Looking for a Car?

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Monday morning. Waiting as the farm truck gets serviced. Typing, emailing, handicapping, scouting, thinking. As I writer, I try to collect words and phrases I can use to describe a horse in a race. There are only so many ways to describe a closing kick, a rough trip or a patient ride. I have a new one – Mike Smith sits and waits, idle as a car salesman on a Monday morning.

Does anybody walk in and buy a car on a Monday morning?

The car salesmen don’t even look expectant. It’s like they’re waiting for their truck to get serviced too.

A blonde in flip-flops organizes her pens, takes them out of a drawer, rolls them across her desk, clicking a few to check if they work, scribbling across a note pad with others, throwing a few in the trash can. She then clips coupons from a Burger King ad. It’s 10:37 in the morning.

A pot-bellied old man checks the Internet, a pack of Marlboro Lights wait on his desk. He asks his neighbor about the size of his pool. His neighbor cleans his chair, vest hanging from the back of it. Sneakers, gray dress pants, straw hat, maybe a Greg Norman brand, he scrubs his chair, then stops, hunches over his phone, and types with fat fingers.

A balding man in cowboy boots takes a photo of his computer screen. Well, he tries. He clicks. Then erases it. Clicks again. And erases it. Looks like his computer is open to eBay – backpacks and boxing gloves.

Another older man reads about college basketball on ESPN.com. Then he checks CNN.com and reads about Obamacare. Then critiques Obamacare. He doesn’t like it.

The young girl scrolls her i-Phone, then replaces its screen shield with another plastic wrap. Sunglasses hold her streaky blonde hair away from her forehead. She has done nothing but type on her phone – texting with alacrity and precision – since she’s been here.

Smoke break. Cup of coffee. Another smoke break. Another cup of coffee. Finally it’s time for Burger King, order in one hand and balky set of keys in the other. She’s been here two hours. 

A cell phone rings, a duck call. Chairs swivel, then sway. Papers shuffle. Shoes scuff across the linoleum floor.

The room fills with the deep grease smell of French fries and Whoppers. I admit, I feel hungry for the first time all day.

A blue sedan, a silver one with a spoiler, a four-door with tinted windows and white SUV dot the showroom, $349 IMO advertised acaross the back window. “I’m All Out of Love” plays over the lofted speakers. A dry erase board hovers on the far wall, sales registered in three columns for June 2014. There have been no additions today.

Idle as a car salesman on a Monday morning.