The Day Chance Escaped

Petersburg, Virginia. The Summer of 1999.

As it is my second summer working on the cannon crew at Petersburg National Battlefield, I have been given more responsibilities. Very often, now, rather than saddling and putting the equipment on the horses in the mornings, the supervisor asks me to make the black powder rounds for the day.

We perform four shows each day. During the first part of the show, we ride into battle and deploy a bronze Napoleon cannon, using blank shots for this demonstration. I make an aluminum foil round based on a cardboard mold, and fill the bottom of the round with the black powder. The tighter I am able to pack the foil around the powder, the louder the boom. When we fire the cannon, it never fails to set off car alarms some distance away, which in turn draws “Oohs and Ahhs” from the crowd.

For the mortar demonstration, we lob an eight pound iron ball about 300 yards down range. The ball is designed to be an exploding shell that would rain shrapnel on enemy soldiers, but we do not detonate the ball. Lately, my supervisor has told me to add a few more grains of black powder for the mortar demonstration, as for fun we are trying to hit a tree just beyond the end of the range.

When preparing the rounds, I work in an enclosed and cool room. I also have to wear fire resistant gloves and an apron, though I am quite aware that if the black powder blows up, there is no protection for my face. The gloves are pretty pointless, too, as they are too bulky and lack the fine touch for me to make a good, tight round with the aluminum foil. I usually do not wear them.

There are a total of seven of us on the cannon crew, including the supervisor who acts as the gunner, and the horse trainer, who is a female. She dresses as a male Confederate soldier for the show, complete with a wig and mustache.

Today, I am about halfway through making the rounds when I walk outside to take a break. The building where we store our gear and ammunition and where I also make the rounds is beside the corral of horses. It is tucked into a private, employees only part of the park. An asphalt road circles the building, and except for a narrow opening where the road empties out onto the main drive through the park, we are enclosed by trees.

As I walk out on the grass, to my amazement, Chance, our fastest horse, gallops past me, loose and free.

“What the he--!” I exclaim out loud.

Well behind Chance is Mark, another member of the cannon crew. Mark is a nice guy and very knowledgeable about the Civil War, but he is a fellow who is probably a bit too pudgy to look like an authentic Confederate artilleryman.

Mark is running as fast as he can, which is not very fast, behind Chance.

Chance makes a break for the clearing in the trees leading out to the wide open spaces of the park.

At that moment, Joanne, the horse trainer, comes zipping in through the same clearing on the asphalt road in her small white sports car. She has to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting Chance, but it forces Chance to circle back toward me and the building.

Joanne rolls down her window and begins shouting instructions. I cannot understand what she is saying, and no one is paying attention to her. I do remember her telling us at the beginning of the season, though, that if a horse ever got free, to not bother running behind it to try to catch it- there is no point.

Mark seems to think he can defy the odds, though, and chase down our race horse.

Chance makes a lap around the building and runs along the wooden fence of the corral.

This event has excited all of the other horses, and they have run up to the fence to watch. Hobson, probably the smartest horse we have, runs along the inside of the fence parallel to Chance on the outside, kicking up his hind legs and shouting encouragement with loud neighs.

The other guys on the crew see what is happening and try to surround Chance. He is much too fast for that, though. Joanne is out of the car trying to do the same thing. She leaves her vehicle parked in the road to block Chance’s escape out into the main part of the battlefield.

I run to the barn further back from the corral. We have hay and buckets of sweet feed there, and all the horses love the sweet feed. A mixture of corn, barley and oats, Joanne told me the horses will literally eat themselves to death on sweet feed if we left them alone with it. I grab a bucket out of the barn, hold it up in the air and call to Chance as he runs by for another lap.

Chance stops on a dime and gives me a curious look. I shake the bucket, and he knows what it is. He slowly walks up to me, and I let him begin eating out of the bucket. He calms down. Now, I have him by the nose band, and I take him to a post with a rope and attach it to the bottom of the band, like we normally do to begin fitting the horses with the gear.

