tonight."

"As you wish, Wendell, but if you'll take my advice; make the best of a bad situation. It's just like when I met you. I said to myself, "There goes one self-serving, selfish, son-of-a-bitchin' pipe smoker. The type of man who says 'rain forest' when he's talking about a God damned jungle. The type of man who thinks we should give this great land of ours back to the Indians. The type of man who has been taking advantage of car salesman since he learned how to drive. You know something, Wendell? We have a saying in this business: 'What goes around, comes around'. My friend, it's finally come around for you."


When we finally arrived back at the dealership it was closed. I gave no thought to running. The bulge of the gun in John's pocket precluded it. He opened the showroom, and we went to his office. There was no one around, no witness to tell my story to, no one that had even seen me leave with the man. John hummed happily as he typed up the paperwork. I felt numb, too afraid to do or say anything that might set the man off again.

So, I bought the mini-van and took it home. My son was the first one out the door, squealing with delight. My wife greeted me with an excited kiss. No, I didn't tell her what happened. Somehow, I thought she would laugh, just like the police did when I called them the next morning. Because, my friend, there was no evidence, nothing at all to prove the John Montanaro had coerced me into signing an inflated contract. Not a trace.

You see I saw two things that night I brought the Extra-Van home. Two things that both relieved me and made me angrier than I had ever been in my life. My daughter, Abbey, was lying on the sofa. A bad cold had kept her from going anywhere that night. She didn't care about the new mini-van. She was too busy talking to her boyfriend on the telephone. And next to her, sleeping like a baby was my dog, Cookie. It had all been a lie, a car salesman lie, the whopper of all times.

Three days later I received a thank you card from Livingston Yakamura hoping I enjoyed the 'Yakamura buying experience'. What a laugh! And there was something else in the envelope, a hand-written message from John Montanaro. It said:

Thank you, once again, for your
business. I'm sure the Extra-Van will
be a pleasure to own. I'll be talking
to you soon about replacing your old
Nissan with a new, reliable Yakamura
sedan. Hope your entire family remains
in good health!
Sincerely,

John Montanaro

Crimson Time

I awake in the darkness the same way each night. For a moment I do not know where I am, who I am, what I am. For that brief span of time--no longer than a single, sorrowful second--I am as I once was, normal, mortal. The faces of my once beloved flash across my eyes like the silver lightening on the plains of my homeland, left behind so long, long ago The faces dance like ghosts, splintered fragments of warmth gone cold. I wish, I do not wish, they could be with me now.

And then, just as my nostrils fill with the sweet smells of life, it is gone. It is crimson time, once again. My pale hand pushes up, filled with lingering anguish and throws back the black, lacquered wood. The lid slides open, and in the dim hiding place I smell the raw earth and hear the sounds of the others stirring from their graveyard sleep.

Crimson time. It fills my eyes with the vision of blood and washes away the last reminders of my forgotten humanity. It fills my senses with the hidden lust of the night, the lust for eternal life.

I now stand with the others, communicating without words, acknowledging the need that can never be satisfied and never stopped by the sweet offer of death. And as the last grip of protection the sun offers the world slowly fades away, into the night we fly....