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.

Flying Between Fields

It has been an eventful and tiring week at work. Now past midnight, I am too exhausted to write the rather lengthy blog entry which I had in mind, "The Man With Faces On His Shoes," another story from my time in Las Vegas. That will come later. Instead, I will write about a memory from when I was eight years old or so, riding my bike out in the countryside where my family used to live: Rt. 7, Box 568B, Lumberton, North Carolina 28358.

There are no cars coming. Good.

I stand up on my BMX bike and push the pedals, pumping them one after another, as hard and rapidly as my legs can go.

"What's the fastest thing in the world?" I remember Brian, my friend at school, asking me one day.

"Light," I answer. "Nothing is faster than the speed of light."

"No, it's a bicycle," Brian says. "Because a bicycle is never wide open."

I smile at this memory. I think to myself, let's see if I can go faster than anything in the world.

It is a hot summer day. School is out for the year, which is why I can be outside pedaling down the middle of this country road in the early afternoon.

My plan is to get up close to my maximum speed on the asphalt, coast a little as I lean into a sharp left turn onto our long sandy driveway, then pedal again and go as fast as I can, until I come to the end of the driveway. I will push hard all the way to the finish, and then I will slam on brakes (my BMX has pedal brakes, not hand brakes, so I can easily lock the wheels).

The result is to skid several feet, turning my bike sideways to get a sensation, an angle of movement, that feels good and is rare.

I have done this several times before, and I enjoy studying the marks in the dirt afterward.

The house where we live is surrounded by corn and soybean fields. The crops whir by in my peripheral vision on either side of the road as I continue pumping my legs.

Here comes the driveway. I stop pedaling and lean hard into the turn, making sure that my left pedal is rotated high, otherwise it will scrape the pavement.

Riding on asphalt is quiet, but as soon as I hit the driveway, I listen to the sound of my tires crunching on sand and pebbles.

Keep pushing. Get up to the fastest speed I can. While a corn field is to my right, the yard is to the left, and a few pine trees line the driveway.

I pedal under them.

Suddenly, I find myself separated from my bike, flying through the air feet first. I am too startled, too confused by what is happening, to appreciate the weightless travel which I experience for just a second or two.

I land flat on my back with a hard thud. Fortunately, it does not hurt at all. It does not even knock the wind out of me.

Looking straight up at the blue sky through a few pine tree branches, I turn my head in time to see my bike, which must have been standing almost perfectly vertical on the front wheel for a second, crash to the side.

After a few more seconds on the ground, wondering what in the world just happened, I get up and dust myself off.

A crushed pine cone rests under my front wheel. This is amazing. I have run over countless pine cones with no problem. How is it that this one was able to stop my bike on a dime, traveling at my top speed, and send me flipping over the handle bars?

Reflecting on the situation for a couple more minutes brings me no closer to a solution, but I do decide that the whole thing was pretty cool, and I want to try it again.

I head back out to the road on my bike and go through it all once more. Speeding down the driveway, I run over the crushed pine cone, but nothing happens this time- only the slight bump.

I gather more pine cones and set them in a row across the drive way, to make sure that I do not miss, but still, there is no effect. My bike goes over them with no problem.

This is all very disappointing and puzzling.

Though I try for days and weeks after that experience, I am never able to replicate the two seconds of flight time between the corn fields and the soy bean fields.

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.