Joanne seems a little surprised that this trick actually worked, or perhaps she has just never thought of it before.

We ask Mark what happened. He explains that he made the mistake of trying to open the gate to the corral and take Chance through it at the same time.

While the other horses remain calm as they walk through, Chance always gets spooked by the swinging gate.

Chance bolted on Mark and ripped free of his grip. The gate was not open quite wide enough yet, either, and Chance got a bad scrape along his rib cage as he ran through.

Later, after all our shows are done for the day, we tease Mark about how he tried to chase down the horse.

Mark smokes a cigarette. He takes a drag, and as he exhales he says quietly but most seriously, “I told you guys I could run.”

We all burst out laughing, to his confusion.

Bob and Bo

Petersburg, Virginia. The summer of 1998.

You would think that the Amish might treat their animals better.

The National Park Service, specifically Petersburg National Battlefield, purchased several horses for our show. Among them are two large Belgian Quarter Horses bought from the Amish, “Bob” and “Bo.” Their bodies are covered with marks and scars- clear signs of abuse. They both have bad spots of what looks to be black skin, smooth to the touch, where no hair has grown back after they suffered a nasty wound. My supervisor tells me that they were in much worse shape when the Park Service first acquired them a few years ago.

Anyway, in this job I get to work with horses, and I wear suspenders every morning.

I am studying history at Western Carolina University, and my academic advisor and mentor at the school has taken a special interest in me. He is fast becoming one of the foremost authors and historians on the Civil War, and he knows just about everyone in the Park Service at the Civil War battlefields in Virginia. Thanks to him, I have a summer job in Petersburg as a Park Ranger, complete with housing provided by the Park Service.

I work on the cannon crew at the battlefield. We dress as a Confederate artillery soldiers, and hook a Napoleon cannon and caisson to a team of horses, ride into battle for the crowd, and fire a blank black power round. We then perform a mortar demonstration, where we fire a live round that lands down range about 300 yards. After the show is over, we answer questions from the crowd.

Before the first show each morning, though, we have to feed the horses and get them harnessed up. I wear my wool pants and my white shirt with suspenders, along with the authentic shoes of the era. But in what is often 100 degree heat, I of course wait until it is time to ride to put on my wool coat and red cap of the artillery.

Bob and Bo are the biggest horses we have, and they do the brunt of the work pulling the cannon and gear. In front of them on the team are “Hobson” and “Chance.” Chance is built like a race horse, but he suffers from asthma and we can only feed him a limited amount of hay. He needs to eat green grass. Hobson basically just lived in a lady’s back yard his whole life before the Park Service bought him, and he has the most personality of any horse I have ever seen.

Bob and Bo know the drill. We put their saddle blankets across their backs, then the saddle itself, followed by the collar, the hames, the breech straps, and then the traces. For the breech straps, I actually have to lift up their tail and loop the leather strap around it. Before I do this, I always touch the horse on his side and rub down to his back, so that he can feel where I am and I do not surprise him when I lift up his tail. Usually, the horse tenses his muscles to make it hard for me work the leather strap around its tail, but who can blame him? The skin underneath the tail is a common area where the leather strap will rub a sore.

The last thing we put on is the bit, which lodges against the horse’s upper gum.

Bo in particular has this trick where he will inflate his belly with air when I am attaching the saddle. You will think that the saddle is tight enough, but then the rider might slide right off once we get going. What I have to do is tighten the saddle, then come back and few minutes later and tighten it again, to catch him by surprise.

On this morning, we are running a little late getting the horses ready. I put on Bo’s saddle and tighten the girth strap. Bo has his stomach extended as far as he can, and he is also moving around to make things harder for me.

I lose my patience with him, and I give him a quick pop on the cheek of his mouth.

I have never seen an animal react in such a way. Bo audibly gasps, his eyes go wide with fear, and his body becomes rigid. I can see in his eyes the flashback to the beatings he took at the hands of the Amish.

“Bo, I am sorry,” I say. I pet him on his neck and rub his side to try to get him to calm down. “I will never hit you again.”

