Saying Goodbye to the Mustang

Wilmington, North Carolina. January, 2004

I buy the 2003 Ford Mustang with $12,500 cash and my trade, a 1995 Nissan pickup.

It pleases me that I do not have to make payments. It also pleases me that I am driving such a nice car. As a kid, I never thought I would have a car like a Mustang or a Camaro, but here it is. I can immediately tell that this vehicle drives heavier than my little pickup that I traded in. I will also have to get used to the size of the Mustang. Though it is a sports car, to me it feels like I am driving a huge Cadillac.



I bought the car in part because I hope girls will be impressed by it. I do get a number of compliments, but so far not any dates. Maybe that will change…

Carolina Beach, North Carolina. September 2004.

My Mustang really looks beautiful, sitting in its assigned parking space below. I look down on it from the balcony of my condominium, one row back from the beach. The curves of the body, the shining white paint job, the sleek decals, all give me a good feeling. I own that car, I think to myself. That is what I drive. It is a cool car, no doubt.

Mom and Dad and are vacationing at Topsail Island, to the north of the beach where I live. I go up and have a good visit with them. When it is time for me to leave and return home, I roll down the windows and turn up the theme to the TV show, “Knight Rider” on my stereo as I drive away. Dad laughs and gives me a thumbs up.

America. January 2006.

Due to upheaval in my employment, on a whim I decide to move from North Carolina Las Vegas.

It is my brother, Adam, and me taking turns driving the Mustang on Interstate 40 almost all the way across the country. Dad and my Uncle Ken follow behind in the Penske rental truck.

The trip out there is one of the most memorable of my life. We stop and eat at a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Hermitage, Tennessee, take in the Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock, Arkansas, eat at a great Chinese Buffet in Van Buren, Arkansas, spend the night in Roland, Oklahoma, then Pizza and an overnight stay in Tucumcari, New Mexico, then the following night to Williams, Arizona and a little detour to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, then to the division between the Mountain and Pacific Time Zones at the Hoover Dam, and finally arriving at night at the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.



Once my family has left Vegas, flying back to North Carolina, it is just me and my Mustang out here in the Mojave Desert. I have come out here with no job, and eventually wind up as a salesman at a car dealership.

One morning as I am headed to work, one of the sales managers pulls up alongside me in his truck as we head down Sahara Avenue.
“Drive that Mustang!” he shouts at me. “Drive it!”

The apartments where I live have a really high crime rate. The zip code, 89109, is #2 in the country for stolen cars, according to my insurance company.

“Yeah, you’re not a real resident here until you’ve had a car stolen from you,” my neighbor tells me. “I’ve lived here for eight years, and I’ve had two stolen from me.”

I go to an auto parts store and by “The Club” to put on my steering wheel each night.



Almost every morning when I exit my apartment to start the day, somebody’s car has been damaged- a mirror or window smashed, tires slashed. My Mustang is just about the nicest car in the complex. To my amazement, no one messes with my car for the entire time I live in the apartments.

Alexandria, Virginia. October, 2006.

My Mustang rides me to work each morning at the Post Office- a miserable, stressful drive. I come home from work exhausted.

The weather is starting to turn cold, now, and I wonder if I am going to be able to keep doing this as I climb out of the Mustang around 10pm at the end of another long day.

I click the lock button twice on my key fob, to set the car alarm. The Mustang’s horn honks twice.

I have never known it to do that before. Normally, the horn just blows once to let me know the alarm is set.

I press the key fob twice again, and the horn blows twice in quick succession again.

Huh. That is puzzling, I think to myself. But I go on inside to my apartment.

Early the next morning when I go out to the car, ready to drive to the Post Office again, I see that I left the passenger side door wide open from where got out the Styrofoam to go boxes of buffet food.

To my surprise, no one has messed with the inside of my car. Now I know why the horn was blowing twice- to signal that a door was open.

Fayetteville, North Carolina. Spring 2007.

While I wait to start a graduate program in history at Western Carolina University in the fall, I work again as a car salesman, this time Fayetteville. It is a Chevy Dealership, though we sell a lot of used Fords as well. It amuses me that in Vegas, many of the salesman were professional poker players. They sold cars during the day and played in poker tournaments at night in the casinos.

At this dealership, no one is a professional gambler, but some of the salesmen are also ordained ministers. One salesman carries two cell phones on his belt- a phone for his customers at the dealership, and the other for the members of his church.

Cullowhee, North Carolina. Fall 2008

I have always done better in school than in the work world, which is a bit frustrating. If academic success does not translate so easily to success in the real world, then what is the point of academics? But the lack of a correlation is not true for most people. I am going to see if I can mix the two worlds by making a career in academics.

Anyway, here at Western Carolina University, I am in the midst of the happiest year of my life, and I fully realize it.



I am actually getting dates, now. Girls are riding in the passenger seat of my Mustang on an almost regular basis, which was the main goal when I bought the car.

Tallahassee, Florida. 2009

“You have that nice Mustang, and you take the bus to school?” One of my friends asks me.

In my first year of law school, I use the Tallahassee transit system to get to and from the campus. During all three years in Tallahassee, my Mustang gets a bit of a break. I do not drive it that much. The main trip I make is to the grocery store with my classmate and neighbor from New Zealand, who does not have a car or a license at this point.

Kissimmee, Florida. Fall 2011.

I park my Mustang under an oak tree at my residence and walk to work. The tree dumps a lot of dirt and leaves on it in the coming weeks and months. Dirt gets into crevasses and linings in the car which are difficult if not impossible to clean. It is beginning to become an old car, I understand, now.

On a trip to visit my family in North Carolina, my brother washes the car and peels off the decals of the horses on the doors.

“It makes it look like less of a girl’s car,” he says.

Miami, Florida. Summer 2012.

I almost get into a major car accident coming out of Miami International Airport. There is a lot of construction there. It is nightfall and raining heavily, and I miss seeing a Yield sign posted amongst the orange and white barrels.

A taxi cab traveling at a high rate of speed taps the front of my car, as I pull out into his lane. But he keeps on going and I do not try to catch up to him and flag him down. At first chance, I get out of my car and survey the damage. We traded paint. Black and yellow is scuffed into my bumper, and it will not buff out.

This year in Miami, I really grind the Mustang, driving all over the city in stop and go traffic. The trunk, back seat and passenger seat are all stacked with boxes of books and other supplies for my job. It is not what the car was designed for, and I apologize to it and tell it what a great job it is doing on a daily basis.



Live Oak, Florida. 2013.

The driver side automatic window has stopped working. It costs approximately $500 to have a new window motor installed to have the problem fixed. A short time after I spend that money, the “Service Engine Soon” light comes on. I find out what the problem is. Though it is not an urgently needed repair, it will be another $500 to have this fixed. At times, now, the Mustang is also not driving as smoothly as it once did.

It is time to get a new car, I know, though I keep putting it off. I like the Mustang. It has been with me for ten years, ten turbulent years.

Lake City, Florida. April 26, 2014.

Today I must say goodbye to the Mustang.

When I bought it ten years ago, I thought that it would help me with women, help me get into adventures.

I have been on plenty of adventures with this car, though the passenger seat has remained empty for them.

I could buy another, brand new Mustang if I wanted to. But what is the point? It is sort of like buying a nice large house with lots of rooms, and then living in it by myself.

Instead, I buy a new Ford Focus. It has a moon roof and a trunk that will easily accommodate a bike rack, two things I want that the Mustang did not have. The gas mileage will also be much better. Perhaps I will have this Focus for the next ten years. I will get into adventures with this car, too, though I hope the next ten years are not as rocky as the previous ten.

Just as I am about to drive off the lot in my new car, I see my Mustang parked in a visitor space at the dealership, the license plate removed.

I get out of my car, go up to the Mustang, and put my hand on it. The emotion that springs up inside me is genuine.

“Excellent job, Mustang,” I say to it. “You are the best car I’ve ever had. You have served me well. If there is a heaven, I would like to see you there with me. I will miss you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walking toward me. It is the salesman who did the deal. I assume he is coming to move the Mustang to the back of the dealership and out of the visitor space, but he abruptly turns around and walks back inside when he sees me.

I am a little embarrassed. It probably looks like I am praying over my old car.

I tell the Mustang that I hope its new owner will treat it well. Then I hop back in my Focus and give the Mustang one last look before I head out on the highway back to Live Oak.

$15 Magic

Las Vegas. January 2006.

“Yes, Mr. Marshburn. I am calling you back in regard to your application for health insurance with our company.”

“Yes, sir?” I respond over my cell phone. I am standing in the break room of the car dealership.

“You listed that you presently take Accutane?”

“That is correct.”

“You also listed that you were diagnosed with colitis one year ago?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Because of these medical issues, I am sorry, but you do not qualify to be insured by our company,” the man on the other end of the line says.

***

Eventually, after being turned down by a few other health insurance companies, I find one that will insure me for certain things, with a $5000 deductible. So, at least I do not have to worry about going bankrupt if I get into a car accident out here in Las Vegas. My job with the car dealership does not offer health insurance benefits.

