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| Author: |
Buddy Roy Baldry |
| Dated: |
Friday, June 11 2004 @ 01:40 PM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1792 times |
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Here is the used car lot where my parents bought the brown car. We entered in a taxi and left in a large boat that floated along the potholes and sent waves of dust in its wake. The lot is empty. Once, there were red and white triangle flags that panicked and fluttered along the chain link fence. Once, there were cars parked in every available space, gleaming against a blue sky. The cars gave the illusion of activity. There was no pavement and the cars driving around the yard made the dust fly. Boys from the middle school worked on the weekends to keep the sparkle on the cars. During the week the customers and salesmen would ensure the dust settled again.
Here is the lot where Gordon Zanders, the car salesman, helped my father buy the brown car, and made an impression on me. Gordon elevated me from non-entity to one-third of the decision making team. I was someone he would also have to win over to sell us a car.
His smile descended on me, as warm as my father’s hand. Gleaming. “You look thirsty, there, young fella’, you thirsty?” He may have bent to my eye level.
“Answer, son,” my father said.
Gordon Zanders stopped what he was doing and disappeared in his office. He came out with a warm Western Family Cola. He opened it and shook the foam off his hand. I held the can the entire time we were there. Empowered, I waited for a chance to speak, knowing I never would.
Later, in his office, I tried not to look at the calendar on the wall across from his desk. A girl in a bikini. Gold hair, clean smile on the top half. A staple in her stomach. Days of the week superimposed on her legs. Papers lifted lazily when the oscillating fan spun our way. The windows were open, too. My pop was too warm to drink, but I took small sips to show interest in my gift. Other salesmen shuffled around, heads down, but Gordon looked us in the eye, always smiling. He devoted attention to my father for money matters, winked at my mother for jokes and smiled at me for anything left over. When we left he waved to all three of us, not just my father but me as well. I watched him out the back window of the brown car. The tinted window divided his figure: head and shoulders blue, protruding belly the faded red of his shirt, his bottom half lost in our dust.
Here is the lot where I met him first. It was not the last time I saw him, though.
I saw him later when we went shopping. I was too old to ride in my mother’s cart and young enough to wish I could. The grocery store floor gleamed black and white under my feet. Step on only the black tiles for good luck. The polished white tiles reflected the light fixtures. We passed Gordon Zanders and I offered an adult hello. He nodded back, preoccupied. Sometimes smiling, sometimes not. I wanted to know that he remembered me. That I was a person he had come in contact with and occupied a part of his daily thoughts. From the car lot, that’s right, how are you today? Fine, I might answer if asked.
Short stubby fingers with black wiry hair on the knuckles. As wide as he was tall. Perpetually balding. Black hair turning grey as I grew. Unibrow. A face that must have been impossible to shave. I grew up and forgot why I knew his name or who he was. I still said hello.
Now, whenever I looked down on him, he always smiled. Even if he didn’t know me. The greetings were not often. The car lot had closed years before. He drove the same car for decades. I had no idea what he did or how he got his money. Never married. He still stood out for me, even after I forgot his name. A familiar face. Warmth. The first adult that spoke to me.
Here is the lot where he used to work. He was a tenant in one of the low rent apartments I own. The one with a view that looks out over top of the Bottle Depot. Until he died, that is.
Somebody came to clear out his stuff, but they only took the furniture and television. They left the one pot and the dishes. They left everything in the bathroom. Garbage, too. Trash in the closet that I had to clean out. Grime on the windows that I couldn't get clean and on the bathroom mirror which I didn’t bother cleaning. That’s where I found the photo.
In the end I’m glad I found it. This way no one would ever have to know. I never told anyone about it. But I didn’t throw it away. It was a Polaroid of him. His long fleshy earlobes adorned with costume jewelry. Makeup. Black hair where a cleavage should have been. Terrible looking hoofs in red high-heeled shoes. Arms at his side, pearl bracelets dangling impotently. Smiling. Half the smile obscured in a blur of dried mud.
I wasn’t horrified. If anything, I was a little sad. It was a well-kept secret, that much was clear. At that moment he lost his name. He became that guy that sold my father a car. He gave me a Western Family pop. He spoke to me. I became the only one to look after his possessions. The only one left to know his secret. But I only needed to clean the apartment so I could rent it out again.
I kept the picture. I drove to where the car lot used to be. The last time I was in the area it was a compound yard. There were vehicles there that looked as though they were part of the dirt itself. Weeds appeared magically inside the windshield, through the seats like the souls of the rusty springs. The red and white flags had made good their escape. Now it was empty. The chain link fence kept nothing in and kept no one out. The old building looked small. The window where Gordon’s office would have been was smashed. Each pane. I wondered if the fan was still inside, shaking its head slowly in disbelief.
In the used car lot, I roll up the photo of Gordon and tuck it through the diamonds of the fence. I push it in with the palm of my hand and turn away. Let it land face down. Let it land face up.
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Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work.
-- Thomas A. Edison