He eventually relaxes a little, but I can tell that the psychological damage to him is worse than it is for Bob. Bo will never trust people after the Amish, no matter how well he is treated. Bob, on the other hand, still has some curiosity and will give me amusing looks from time to time.

After watching Bo’s reaction to my tiny slap, though, I always make it a point to be the one who dresses Bo in the mornings, to go a little gentler with him than the other guys might be in putting the gear on the horses.

Mud Pie

Present Day.

When I wake up in the morning, after a few moments I realize that I am in the town of Live Oak, out on Florida’s Panhandle.

This time last week, I was waking up in Miami, where I just spent the previous year of my life.

Moving is exhausting, and I have done more than my fair share of it over the previous ten years or so. Circumstances necessitated this particular move, though.

I think I am going to like Live Oak. I hope to build a career here, become involved with the community, work on my craft of criminal trial law, and in my spare time write novels.

While Miami was great, I am most likely finished residing in large cities. I have lived in Las Vegas, Washington, DC, and now The Magic City. Vegas I could do again, but I have dwelled in enough places to realize that unless you are a multi-millionaire, the quality of life is probably going to be better in Small Town, USA. Vacations in big cities are nice, but the daily grind of traffic, masses of people always trying to do the exact same thing that you are doing, not being able to get into restaurants and clubs- those are not problems I will encounter in Live Oak.

I have gone for two runs through Live Oak already, and my location is great. My house is just two blocks from the office where I will start work on Monday, one block from the Post Office, one block from the bank that I use, one block from City Hall, two blocks from a great restaurant called the Dixie Grill. At night, I hear trains from the nearby tracks, and the chimes from the big courthouse clock.

My family has been very supportive through all this. I moved to the rural Panhandle in part to be closer to my parents in North Carolina. The traffic in Miami and the distance they had to travel was just too much for them to feel comfortable even trying to visit, and I cannot blame them.

Dad, my brother, Adam, and my Dad’s brother, Uncle Ken, all came down to help me move. After we got my things into the house in Live Oak, we went to the local McDonalds for a late meal. Adam and Dad ordered some apple pie, but Uncle Ken said he was not the biggest fan of it.

“I’ll bet Adam can guess what my favorite pie of all time is,” I said.

Adam went through two or three guesses before he said, “Mud pie.”

“That’s right,” I responded. “Grandma Marshburn’s chocolate pie, which we grandkids called mud pie.”

Dad and Uncle Ken nodded in memory of this.

Grandma Marshburn, the mother of Dad and Uncle Ken, passed away in 2004.

“I suppose it has been 15, maybe 20 years since I had one of her pies,” I said.

I looked at Uncle Ken, and I could tell this made him a little sad as he reflected back on life on the farm in Maple Hill, growing up with her cooking.

The next day, before Adam, Dad and Uncle Ken all headed back to North Carolina, I treated them to lunch at the Dixie Grill, a restaurant in Live Oak that serves good Southern Country food like we enjoyed growing up.

Uncle Ken noticed that pies were on the dessert menu, including a chocolate pie.

He told me that probably because of the conversation we had the previous night, he had a desire for some chocolate pie.

Uncle Ken is a politician, though, and he likes to talk to people. Before he ordered, he had to make some inquiries with the waitress as to the quality of the pies.

The waitress told us that the lemon meringue, the coconut pie, and the chocolate pie were all made from scratch in the restaurant. The other pies were good as well, she said, but they were sent from the manufacturer and then baked at the restaurant.

This sold Uncle Ken on the chocolate pie, and all of us with the exception of Dad (who was too stuffed from the main course) ordered a slice.

We were all pleased to find that the pie was cooked in the style that Grandma used to make- a cream chocolate pudding sort of center, with a sweet, thick crust and a white foamy meringue top.

As we savored it, Adam made the right assessment. “It’s not as good as Grandma’s, but it’s close.”

Uncle Ken nodded in agreement.

It is nice to live two blocks away from a restaurant that serves such a chocolate pie, and to not have to call ahead to see if I will be able to get a table.

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.

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.