***

Cullowhee, North Carolina. 2008.

While in graduate school, I write a blog entry encouraging our political leaders to reform health care. I write that the public will thank them for it and even build statues in their honor because of it.

***

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The hunched over lady limps up to the receptionist window of the doctor’s office. I watch as she fumbles around in her pocket book. Her shoes are worn and dirty, her clothes simple. I was here in the waiting room when she was called back to see the doctor. Now, she has come out, and it is time to pay the bill.

“How much is it going to be?” she asks the receptionist.

“$175, Ms. Graham.”

The lady looks down.

The door between the waiting room and the treatment rooms opens. A nurse calls out, “Nathan!”

I stand up. The others, old and sickly for the most part, look at me, a healthy young man wearing a suit and tie.

I walk back, see the doctor, and within 15 minutes am again standing in front of the receptionist counter. She gives me back my Blue Cross/ Blue Shield health insurance card that I have by virtue of being a state employee.

“That will be $15,” she says.

***

Over the past couple of weeks, through conversations on Friday night at the Brown Lantern Bar, through lunch conversations at the Downtown Café or other restaurants in Live Oak, I have learned that I am perhaps the only person in Suwannee County who supports Obama care.

One of the attractive waitresses at the Brown Lantern asked me last week what everyone was arguing with me about. They had all ganged up on me.

“I’m defending Obama care,” I tell her.

A shocked look comes over her face. “Boo!” she says to me.

The restaurant most likely does not give her health insurance. She is married to a cop, though, so she would have benefits through his job.

Across the country, it seems that I have misjudged the way many Americans would react to health care reform. It is still early, though. Obama care has not had time to work, yet.

The most vociferous detractors of health care reform strike me to be people who have had government or company provided health insurance almost their entire lives. A lot of them are military veterans.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I think those that argue with me believe they deserve the benefit of health insurance because of the hard work they have done and the position they have achieved in life. Others in society who have not worked as hard do not deserve the same benefit.

If that is their position, then I come from a simply different moral philosophy. Health care should not be a reward for hard work. Everyone should have it, regardless of what has happened to them or where they are in life. Sure, those who disagree with Obama care have worked hard, but there is an element of luck involved in this, too. Not everyone can have a government job. Not everyone can make a career with a good company that provides benefits. There are winners and losers in life. But the losers should still have something as basic as affordable health care.

Almost everyone who has argued with me on Obama care also claims to be a Christian and attends church, so far as I know. I will admit that, despite the best efforts of my parents to raise me as a Southern Baptist, I do not consider myself a Christian and have not been to a church service since 1998. Still, this opposing stance (to me) does not seem to be in line with what Jesus would do. The disregard for their fellow humans appears to be a contradiction to his teachings.

“We can’t afford it bro!” One guy said to me at the bar. “We can’t afford to take care of everyone in society. If people think it is bad here, they should go to the Dominican Republic and see how people live there. My church did a mission trip there.”

“We have to try,” I answered him. “And if we can’t afford it, then we need to reprioritize our spending. The old health care system was broken. We have to try something different. Also, you shouldn’t hold up the Dominican Republic as a model. America should be the model for the rest of the world.”

Perhaps there is something genetic, or engrained in our DNA about this argument.

One of my friends from law school sends me a weekly write up that he does for his investment firm. He is a nice guy and has always been very successful. He played football for an ACC school and still stays in tremendous shape.

He posted an article on his social media page and called it “Spot Me Some Entitlements, Bro!” The article was a dagger of a piece, basically saying that men with more upper body strength tend to be conservative in their political thinking, while men with less upper body strength tend to be liberal and favoring wealth redistribution. The idea is that strong men do not need the help. Going back to prehistoric times, they can go out and hunt whatever they need. Weaker guys need more help from the community to provide for them and their families.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2325414/Men-physically-strong-likely-right-wing-political-views.html

Maybe he has a point, or maybe it is all nonsense. I do not know. I acknowledge that part of what shapes my thinking on this is from selfish personal experience- I have had some health issues, and it startled me when I could not get health insurance. All my savings could be wiped out in an instant through no fault of my own. Also, being successful is not so easy, at least for me. Keeping a job and building wealth has proven to be a continuing challenge.

I also acknowledge that I am no expert on how Obama care will work or how it is supposed to work. The old system was a wreck for many Americans, though, and we can do better. The reaction of many of my friends and colleagues to Obama care has surprised and puzzled me. But I find that the older I am getting, the less certain I am of many things.

David Copperfield

Las Vegas. Spring 2005.

"There must be some mistake. I think you are at our table."

I look up and see an older, balding man with intense blue eyes peering down at me. To his left is a beautiful woman with reddish brown hair. To his right is a fit looking guy, probably only a few years older than me. The younger man wears small glasses and looks intelligent.

"Really? I don't know," I answer. "I just sat down where the usher told me. "

People are flooding into the theater, which is not that large, and taking up the seats quickly. So this group of three decide to sit down at the table with me.

The theater is filled with cocktail tables covered with white cloths. The tables seat up to four people, though only two people are at most of the tables. The four of us are sort of crowded in together.

"What is your name?" the younger guy asks me.

"My name is Nathan. I'm out here on vacation."

"By yourself?"

I smile. At this point in my life, I am growing more comfortable with being alone, in going to social events alone. I am getting more used to people thinking of that as a little odd. "Yes, I'm by myself. How about you guys?"

"It's a sort of business trip," the older man says, studying me carefully. "This is Dan, my accountant."

I smile and nod to him. I look at the woman and smile at her, too, though I decide not to ask who she is.

Dan seems like a nice guy, but the older fellow is obviously irritated by my presence.

"Is this your first time to Las Vegas?" Dan asks.

"No, I came out for the first time in 2003."

"You know, I was hoping to be able to talk business with my colleagues here," the older man says.

The abruptness of his comment startles me. I do not know how to respond. "Oh, I'm sorry."

I look around. There is one empty table left close by. "I suppose I can ask the usher to move me to that table."

The older man gives me a look like he is trying to keep from yelling at me to do it, to move. At that moment, though, an usher seats two women at the table. It is a full house, now- no empty tables left. A waiter brings each of us a cocktail, which is included in the price of the ticket.

The friendly thing might be for us all to clink glasses and say "Cheers!" But we do not do it. The look on Dan's face is unfortunate. The older man is not happy, now, and this is not good for Dan, I can tell. The woman seems apathetic to it all.

I sip my cocktail. It might be a great cocktail, but I would not know. I have only recently started drinking, and nothing tastes that good to me. No matter what the mix, the flavor and odor of alcohol is overriding.

I try to be affable. "When I saw that David Copperfield was performing in Vegas, I knew this would be a rare chance for me. I grew up in North Carolina. He is the first magician I ever remember seeing on television. He made the Statue of Liberty disappear when I was a kid."

Dan forces a brief smile. The older man does not. The woman is looking away, uninterested.

"Where are you guys from?" I ask.

No one speaks for a moment.

"You don't know who I am?" the older man asks.

This surprises me. The glare and intensity of his eyes are something, but I take a moment to study his face anyway.

"No."

"Really?" he asks. "You have no idea who I am?"

"I'm sorry," I answer. "Should I? What is it that you do?"

"I'm a businessman," he says, looking away as he speaks with what might be described as disgust.

The lights to the theater go down. From his tone and expression, I decide not to ask him further questions.

The show is great. David Copperfield is only a few feet away on stage, and I keep my eyes there the entire time, rather than looking at my three unhappy table companions.

Toward the end of the show, Copperfield says that his parents are in the audience, and a spotlight shines on their table. It is only three away from ours, and actually further back. The parents are both dressed nicely, in evening ballroom style.

When the show ends and the lights come back up, I tell the three sitting at my table, "I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Vegas."

"Thank you, you as well," Dan answers. The older man and the beautiful woman say nothing.

The crowd filters out, but Copperfield's parents stay seated at their table, probably waiting to speak to their son.

As I walk by them, I say, "I enjoyed your son's show." They acknowledge me with a nod.

***

After my return from Vegas to North Carolina, I studied my credit card bill. I noticed that the price of the ticket to the show was not charged. It was an expensive ticket, and I keep waiting for the charge to appear on my monthly bills. It never does.

Only years later does it occur to me that the older man or Dan probably complained to the theater about what happened, and that everyone at the table got to see the show for free.

It is not the first time, and it is not the last time, when I go alone to a social event and find myself, through no control of my own, plugged in with a romantic couple or a group of people who do not want me there. Another instance that comes to mind is the Osceola County Fair in the spring of 2012. I will tell that story next week.

At least I got to see David Copperfield's show for free.

My First Night in Vegas

May 2003.

The excitement is just too much. I can not sleep. There is no point in lying awake in bed at my apartment in Wilmington, North Carolina.

