Beaver pulls up in front of the dealership in one of the new Accords. The windows are down, and he shouts to me.
"Wally, come on!"
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"Just come on. Get in the car. I need you to do a favor for me."
"What favor?"
"It's all right. You'll see. Nothing big."
"Dude, I'm trying to get an up," I protest.
"You won't be gone but for 10 minutes."
I walk up to the car and lean in on the passenger side.
"Where do you want to go?" I ask.
"Just get in," Beaver says.
"Management is going to notice us missing," I say.
"They all know we're going and we'll be right back.
I hesitate.
"Wally, trust me!"
I look at Beaver's face and see that he is in earnest, so I open the passenger side door and get in.
We immediately zip off (You don't zoom off in a new Accord. The engine is too quiet).
Beaver and I, along with Alejandro, are the youngest salesmen at the dealership. We are also all on the same sales team, Tony's team.
Of course, Beaver is not his actual name. It is Michael, and he is originally from Washington State. Michael moved here with his dad after his parents divorced, I believe. He is 18 years old. The other salesmen have nicknamed us both "Wally and the Beaver," after the TV show, Leave It To Beaver. I guess it is because of how young we both look and the clean cut image we both present.
Michael is a bit overweight. He has a baby face, and he gets teased about having baby fat, too. Nothing seems to get him angry, though. Despite his weight, he is a ball of energy and has a personality that is wide open all the time. I know that he will be a hard partier as he gets older. I've watched him eat a Big Mac before, and it was gone in seconds.
"So where are we going?" I ask.
"You'll see."
We make a left on the strip, or Las Vegas Boulevard, in the new Honda. Beaver drives past the Circus Circus casino and pulls into the Stardust.
Beaver stops the car. He pulls out his wallet and holds out some cash. "I want you to go into the sports book and put this money on the Seahawks to win the Super Bowl," he says.
I look at him incredulously. "Are you serious?" I ask.
Beaver smiles.
"That's illegal, man," I say. "I can't place a bet for an underage person. Why would you ask me to do that?"
Beaver's eyes, always wide, get a little wider. He is surprised by my response and studies me. He says nothing.
"I'm not going to do that. Sorry," I say.
Beaver is a natural born salesman, but my moral indignation freezes him in his tracks.
"Let's just go back to the dealership," I tell him.
He turns the car around using the valet lane, and we head back.
I am pleased to see that my rejection does not phase Beaver at all, though. He seems amused by my response, now. He is smiling, and everything is cool between us.
When we get back to the dealership, he stops the car and I hop out.
Beaver yells to another salesman who is over the age of 21. "Phil! Hey Phil, come over here!"
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