Its a 1990 Ford Probe. Maroon.
Maroon. He wrote down this information. Mileage?
One hundred and seventy thousand.
His frown got a little tighter. Car that old, that many miles, most I can give you for it is five hundred dollars.
I blinked. Wasnt he even going to ask if it ran? I bit my lip, fighting a decidedly inconvenient attack of conscience.
Hector apparently mistook my silence for reluctance. Six hundred. Most I can do. Take it or leave it.
I swallowed hard. Where do I sign?
I had never bought a car before. My father had purchased the first vehicle Id driven, an orange Gremlin formerly owned by a dog trainer. Every time it rained, the car smelled of wet poodle. Steve bought the maroon Probe for me for Christmas one year. Id wanted a blue Mustang, but he had surprised me with the Probe and I thought it would have appeared
ungrateful to protest, though I could never look at the car without thinking of dental work.
All right, then. Hector pushed back his chair and stood. Ill show you what Ive got in your price range.
For the next hour, I followed Hector around the lot as he showed me red Volkswagens, yellow Chevies and a limegreen car of indiscernible lineage. Now darling, this is the perfect car for you, he said, patting the hood of the lime-green model. Very sporty.
I stared at what looked to be an escapee from the bumpercar ride at the carnival. I could never drive anything that color.
Hector took out an oversize handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Well, honey, I wouldnt say in your price range you can afford to be picky. Besides he patted the car again its proven that cars this color are in fewer wrecks. Why do you think they paint fire engines green these days?
A flash of blue caught my attention. Thats when I saw it. My dream car. What about that one? I pointed toward a blue Mustang at the back corner of the lot.
That one? Hector rubbed his chin. Yeah, I forgot about that one. He straightened. Sure. I could make you a deal.
We walked over to the Mustang. It had a dent in one door and tired-looking upholstery. I slid into the drivers seat and turned the key. The engine coughed, then turned over. Honey, Id say its you. Hector leaned in the window and grinned.
An hour later, I drove off the lot in the Mustang. I didnt really care that it was a ninety-six model or that it had a bumper sticker that read Onward Through the Fog. The important thing was that it was blue, the color of the dream car Id never gotten. Id taken it as a sign. I was on my own now, calling all the shots. And, by God, I was going to have that blue Mustangmy dreamdents and all.
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I CONSIDER not having been born with pots of money to be a gross injustice. Just inside the door of the employee lounge at the Central Care Network Clinic where I work is a banner that proclaims: Two Million in Profits and Climbing! Whenever I see this, I feel majorly annoyed. Not only had I not been born with money, I had managed to find a job that guaranteed I wouldnt be getting my share of that two mil. Next to nurses aides and janitors, transcriptionists are at the bottom of the hospital hierarchy.
But hey, I was young and single and had a new car, so what did I have to complain about, right? Yeah, right, I thought, as I boarded the elevator heading up to my cubicle in the family-practice section of the clinic the next day. I pasted a fake smile on my face as I entered the elevator. My mother had always told me I should smile even when I didnt feel like smiling because it would help me to develop the habit of happiness. I preferred to think a permanent smile gave people doubts about your sanity, and thus they left you alone.
Family Practice was on the eleventh floor of the steel-and-glass high-rise in the Texas Medical Center complex. At every floor, the elevator doors parted and more people poured in as others exited. I found myself pushed farther and farther toward the rear of the car, until my nose was practically buried in the shellacked updo of an orthopedics receptionist.
I always got nervous when the elevator was this full. What if there was too much weight for the cables? What if it stopped between floors? Would we suffocate? Just last week Mary Joe Wisnewski from pediatrics had been stuck between floors for an hour.
And here I was, packed in like a teenager at dollar-a-car night at the drive-in. Two drug pushersalso known as pharmaceutical salesmenhemmed me in on either side. I couldnt even move my arms.
So, of course, I had an itch I needed to scratch. On my butt. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the persistent tickle on my right cheek as the elevator ground to a halt to take on still more passengers.
The tickle developed into a pinch. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I realized the reason for my posterior disturbance. Some guy had his hand up my dress! He was poking and prodding my cheek like a baker testing dough. Or maybe he was a plastic surgeon who thought I was a likely candidate for a buttocks-lift.