So I get up, shower, put my suitcase in my pickup truck and drive out to the airport around four in the morning.

Hardly anyone is there, and during the hours before boarding the plane, I do manage to drift in and out of sleep in the uncomfortable airport chairs.

I have been out west once before. When I was in college, I was part of a group that the school sent to Reno, Nevada. So the desert is not entirely new to me, but like everything else in Vegas, it will be fascinating. I have been looking forward to this vacation for weeks.

After landing at McCarran International Airport, I drive my rental car to the hotel/casino, the Jackie Gaughan Plaza. As I take the elevator up from the parking garage to the casino floor, an old man rides with me.

"Is this your first time to Vegas?" he asks.

"Yes, it is," I answer.

"You're going to love it," he says.

I smile and agree.

It is early afternoon in Las Vegas, and my hotel room window looks out onto Fremont Street. Later, I will learn why the street is covered almost its entire length by a strange steel structure. But for now, I call my parents to let them know I have arrived safely. Then I collapse on my bed and sleep for a few hours.

Again, the excitement is what wakes me up. I get ready quickly and put on what I think is a nice outfit- khaki pants and a brand new white Nike shirt with a small swoosh mark over the left chest.

Downstairs in the casino, I smile at all the slot machines, neon colors and people walking around. For my first night in Vegas, though, I want to get outside and see the sights.

A security guard stands next to a wall. I go up to him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Yes, sir?" he answers.

"I am new to Las Vegas, and I just wanted to ask what you might recommend seeing first?"

"This is your first night here?" he asks.

"Yes, it is."

"Have you been to The Strip, yet?"

"The Strip?" I ask.

"You know what The Strip is, right?"

"No, actually I don't."

"It's where all the big casinos are, and all the big shows."

"Ah, ok. Is it right outside here?"

"No, no. You're in Old Town right now. This is Old Town Las Vegas."

"Can I walk to it, then?"

The guard smiles patiently at me.

"You're going to be walking a long way if you try to do that. There is a bus stop outside the casino. I recommend riding the bus to the strip.

"How much is it to take the bus?" I ask.

"Like two dollars," he says.

"Okay, thank you."

The guard gives me a curious look as I walk away, a look that I do not understand.

I find the bus stop, just as one is arriving. I notice a cute girl along with three of her friends walking ahead of me, and all of us run to catch the bus before it pulls away.

The girl is laughing as she boards the steps. She has a beautiful smile and laugh. She goes to the back of the bus to sit with her friends. I choose a seat more in the middle, next to a guy who looks to be about my age.

As the bus rides down the streets of Las Vegas, my head is on a swivel trying to take in as much as I can and orient myself as to where I am going.

The guy sitting beside me asks if I am new to Las Vegas, and we have a conversation about the things to do and see. We do not talk for very long, though, before he gives me what I would call a worried look.

"This is my stop," he says as the bus slows down. I move out of the way, and he promptly hops off the bus.

As the bus continues, I know that I am on the strip, now. Massive buildings that have to be the casinos are lit with millions of neon lights. It is mind blowing. I smile and look toward the back of the bus, at the cute girl to see what her reaction might be to all of this.

She immediately notices me, and a look of fear comes over her face.

This puzzles and hurts me a little. Do I scare her? Why would I be frightening to her?

I take this as my cue to get off the bus. This is where I want to be, anyway, in the middle of all this action.

Las Vegas is great at any time of the day or night, but as I hop off the bus, I now understand that the city transforms into a different thing at night, when the neon lights turn on. It truly feels like the closest thing to paradise that humans can build on earth, and it generates a sort of "high" for me.

As I walk down the street with the throngs of people, I also begin to appreciate how long The Strip is. There is no way that I will want to explore the entire length, not in one night.

I realize that I am hungry. Places to eat are everywhere. I duck into a Quiznos to get a quick sandwich. There is just too much I want to see right now to spend a lot of time eating.

As I go through the line, a Hispanic guy working behind the counter with a black baseball cap looks at me. I try to order, but he points at my shirt.

"You know your shirt is on inside out, right?"

I look down, and to my horror, I see the seams crisscrossing all over and some strings hanging loose. I reach back and feel behind my neck. Sure enough, the collar tag is sticking straight out.

Now, I understand all the strange looks from the security guard, the guy beside me on the bus, and the cute girl in the back.

"Holy smoke!" I exclaim.

The Quiznos guy begins laughing.

"You guys got a bathroom?" I ask.

He points around the corner. I go inside and fix the problem.

When I come out, I thank the Quiznos employee for telling me.

"I've talked to all these people tonight, and no one said a thing," I say. "They must have thought I was crazy."

The Quiznos guy shakes his head, smiles and looks down as he starts to prepare my sandwich.

Curly

Las Vegas. Winter 2006

“I don’t understand. Your man told me on the phone that you had a Honda Fit on the lot for $8,999,” the customer says. “Now you’re telling me that you don’t have the car for that price. That is false advertising.”

It is a Saturday night at the dealership, and I really do not know what to do with this customer. He stands before me in a New York Mets baseball cap, a plain white t-shirt, shorts and flip flops. His wife, who holds a small baby in her arms, stands quietly watching in the background.

“Well, sir,” I attempt to answer, “we have not had a Fit on the lot for a while. They go pretty quickly. Usually when one comes in, the customer has pre-ordered it. Who was it that told you we had one?”

“Curly Green,” the customer says. “He specifically told me not one hour ago that you had that car on the lot. I want to speak to him.”

“He usually works the day shift,” I say. “Let me see if he is available. You guys are welcome to wait inside at one of the tables if you want? Follow me.”

I lead them in and have them sit at a table close to the big screen television set.

Tony is inside, too, and he watches me seat them.

I know full well that Curly is here until closing on Saturdays, but I need to see how he wants to handle this before I unload these people on him.

I walk back to Curly’s office, out of sight of the customers.

“Wally!” Curly exclaims as I walk in.

“Hey Curly, I have a situation out on the floor.”

“What’s going on?” Curly asks.

“This young guy and his wife, they came in claiming that you told them we have a Fit for $8,999?”

“Oh, they’re here?”

“Yep. I sat them down at a table.”

“We got anything close to that kind of car?” Curly asks.

I am a little surprised. “Maybe something in used. Definitely nothing in new. The closest in new is the Civic, you know.”

“Well, show them something in used.” Curly says…

Curly is a sympathetic figure to me. He is an overweight black man in his 50s, suffering from a variety of health problems, the most serious of which deal with his stomach. His stomach constantly gives him pain, and it always looks to be abnormally swollen to me. He had some sort of surgery dealing with his intestines not long ago, though I have not asked him the details about it. He wears thick and dark glasses, as the light hurts his eyes. He also has a bad knee and waddles around the dealership. I am not sure what his job title at the dealership is. He is not a salesman, but works in marketing.

In one era of his life, Curly was a professional football player for the Boston Patriots. Now, times are not as good, though.

Not long ago, he asked me if he could borrow $20, which I gave him. He has not repaid me or mentioned when he will.

On another night, though, he helped me charge a car battery that had gone dead. Curly hooked up the wires wrong. Sparks flew, and he said his arm got a good jolt.

Curly also has a great sense of humor. When it is slow outside, he will sometimes come out to pass the time with the salesmen, horsing around and telling jokes.

His favorite salesman to pick on is Beaver. The two trade barbs quite often, though Curly far outclasses Beaver in the quality and number of insults he is able to hurl. They also play fight a bit, for as much as the two can. Like I said, Curly is in his 50s with failing health. Beaver is a chubby but energetic 19 or 20 year old, with the mentality and attitude of a teenager.

Curly boxed some in his younger years, and claims to still have quick hands. He got Beaver a little upset a few days ago. They were mock boxing and Beaver was trash talking to Curly about being an old man.

“Come, on!” Curly said. “Bring your best stuff, boy!”

When Beaver stepped in, Curly surprised him and slapped him upside the head. We all burst out laughing and taunted Beaver with “Oooh!” and “Ohhhh!”

Beaver lost his temper a bit and actually kicked Curly in the stomach, though not very hard.

The shocked look that Curly gave Beaver let me know just how bad the condition of his stomach must be. He looked like a man who had just been stabbed. Beaver did not know how to react…

“Well, show them something in used,” Curly says to me about the family in the lobby.

“Okay,” I respond. “I can try, but I really don’t think that is going to work. The guy is set on the Fit and the price you quoted. He wants to see you, actually.”

“I’m not here,” Curly says.

Somewhat befuddled as to why Curly would cross these people up like that, I go back out to talk to them.

“Curly is not available right now,” I say. “I’m sorry you guys got the wrong information, but we don’t have a Honda Fit here. We can order one for you, but I don’t think we can get you that price. We should have some pre-owned cars that are pretty close, though.”

The young man is disgusted.

“When is Curly going to be available? I want to see him. I know he’s here. I just spoke with him an hour ago.”

I look at the man for a moment, thinking of what to say.

“Let me get you my manager.”

