Trying to find some middle-aged wheels

    "You know it's the car for you," he said, no emotion crossing his voice or weathered face. It wasn't a sales pitch. It wasn't hype. It was just a plain statement of fact.

    "Yeah, your probably right," I said. "But I just don't think I'm ready for it."

     The "it" was a 1996 Buick Regal in immaculate condition, completely outfitted and being offered at better than a  fair price. But it was a Buick Regal - respectable, responsible and staid - and no matter how much they pump up the engine, or smooth the lines - it's still a Buick.

     He's probably sold used cars in this town longer than I've taken breath. No doubt, he's seen this before. As I left his office, scuffling morosely across the gravel of the car lot, I wondered how many other middle-aged morons he's seen still clinging to last wisps of imaginary youth jam themselves into a sports car, tuck their tummy-bulge under the wheel, and hope that driving a
convertible won't betray their bald spot.

     "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I muttered with every step, looking back at the black Thunderbird that refused to let my backside and belly co-exist in the same space offered by its manufacturers.
And then my eyes turned to the Buick.

    "Stupid"

    The Buick, of course, was most accommodating. That's it's job.

    And it drove well.

    And it was a bargain.

    "Stupid, stupid, stupid." I muttered.

    But still I continued my search for a new car.

    First I met the dead battery man - an intense guy standing no more than five foot four who seemed to get the impression that I had the phrase "I am a complete moron" stenciled across my forehead. He showed me a beautiful New Yorker, a huge beast of a car that captured my eye in a weak moment when I was willing to trade youth for opulence.

    But when I tried to take it for a test drive, it wouldn't start. "It must be because the battery is dead," he explained. "It's just been sitting here too long. You know this little incident will probably save you quite a bit of money," he said.

    I guess the stencil on my forehead must read "morron".

    And then there was the fisherman. I had by this time become such a motivated buyer that anyone offering me a cereal box with four jam jar lids glued to its sides would have a shot at my business. That's why I called all the way to Stratford in an effort to find what I wanted.

    "We have the perfect car," he said. "It's exactly what you want, down to the make, the model and the miles."

    Even as I drove there, getting lost at least once, I could see the resolution of my trip unfold. By the time I arrived, I wasn't really surprised all that much when the car suddenly turned out to be the wrong make, model, mileage and even year.

    "But we do have this other one over here and it costs only a little more," he said.

     But beyond the beyond was the London car dealer who, when confronted with the fact that the vehicle to be test driven lacked a signal light said, "Just drive it around the block and only make right-hand turns".

     Man, where do they get these guys?

    It pays to shop at home.

    I see him everyday as I drive home from work, standing in his lot, staring out at the passing parade of potential customers.

    The Buick waits there

    It's gleaming chrome beckons  me toward my golden years.

    Stupid!