Tony is watching all of this from across the room.

When he sees me walk toward him, he subtly motions for us to go down a hallway, out of sight and hearing from the irate customers.

“What are you doing with these people?” he asks.

“The guy is pretty upset,” I say. “Curly told them that we have a Fit here for $8,999. Obviously, we don’t. Now, they want to talk to Curly, but Curly does not want to talk to them.”

“Curly is just doing his job,” Tony says. “Curly’s job is to call customers and get them on the lot any way he can. Your job is to protect Curly. Your job is to sell these people when they come on the lot.”

“Well, how am I supposed to do that when they’ve already been promised a deal?” I ask.

“Get them to test drive another car.”

“They’re not going to be interested in that, Tony.”

“Then they are f***ing roaches,” Tony says. “Brush them off and go get another up.”

Wow, I think to myself. “I told them that I would get the manager.”

“I’ll say something to them,” Tony says.

We both walk back out to the sales lobby. Tony does not wait for me to introduce him.

“Hello folks, I’m Tony, the manager here.”

“Tony,” the customer begins, “Curly Green, one of your employees, told me that you had a new Fit here for 8,999. Now your salesman here is saying you do not have one. What’s the story?”

“I apologize,” Tony says. “There must have been a miscommunication. You are not going to find a brand new Fit for that price anywhere in the country. We do have the best prices in Las Vegas, though. Nathan will be glad to show the selection on our lot. We’ll find a car that meets your needs at the price you want. So, you are looking for a compact of some sort?”

The customer is having none of it, though. He stares directly at me. “You’ve been the most honest person here,” he says. “I can tell by the look on your face. I want you to go find Curly, wherever he is, and say that there are some very disappointed customers in his store right now, and he needs to come out and make this right.”

I look at Tony.

“Go see if Curly is available,” Tony says with a blank expression and tone, clearly indicating to me that Tony wants me to leave Curly alone.

Tony continues to talk to the family as I walk off once more toward Curly’s office. I do not intend to bother Curly with this again, and I am just going through the motions. I see Curly, not at his desk, but sitting in a chair down the hall by the vending machine, eating a Snickers bar. He is hiding out.

Curly sees me and shakes his head. Even with dark glasses covering his eyes, I clearly observe the pained expression of shame on his face. That decides me. Even though Curly was wrong to tell the customers a lie, I am on his side. The man is struggling to survive. I see that in all that he is forced to do and endure as part of his daily existence.

These people will just have to get over their disappointment. We do not have the car. I am sorry. End of story and good bye.

I walk back to the sales floor with a new sense of purpose, ready to bite the bullet. It turns out not to be necessary, though. The people are outside getting back into their car.

Tony stands on the sales floor and I walk up to him.

“Go get another up,” he says.

Tag

Las Vegas. Spring 2006

Here comes a guy on the lot.

This is a little unusual. I see his car, but he did not drive onto our property. He is parked out on the street, which seems awkward. The boulevard is a busy road, and cars zoom past within inches of his vehicle.

I am up on the sidewalk with Steve and Rob. They do not see him, yet. I make a quick first step. Steve and Rob immediately take notice and quietly watch as I head out across the black top.

The customer is far enough way so that I can not quite make out his face. He is a skinny white male and looks to have a thin white beard, though I will not be sure until I get closer. He is in blue jeans, white tennis shoes, a long sleeve shirt and a baseball cap.

As I walk toward him, I see something else unusual. He is looking at the cars, but not long enough to amount to anything. Moving fast across the the lot, he is almost bouncing from one car to the next like a pinball.

I think maybe he sees me, now. To my surprise, he bolts in the opposite direction, rapidly walking away from me. Perhaps I was walking too fast myself, my gait too aggressive. So I slow down and poke along more casually toward him. This customer continues to move away from me, though, and will not let me get close.

I stop and stand on the asphalt for a few moments, watching him. This is silly, I think to myself. If he is that apprehensive to talk to me, then I have a very low probability of making a sale. It is better for me just to go back to the sidewalk and wait for him to come to us, though doing so will cost me the lead. By the rules of the game at the dealership, it will be whatever salesman he speaks to when he walks up who will have the chance to make the sale and earn a commission.

But I turn around and walk back.

"What happened?" Rob asks.

"I can't get close to the guy. He's almost running from me." I point out to the boulevard. "Look, he didn't even bring his car on the lot. He's parked in the street."

"Ah, he's one of those," Steve smiles.

Steve looks at Rob, "You wanna get him?"

Rob smiles, too. "Yeah, let's get him."

They both head toward the customer. The way they walk makes me laugh. They have their hands in their pockets and bounce with exaggerated wide strides, exactly like a con man might approach a mark.

The man in the baseball cap sees them and again heads away, the same as he did with me.

Steve and Rob split up, flanking around the customer. "Excuse me, sir!" Steve says loudly.

The man does not respond, but to my amused bewilderment, he visibly freaks out and begins walking fast back toward his car.

Rob has the angle to cut him off, though.

"Sir! Sir, can I have a word with you?" Rob says as loudly as Steve.

The man dodges behind one of our used cars, but Rob continues to get closer and actually ducks behind a vehicle so that the man can not see him.

When Rob does this, the man breaks into a jog back to his vehicle, gets in and is gone.

Rob and Steve come back up to the sidewalk, laughing. I have to laugh with them.

The Man with Faces On His Shoes

Las Vegas. Spring 2006

The two Russians seem like nice guys to me. I have done everything right and put them on a car which they like, a Honda CRV. One of the rules at the dealership here in Vegas is that I do not bring a customer inside to a table to talk numbers unless he or she has test driven the vehicle. If the customer likes the car, that emotion becomes important in closing the deal. I am learning that customers do not purchase based on logic and reasoning. The game is all about triggering the right emotional response. Do this, and they will actually buy a car that they do not need and can not afford. During my very first sale, I felt a pang of guilt about this when the customer said to me that she would buy the new Accord rather than the Civic and just eat less for a few months.

But that is not my concern, as my manager, Tony tells me. I am trying to survive and thrive out here in the desert. Anyone can be an order taker, he says. It takes a real salesman to put a customer in the car that the salesman chooses, making the customer think they chose it and driving off the lot happy.

It is a game that I am not very good at, yet, so the dealership does not let me close my own deals. Once I get the test drive done and the customer wants to talk numbers, I bring them inside and Tony takes over.

That is what is happening with the two Russians, a father and son. The four of us sit around a small table. Tony is a native Hawaiian, and speaks English with an accent which I never heard before I met him. There is a bit of a language barrier between the Russians and him, and the Russians have a blank expression on their faces.

I try to help things along by asking them a question. "What did you like about the car during the test drive?"

Tony immediately kicks me under the table. It is not the first time he has done that. He basically wants me to shut up when he sits down.

When I first started this job, I was more in a fog than I am now. I could sense Tony was trying tactics of some sort with the customer at the table, but I could not really identify what he was doing.

Now, as more experience comes, I begin to see his strategy and how he is trying to move the customer to a place where he can go into a closing sequence. He is like a tiger circling its prey.

Today, he thinks he has the Russians there and writes down a number on "the four square," the payment plan grid that the dealership uses.

The two men look at it for a moment. The older Russian suddenly becomes angry. He shakes his head violently, says "No!" and stands up like he is ready to begin a physical fight. The son follows his lead. He pushes the paper back at Tony and begins yelling at him. The accent is so thick, though, that I can not tell if he is speaking English or Russian. I do not think Tony can tell, either.

This is the first time I have ever seen a customer react this way, a total 180 from the way the two behaved with me during the test drive.

Tony is also thrown off by the emotional outburst. Like most people, he does not function so well when someone is yelling at him. I saw this when Alejandro, another salesman, went to Tony complaining that I had snaked him out of a deal. When Alejandro began yelling and threatening to quit, Tony caved and decided to give him credit for the sale.

Tony is acting the same, skittish way now. Wide eyed, Tony speaks in hushed tones, and just tries to get the Russians calm again, but it is to no avail. They storm out of the dealership and do not return...(Later in my sales career, I will learn this is a tactic some buyers use- outrage or indignation- to try and get the number lowered. That practice comes to irritate me, and it is a weakness I possess as a salesman in that I have a hard time not showing my irritation to the customer when I see him or her doing it).

***

Afternoon is turning to evening. I stand at the southwest corner of the dealership lot, looking toward the strip, or Las Vegas Boulevard. In the Aladdin Casino, not too far from the dealership, the Miss America Pageant is getting underway (Four years later, in 2010, when I am in law school at Florida State University, one of the beautiful contestants competing tonight will become my classmate).

I look back toward the dealership and see Hector walking outside on the sidewalk, checking on his sales team.

Hector is a sales manager, the same as Tony. I like Hector, though he has not paid much attention to me since I started. He is from the Philippines. In this section of east Las Vegas, the Filipino community is significant, and we get a lot of Filipino customers here. Every one of the members of Hector's sales team is from the Philippines as well. They all can speak Tagalog, in addition to English. Picture a young, fat Samoan and you can picture Hector. He moves very slowly when he crosses the sales floor, almost shuffling, and I can hear his heavy breathing. Hector takes pride in his appearance, though. He is always dressed in a nice suit with the coat on. He wears a noticeable gold watch and a gold pinkie ring.

What interests me about Hector is that he is also very good at his job, but he hardly ever smiles. It is not that he has an angry or sad expression- I do not get that vibe from him at all. I believe his not smiling is a combination of maintaining a poker face which he thinks is necessary for the job. Also, with his weight, all his movements are calculated for efficiency, and facial expressions are an unnecessary expenditure of energy.

A little further down, Sonja, the only female salesperson at the dealership, talks with her partner, Desmond.

I like Desmond. He has been one of the friendliest people to me at the dealership. A big black man originally from Jacksonville, Florida, I enjoy listening to him talk. He has been a car salesman for 20 years or more. He speaks with a lisp. This, combined with a rasp in his throat that comes from years of smoking, tickles my eardrums when he speaks- especially the way he says "Customer."

He and Sonja have been together many years. She is also a very friendly and honest person. They both are hard working people, and I was amused at the frank answer of Sonja when I asked how she met Desmond.

"It was in a bar in Jacksonville," she said. "We liked each other, and I went home with him. The next morning, he tried to give me some money. I told him, 'You don't have to do that.' And we've been together ever since."

To my surprise, Desmond and Sonja are trying to save enough money to get out of Las Vegas, to get back to Jacksonville if possible.

Desmond is one of the internet salesmen. This means he gets an office inside, rather than standing a post in front of a parking space like the rest of us. He works at a computer all day, sending out emails and responding to queries that the dealership receives on line. When a customer comes on the lot and says he is responding to an email, we are supposed to take that customer to Desmond, though not all the salesmen do (which is a prime example of how you "snake" someone in the car sales business).

In my conversations with Desmond during his smoke breaks, he is frustrated that the business is not what it used to be.

"There was a time, back in the 80s, when you could make a fistful of dollars in car sales," he says.

But not anymore. Corporate keeps much more of the money now on new cars. I sold a new Civic at full sticker price, plus tax, tags and title last week, and my commission was all of $300. With used cars, a salesman can make more, because the markup is higher.

Another thing that I like about Desmond are his dress shoes. They are custom made with alligator skin. He will come to work wearing orange ones, white ones, bright yellow, bright baby blue- virtually all sparkling colors of the spectrum. What's more, his shoes almost always have paintings on the top.

Sometimes it is an elaborate floral pattern. Usually, though, it is a portrait of a person. He takes the artwork on his shoes very seriously. It was a painting of his mother that he wore on each shoe one day. Other times, it is of characters like a court jester or an R&B singer. None of the portraits look realistic. The one of his mother was like a cartoonization of her. His supply of these type of shoes seems endless.

He has a friend who makes the shoes for him. I do not ask him why he does this, because I know the answer. It is a conversation starter, a way to break the ice with the customer and get the customer to laugh. Desmond tells me that when he was a younger, more energetic man, he wore a colorful suit to match, like bright orange.

Talking with Desmond and seeing what shoes he is wearing are two of the things I look forward to each day at the dealership.

Star Wars

Las Vegas. 2006

Tonight, it is just Steve and me standing the post outside by the customer parking spaces. It is a slow night, and the rest of the salesmen are off doing other things to kill time.

Steve and I have not gotten along all that well. The fault is entirely his. I have already recounted the episode where he would not answer when I asked a question, and when he warned me not to speak to him when he was with a customer. He ignores me almost all of the time.

Tonight, as we stand alone out under the high lamps illuminating the parking lot, he suddenly turns and stares at me.

He acts like he is wielding a light saber, and comes at me making sound effects to match.

To his surprise, I do not back down, but make my own sound effects like I am activating a light saber and take two steps toward him. We swing at each other and have a mock light saber fight.

"I am Obi-Wan Kenobi," he says, "and I'm about to go Jedi Master on your ass."

We continue our battle.

"No, you are Luke Skywalker," I say. "I am Darth Vader, and I am about to slice off your hand."

I do a quick slashing move, and Steve actually plays along, like his hand has just been chopped off and he has lost his light saber.

"You're a Star Wars fan?" he asks.

"What guy my age isn't?" I respond. I grew up with Star Wars.

Steve nods in agreement.

"The new ones are terrible, though," I say.

"What?" Steve exclaims. "No, they are just as good as all the others."

"They are terrible," I repeat. "There is no way the franchise would be as popular as it is today if Episodes One, Two, and Three were actually the first movies to come out. It's like a different George Lucas wrote them. The stories from those episodes aren't even consistent with the 1977 Star Wars."

Steve has opened a Pandora's box, and I think he realizes it.

"The whole idea of R2-D2 as an action character in those movies is absolutely ridiculous. R2-D2 and C-3PO should not even be characters in Episodes One through Three. I mean, a young Darth Vader creating C-3PO in Episode One? What is the point of that? Vader makes no mention of this in the original movies. Lucas wrote himself into a jam with that one, and his solution is to have C-3PO's memory wiped at the end of Episode 3? 3PO just says, 'Oh, no!'

It is a terrible treatment of such a great character to the original movies. 3PO doesn't even have any good lines in the new movies. The original movies had humor. These new one are not funny."

Steve just quietly listens and watches me as a student would a teacher. He is truly a Star Wars fan, I think, and is interested in what I have to say.

"I'll give you one example of an inconsistency between the original movies and the new ones," I continue. "R2-D2 is Obi-Wan's side kick in Episodes One through Three. I mean, he's right there fighting battles beside Obi-Wan, right?"

"Right," Steve says, curious as to where I am going.

"But in the original 1977 Star Wars, Episode Four, Obi Wan does not know R2-D2, and R2-D2 does not know him."

"Nah, man," Steve says.

"It's true," I say. "When Obi-Wan rescues Luke from the Sand People, Luke says that the droid must belong to him. Obi-Wan says, 'I don't seem to remember ever owning a droid.'"

Steve doesn't know what to say, but we continue talking about various aspects of Star Wars until closing time.

***

I feel a little sorry for Beaver. He recently had to go through some training on sexual harassment. He was too forward with Rose, a very beautiful lady from Nicaragua who works in the warranty office at the dealership. He often put his arm around her and whispered things when talking with her, and she complained about this to management. Beaver means no harm, though. He is only 18.

Now, though, he is out in front of the dealership with me, Steve, Rob and about six other salesmen on a Sunday afternoon. Beaver found this web site that has jokes about black people, and for some reason he thinks it is okay to tell these jokes in front of everyone. Perhaps it is because Rob (one of the three black salesman at the dealership along with Steve and an older man named Desmond) is the one who showed Beaver the site. Rob is laughing as hard as anyone at the jokes.

Some of the jokes are pretty graphic and refer to the blacks' time in slavery. I can not help but notice that Steve is not laughing, but is forcing a grin so as not to appear too obvious.

After our Star Wars conversation, I've gotten to know Steve a little better. He likes American History, too. Somehow, we got on the subject of family trees one day. He does not know much about his own family, other than that they came from Africa and some were slaves at one point. He is impressed that I can trace my relatives on my dad's side to 1835 in North Carolina, and on my mom's side to the 1600s in Virginia, coming from England.

I tell him that he has come a lot further in a shorter amount of time with less of a societal support structure.

Steve likes that point of view, I think.

Anyway, Beaver continues telling those awful jokes, and I have to say something.

"Beaver, you should remember some of that advice you got from management recently," I say.

Beaver freezes and does not look at me. After a moment, he responds, "Everyone here is okay with these jokes."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Beaver stops telling the jokes.

***

A little while later, I see Steve standing alone by one of the cars, and I walk up to talk to him.

"Black people tear each other down more than any other race," he says.

He is irritated or disappointed with Rob for enjoying the jokes so much.

"We're a larger minority than the Hispanics," he says, "but there will be a Hispanic President of the United States before a Black President."

"Maybe, maybe not," I say.

I try to think of something encouraging. "You've just got to keep doing what you know is right. You should be a role model for Rob. You are older than he is."

Steve seems to take these words to heart. I hope they are helpful.

Leave It To Beaver

Las Vegas. 2006

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!"

Unwritten Rules

Las Vegas. 2006

It should be noted that for all of my blog entries about Las Vegas, I am not using the real the names of the characters.

I am looking around outside the dealership for one of my fellow salesmen, any of them. I need a quick answer to a question.

The first one that I see is Steve, a black man a little older than me, in his late 20s, with Jheri curls and a pencil thin mustache that sets right on top of his upper lip. He is with a customer, walking toward me.

"Hey Steve, I say, "Do we have any new four door Civics left?"

Steve does not respond or even look at me. He strides past and into the dealership with his customer, his dress pants flapping away from his fancy shoes in the desert breeze.

I am puzzled by his reaction, or rather non-reaction, to my simple question.

Eventually I get the answer from another salesman. Yes, we do, in galaxy grey only, and fortunately the customer is fine with that color and the option package.

My manager, Tony, closes the customer on the car and then hands me a credit application to fill out, based on the customer's driver's license and the conversation I had with her. Tony walks the customer back to "The Box," the office where a finance manager will speak with her about credit options.

The finance guys are the highest paid people at the dealership behind the General Manager, from what I have been told. There are only two, Huan and Feng. Both are Asian. I think Feng is from the Philippines, but I do not know where Huan comes from. The dealership makes even more money back in "The Box" if they can get the customer to accept a higher interest rate, and to purchase amenities such as warranty programs.

As I am filling out the application, I see the space for employer and income. I know from talking with the customer that she has been a black jack dealer in Vegas for years. She recently was hired to work at the Wynn, the newest casino on the strip. I am not sure how much she makes, though. I think she said about $50,000 per year, but I want to ask and be sure.

I can see through the glass walls that Feng has her sitting down and is speaking with her. I get up from the table out in the lobby and walk toward the office.

Tony intercepts me. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I need to ask her a question."

"No, no." Tony says. "Never interrupt when they are in the box. What is it that you need to know?"

"How much her annual income is."

"Leave that part blank. Feng will fill that out."

***

Later that afternoon, I am standing outside in the Las Vegas sun, in front of an empty parking spot, waiting for another customer.

Steve casually walks up to an empty space beside me. He waits for me to look at him.

"Don't EVER speak to me when I am with a customer," he says in a rather menacing tone.

I just look at him.

"You need to learn your products, man! If you don't know how many Civics we have, maybe you should find another job."

I can not help but be amused by Steve, but I have learned a lesson. Salesmen, either in the finance department or out on the floor, do not want other salesmen coming up to them when they are with a customer. Later, I will put together that the reasons for this are two-fold. One, it could throw off their game and I could say something that screws up the deal. Two, they are worried about getting snaked out of the deal. This latter reason only applies to the regular salesmen out on the lot. Salesmen, at least here, are suspicious of each other, even me- the rookie who really has no idea what he is doing.

***

It is nightfall at the dealership. Feng and Huan are both arguing in the lobby about something.

Feng is an athletic, handsome looking guy. He and my manager, Tony are good friends. I think Feng may have gotten Tony his job at the dealership. Feng is clean cut and well spoken, but Tony tells me that he is also a real shark and very good at what he does. Tony aspires to become Feng at the dealership.

Huan, on the other hand, has not been as blessed by nature. Of all the employees at the dealership, Huan is the friendliest to me. He has an interesting look about him. His hair, jet black, is piled ridiculously high on top of his head. He is also very skinny with no muscle tone at all. His chest seems to curve inward rather than outward. Even though it is covered by his dress shirt, I can tell it has to be a dramatic example of what guys in the weight room in high school and college referred to as "a bird chest."

Huan is flustered. "I am not putting my name on that!" he yells at Feng. "YOU can sign it, and YOU can go to jail for that deal!"

Feng gives Huan a cool smile, waves at him like the whole matter is nothing, and walks out of the dealership.

"Yes, go home and think about it!" Huan yells after him.

Huan storms back to his office and shuts the door.

***

The next morning, I arrive for work and walk out onto the concrete, into the bright sunshine. Steve has already taken his place at the best parking spot to get a customer. Tony is standing outside as well, just killing time and keeping the salesmen company. As Tony is a manager, he is not required to stand a post and try to get an "Up," the dealership slang for a potential buyer.

Though Steve has his back to me (probably deliberately), I decide to attempt a conversation with him, to try and smooth things over.

"Steve Barnes," I say, pausing to contemplate the name. "I once went out with a girl whose last name was Barnes."

Steve turns and glares at me in anger.

"I ought to kick your ass right here!"

I am genuinely surprised at his response and do not know what to say.

"What kind of sh*t is that to say to a man!" he yells.

Tony starts laughing. "Hey, Steve, ease up."

"No!" Steve yells. "How are you going to come up to me first thing in the morning and say, 'I used to date a girl named Barnes.'? "Do you want to get your ass beat?"

I am really not scared of Steve. He is a pretty big guy and would win in a fight with me, I am sure, but this whole situation is just too puzzling for me to be frightened. I do not get his behavior.

At that moment, a customer pulls into the lot. Steve and I both turn our heads and bodies forward, like two soldiers standing at parade rest, to look good for the customer.

The car slowly drives by. All three of us smile and wave. The car keeps moving, and Steve keeps talking.

"What is your last name? Mashburn?" he asks, still keeping his head and eyes toward the car rather than me.

"Marshburn," I say.

"What if I came up to you first thing this morning and said," 'I used to f--- a girl named Marshburn'?"

"That's not what I said, Steve. I said I once went out with a girl named Barnes."

I look at Tony for help. He is quite amused by this.

"It's the same damn thing," Steve says. "It's like you're trying to take my MANHOOD or something."

At this, Tony bursts out laughing. The customer's car just circles the lot and pulls back out onto the highway, as customers often do.

Steve turns and glares at me again, now that the car is gone.

"He's crapped you out, Steve!" Tony says. "You've let him crap you out this morning."

"No, I DON'T LIKE this motherf*cker, Tony!" Steve yells, dramatically pointing at me. "He just says weird sh*t all the time, trying to start static!"

"And you let him!" Tony exclaims.

"I'm taking a break!" Steve says, and walks off.

Tony and I exchange looks.

"Take his spot," Tony says.

I slide down to the number one parking space.

"He's crapped out for the day," Tony remarks in amusement and amazement. "That is impressive. He is one of the best salesmen here, and you crapped him out first thing this morning."

I have to smile, "Well, it's not like I was trying to."

"Don't let them get inside your head," Tony says. "It's all a mind game out here. Especially in this heat when no one wants to stand outside. Don't pay attention to him. You'll be fine."

...Steve and I will have another conversation in the near future.

The Characters of Las Vegas, Continued

Las Vegas. 2006

"An agnostic believes that there is no god," Albert tells his two younger listeners.

"I don't understand that," Sam responds. "How could someone believe that there is no god?"

"I don't know," Albert says, "but there are those people out there."

"You know that movie, Ghost?" Alejandro chimes in. "That's exactly what it's like, man. That's the sh*t that happens when you die."

"Now, how do you know that?" Albert asks.

"Because, bro. It's about love. Love is forever."

We are all sitting around one of the back offices on a slow afternoon at the dealership. Sam is a young black man who was hired as a salesman after me. I have tried to teach him what little I know about how the system works, as no one talks to you much when you are new. I think he appreciates me for doing that.

At 18, Alejandro is the youngest employee at the dealership. Most of his family still lives in Mexico, and he makes regular trips to see them each month. Alejandro is sneaky but not really that slick. He exaggerates or outright lies all the time- to the point where I just stare at him when he says something completely incredulous. He does not seem to care, though. He still acts like I believe him.

Alejandro irritated me a couple of weeks ago when I sold a car to a customer, but then he claimed the sale was his. He blew up in front of my manager and threatened to quit. The manager gave him credit for the sale to keep him on board at the dealership. Everyday, now, when I see Alejandro, I stare him straight in the face first thing. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he and I both know the truth about what he did.

Albert is also a bit of a shady character, but I have more sympathy for him because he is becoming an old man and I can tell he is just struggling to get by. Someone has been stealing food from the refrigerator where all the salesmen keep their lunches, and everyone knows it is Albert.

Albert is also one of the older guys who has more difficulty standing up all day like the salesman are expected to do. He often sits in one of the display cars parked on the sidewalk outside the dealership. Albert is aware that everyone knows he is stealing. One day, I discovered that a sandwich I bought from Quiznos and put in the refrigerator for my dinner was gone. This angered me a little, and I said a few choice words to the other salesman in the break room about it, but then I let it go. Later that night, though, I needed to ask Albert a question about a car he had sold. I found him sitting in the back seat of one of the display vehicles. He saw me coming toward him, and when I opened the door so that I could speak, he looked away from me and feebly threw up his hands in defense, like he thought I was going to hit him.

At that moment, he looked like a pitiful old man, alone in this world with no one to protect him, with no one he could trust. It surprised me and hurt my feelings a bit, too, that he actually thought I would hit him.

After that incident, he and I become better friends, though I can not afford to be paying for his meals as well as mine. I stop putting my food in the refrigerator and keep it in my backpack instead, until I am ready to eat it.

Santiago comes into the room with the four of us others. He listens to Alejandro talking about the movie Ghost, the afterlife, and love.

"That's the way it is between me and my girlfriend, bro," Alejandro continues.

"Your girlfriend loves you?" Santiago asks.

Alejandro looks at Santiago, wary of him.

"When is the last time you took her out to dinner?" Santiago asks.

"I don't need to take her out," Alejandro says. "She loves me for who I am."

Santiago laughs. "As ugly as you are, you better take her to dinner or buy her a present soon, or she won't be your girlfriend for long."

"It's not about the money, bro."

"It's always about the money," Santiago says. "You can have a girlfriend and take her for a walk in the park one day. Walks in the park are free. That is fine. You can even ask her to go for a walk with you in the park again the next day. It is still free. But if you ask her to go for a walk in the park with you for a third time, that day, you better buy her a Coke."

Alejandro does not know what to say. Santiago reaches into his pocket, mumbling something and breathing heavily. He pulls out a thick wad of bills. He takes one of the bills, a $100, licks it and sticks it to his forehead.

"Now the women will all say, 'See how handsome I am.'"

We all laugh.

Santiago points at us before he walks out, "The only love that is not about money, the only love that is unconditional, is between a parent and their child."

We look at each other after Santiago leaves.

"That old f*cker is crazy," Alejandro says.

Sam is more interested in getting back to this concept of an agnostic. I have never heard Sam swear or seen him lose his temper, and I am guessing he is deeply religious. He has lived in Las Vegas most of his life, but he has never been to a Vegas show and rarely goes to the strip. He is a gentle fellow with simple interests. The other day, he told me a great story of how last year he saw Pat Morita ("Mr. Miyagi" from The Karate Kid) in a Las Vegas grocery store. Sam went up to him and had a nice conversation. Just a few weeks later, Pat Morita died in Las Vegas at the age of 73 from kidney failure. Sam was so glad that he got to meet and speak to "Mr. Miyagi" before he passed.

"So what is the difference between an atheist and an agnostic?" he asks Albert.

"They are both the same thing," Albert says. "They both do not believe in god."

Religious issues still burn too hot inside me to stay quiet for this.

"No, no. That's not right, guys." I say. "Atheists actively believe there is no god. An agnostic just says 'I don't know.' Maybe there is a god, maybe there is not."

Albert stares at me in a curious way, like I have suddenly become the teacher.

Sam asks, "Where did you learn that?"

"I had to look it up when figuring out what to call myself," I answer. "I'm an agnostic."

The three fellows regard me in stunned silence for a moment, and I realize that I am quite possibly the first agnostic they have ever met.

Sam is the most bewildered. "Wait. Didn't you say that your father was a preacher?"

"You are correct."

"Does he know that you are an agnostic?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Whoa-ho. Man!" Sam exclaims.

Albert comes to my defense, even though I really do not mind talking about this. Perhaps Albert can now see how worked up I might get on the subject. I have been told that my face gets red sometimes, even when I think I am pretty calm.

"Guys, you are getting into deeply personal matters, now. Those are very personal questions you are asking him, Sam."

To break the way that the conversation is going, Albert stands up and walks back out on the sales floor and then outside. Alejandro and Sam, perhaps a little uncomfortable with me, now, decide to follow him out.

I stand alone in the room for a few moments, thinking about whether or not I should have told them my religious views, before I head back out myself.

The sun is setting outside. It is my favorite time of day in the desert, though I really enjoy the desert at any time of the day or night, the same as I enjoy Las Vegas at any time of the day or night.

We take our positions in front of empty parking spaces and wait for the customers to come. Sam is beside me. He looks at me for a few moments and shakes his head. He is smiling at the same time, though.

East of the Strip

Las Vegas. 2006

"My insurance more than doubled when I moved out here," I say to her. "The agent told me that this zip code, 89109, is the number two zip code in the country for stolen cars."

"That's absolutely right," the lady answers. "I've been living in these apartments for eight years now, and I have had two stolen from me. You're not considered a full resident until you come outside and find your car missing."

"Wow," I exclaim.

The lady, probably in her 50s, is thin but fast becoming frail. She wears a long brown dress made out of light material. Tiny dark sunglasses hide her eyes. She also has a small, long haired dog of some sort which looks like it could use a good grooming. The woman came up to me as I work to get a bright orange sticker off of the driver side window on my car. Evidently, I parked in someone's assigned space last night, and this sticker is the warning/punishment for it. I did not realize that my own apartment does not include an assigned space, and that I have to park my mustang out on the street. I have moved my car out onto Las Palmas Avenue, now, to work on getting this sticker off, though I dislike having to park here. The cars on this street are most susceptible to being damaged or stolen, as I have already observed after living here for less than a week. One of the first things that I did after moving in was make a trip to an auto parts store and buy "The Club" for my steering wheel.

As I work on the sticker, I think to myself, jeeze, they did not have to make it out of this paper material, though. It is impossible just to peel off with my fingers. I have to wet it, and now I am using my Swiss army knife and my windshield scraper to get the sticker off, a little bit of wet paper at a time.

"So where did you come from?" The lady asks.

"North Carolina," I answer.

"Are you married?" She asks.

"Nope." I give a half glance back at her and force a smile.

"So you just came out here by yourself with no children, no family?"

"That's right," I say.

The lady seems nice enough, but even with my back turned to her, I can sense the loneliness pouring out of her body. She wants something from me. Most likely it is only companionship. I have just arrived in the city, though. I need to find a job. Getting to know her is not on my priority list right now.

As the days and weeks pass, I will see her quite often. She always seems to be walking her dog anytime I head out to my car, and I wonder if she is watching my apartment to see when I come outside.

***

The apartments where I live are only a couple of blocks east of the strip, or Las Vegas Boulevard. One of the bus drivers in the city told me that I should not live east of the strip, that "East of the strip is sh*t."

He is right, but east of the strip is also cheap, which is what I need until I get established here and begin to work my way up in the city.

The view off my back balcony is actually very nice. I can see a couple of the casinos- the Flamingo and the Imperial Palace. If I am home at sunset, I will go out on the balcony and watch as the sun goes down and the neon lights to the casinos turn on.

My apartment is on the third floor, the top floor of this complex. An alley runs along the back, and at night some interesting things happen down below. People rarely think to look up, and so most of the time they do not know that anyone is watching them.

Drug use is the main activity that I observe in the back alley, though on one night I also witness some sad qualities of human nature which I will not repeat here- of people living on the edge with little self esteem and nothing much to lose.

The behaviors of the night are not confined to the back alley of my apartment, and not confined to the night, either- not in Las Vegas.

"Give me my money, Bill!" I hear a woman screaming one night at around 3 a.m., almost directly in front of my door. It annoys me because she wakes me up when I have be at work in just a few hours. She does not sound like she is in danger, so I let it go and try to get back to sleep. She continues to yell, though.

"I'm not leaving until you give me my money! Give me my money, Bill! GIVE ME MY MONEY!"

I can not hear what Bill is saying to her. It is muffled. I guess he eventually gives her the money, though, as she quiets down.

On a couple of other occasions, women knock on my door in the middle of the day to ask me if I want a girlfriend. I feel pity for them rather than attraction. The first girl can not control her shaking and trembling from what I guess is withdrawal. She keeps scratching her face to the point where there are marks on her cheek.

The second woman is nearly in tears when she asks if she can stay with me, that people are after her. Her eyes are yellow, and she lifts up her shirt to show me that she is several months pregnant.

Late one night, a guy knocks on my door. He holds a box of various electronic equipment and asks if I want to buy any. I tell him no, but I watch his eyes scan my apartment for what stuff I have in here and who else might be living with me.

After his visit, I keep my blinds closed all the time, so that if someone is going to break into my apartment, they will at least have to guess if I am inside, waiting with perhaps a gun.

Despite these rough experiences, I am surprised at the number of beautiful ladies who seem to wander through the apartment complex as well.

A blond woman with one of the most incredible bodies that I have ever seen is just randomly walking down the sidewalk outside my apartment as I get into my car one day. I cannot help but stare at her, and I do not care that she sees me staring. She gives me a confident smirk, but keeps on walking... If only I could think of something to say...

The guy who lives next to me, "Bill," I suppose, though I have never met him and do not really care to, keeps me amused with the women who come and go from his apartment. Some are in the condition of the two women who knocked on my door, others are at the other end of the spectrum, virtual goddesses- only with very hard eyes.

Another time, a cute brunette is wandering around early on a Sunday morning before I go for a jog. Something is wrong with her. She walks very close to me as I do a few stretches, but I do not think she realizes I am there. Her stare is vacant, though she has a slight smile on her face. She wears a pretty white dress, but her feet are bare and bloodied.

I enjoy running in the heat, and I can feel the desert sun already beginning to beat down on me this early in the morning before I even start. The girl's dark brown hair is wet with sweat, and I know that she will soon become dehydrated. She seems oblivious to all this, though. I consider going back up to my apartment to get my cell phone and call the police about her. She is gone after a few seconds, though, disappearing down the alleys and streets of the neighborhood.

***

It has been a long day at the dealership. I need some food after we close down at 10pm on this Saturday night, and it has been a while since I treated myself to a nice meal. I drive to Old Town Las Vegas and walk around for an hour or so on Fremont Street. When the time passes midnight, I duck into the sports diner across from the Plaza Hotel and Casino. The diner has a steak and egg special for $3.99 after midnight. It is delicious. I order two plates instead of just one, putting A1 sauce on both my steak and my eggs. I am a night owl, and one of the things I love about this city is that I can do almost whatever I want, whenever I want here.

When I finally pull into my apartment complex, it is nearly 2 a.m. I still have on my dress clothes from work as I head up the three flights of stairs to my apartment.

As I start to climb, I see a woman at the very top of the stairs beginning to come down. She has poofy blond hair and impressive curves. I think that she must be another one of "Bill's" visitors.

Though I am tired from the day, I am also a bit lonely, so I look forward to at least speaking to her.

She keeps her eyes lowered as we pass on the second flight, so I take the initiative.

"Hello, how are you doing?" I say in the friendliest voice that I can manage.

She stops and looks at me with inviting interest.

"Hi, I'm fabulous. How are you?" she answers in a somewhat deeper voice than I expected. Then I see it. The five o'clock shadow on the face and the prominent adam's apple. Though wearing very high heels, her legs have hair on them.

Good god.

Shocked into acting on instinct now, I answer with a terse, "Pretty good." I look away from him/her and keep moving up the stairs.

Once I have locked myself in my apartment. I take off my dress shirt, pants and socks and collapse on my bed.

Looking up at the ceiling, I can not help but laugh. I wish I had more money to enjoy this city and perhaps even help some of these people out, but that is everyone's constant complaint. I fully appreciate that life is more interesting and wild for me now than it has ever been, and I am glad to be living in Las Vegas.

The Characters of Las Vegas

It is the winter of 2006, and I find myself standing in the darkness of the Nevada desert, looking up at the neon illuminated tower of the Stratosphere Casino. It looms over the car dealership where I am employed as a salesman.

In January, on a whim I moved to Las Vegas from North Carolina, getting a cheap apartment sight unseen in a high crime area of the city. The nearest friend or family member is in Tennessee, and I am truly all alone out here. I do not feel alone, though, and aside from my worries about making enough money to pay my bills, I am pretty happy.

There is a vibe to Las Vegas, an excitement and energy, that gives me comfort. It is like no other place that I have lived. The characters, the people I meet, fascinate me as I enter this new chapter in my life.

The night is cold, and I have been at work since this morning. The salesmen stand outside, but the managers get chairs at a counter inside the heated dealership. There are no benches provided for the salesmen. Some of the older guys actually sit in the cars that are on display immediately outside the showroom, a habit which management has warned them about. The warning has no effect, though. A couple of the old guys are physically incapable of standing for the 8 to 12 hour days that we work.

The game we play is to for each salesman to stand in front of a specific parking space and wait for a customer to drive in. The salesman has that individual space until he abandons it or a car pulls in and he greets the customer. There are a couple of good parking spaces where customers always go first. I have one of these slots now. The rest of the salesmen form a line going down the sidewalk. The night is cold, and I notice that we are all wearing black- black leather coats or trench coats. We look like mafia hit men, and I think that a customer will be quite intimidated to park in front of any of us. It is so obvious that we are sharks with dollar signs in our eyes.

Having no friends or family in Vegas, I am glad to meet new people. To my left, manning the number one parking space, is Santiago. Originally from Mexico, he is a mustachioed man whom I presume him to be in his late 50s or early 60s. When I first started working at the dealership, Santiago did not speak to me that much and "snaked" me on one occasion (To snake someone in the car business, I learned, is to steal their customer).

As a few weeks have passed, though, Santiago has taken a liking to me. After we close the dealership tonight, he will go to the Venetian casino. Santiago is a professional poker player and enters tournaments every week. If what he tells me is true, he makes quite a bit of money from poker playing. He only works as a salesman because his family would worry about him if he just played poker all day.

Santiago is retired from the restaurant business where he also claims to have made a lot of money. Again, if what he tells me is true, as a young man in his 20s, he played on the Mexican National Soccer Team.

Santiago is a ladies' man, and about this I have no doubt. Despite being old, he has long wavy dark hair, and he is always carefully groomed. There is a polish to his way with people, a smoothness about him that female customers just go for. He is one of the best salesmen at the store, when he wants to be. In the middle of a deal, he will sometimes walk over to me and whisper. "Watch this. I'm gonna chop off his head like a Samurai." Sure enough, a few minutes later that customer is smiling and driving a new car away from the dealership. Santiago is smiling as well, but more from the satisfaction of closing the customer than from the money he just made.

Much of his time at the dealership, though, is spent in the back smoking cigarettes and talking to Rose,a pretty young woman from Nicaragua who works in the warranty office.

To all the salesmen, he brags regularly about his wife at home and his mistress in San Diego.
"My wife drops me off at the airport in Las Vegas," he says in his thick Spanish accent, "and Katarina picks me up in San Diego. Then when it is time for me to leave, Katarina drops me off at the airport in San Diego, and my wife picks me in Las Vegas."

Recently, he claims to have a new mistress in Las Vegas. As we talk in the cold air, he laughs in a raspy voice that comes from years of smoking, "You're gonna meet her tonight. She's younger than my daughter."

I ask him about his daughter, but he shakes his head and looks away for a moment. "She hasn't spoken to me in years," he says. I decide not to push him on the subject.

Santiago stands to my left. To my right is Rob, a young black man who just turned 20 years old. Rob thinks Santiago is full of hot air, whereas I tend to believe most of what Santiago tells me. Rob does not like Santiago, I think because he senses that Santiago is prejudiced against black people. From some of the things that Santiago has said to me, Rob's perception is spot on.

Rob enjoys talking with me because I am the only one of the salesman to have gone to college. He asks me lots of questions about what college is like and what living in North Carolina is like. Rob has a curious mind and his own fascinating life experiences, despite his young age.

Santiago, in addition to being a salesman, is a professional poker player. Rob, in addition to being a salesman, is a pimp.

I mean that literally. Rob has a number of prostitutes who go out on the streets of Las Vegas and make money for him.

To me, Rob is a nice guy and I just can not see him doing that sort of work. When I first learned this about him I asked, "How does one become a pimp?"

He answered me in detail, and it made perfect sense. From this we went on to have a number of conversations which would not be appropriate to repeat in polite company. Suffice it to say, I learned all about the prostitution industry in Las Vegas from a pimp's perspective, from how to handle a girl who is holding out on the money, to rivalries and turf wars, to protecting the girls from Johns who turn out to be dangerous.

Rob and I work well together in closing deals, and we often will split the commission on a sale. Our styles are totally different. He speaks a sort of street dialect to the customer, and I am the clean cut college boy. When one of us has stalled out in closing the deal, we switch off. The difference in approaches can startle the customer, but it is often effective in saving the sale.

A car pulls into the lot. The salesmen think it is a customer and we smile and wave.

"That's Viviana," Santiago says.

"That's who?" I ask.

"That's my girlfriend. You can have my spot."

Santiago steps off the concrete and walks toward the car. I move to the place where Santiago was standing, the best location to get a customer on the whole lot. Rob slides down to my number two position.

The driver of the car rolls down her window, but I can't get a good look at her. Santiago leans in and speaks to her for a few moments, then gets in on the passenger side. They ride to the back of the dealership.

A few minutes go by. I look in through the windows of the brightly lit dealership to the counter where the managers sit. This late, there is only one manager on duty. It is Rick, the manager who hired me. Rick is a tall, bald man with a beard. He is about the same age as Santiago or perhaps a little younger. Rick told me when I first interviewed with him that he is retired from the CIA. Rick is probably the most intelligent man at the entire dealership. I will talk more about him later.

Right now, I am actually more curious about Santiago's girlfriend than making a sale. Santiago has not come out to the front of the dealership, so I decide to walk around back to the smokers' corner where he spends most of his time.

Sure enough he is there, talking with some of the other salesmen. A woman with raven black hair has her back to me.

Santiago sees me. "Nathan, I'd like for you to meet Viviana."

Viviana turns around and smiles at me.

It is one of those rare moments in my life when I am really stricken. Viviana is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Her face is like a precious jewel, her smile warm and inviting, her body full and voluptuous.

I have to look away from her. My senses began to tighten up and close off, but before they do, I see an expression on Santiago's face that immediately tells me he is my friend.

He sees my reaction to Viviana, and looks down in a mixture of awkward embarrassment and sympathy for me. To him, Viviana is an enjoyable but temporary toy. He is an old man and she is so very young. To me, she is the kind of woman who could make me happy for the rest of my life. She is one of a handful of women whom I have met and that I would propose to on the spot- if I could manage to say anything, that is.

Santiago can see this flood of emotions on my face.

I really do not know much of what occurs after that, as always happens when I encounter a beautiful woman face to face. I think Viviana can tell that I like her a lot, but I am not sure. At any rate, she and Santiago do not stick around for much longer. They go off together somewhere- the Venetian, I guess, and I am left in a fog for the rest of the evening as we close down the dealership on another Las Vegas night...

To be continued