Short Time On A Job

Seems some readers like car stories. Here is another.

My shortest time, at a dealership as a car salesman, was five hours. I did leave as a minor legend.

In the last century (pretentious, yes, but love the phrase) a car salesman had the most portable job imaginable. Walk onto a lot, show the manager some past pay stubs, and go to work on the spot.

A friend was a manager at a Chevrolet store South of Seattle and talked me into coming to work there. Started at 9 am and around 1:30 a car pulled in and the driver parked off to the side. An UP! I went over and greeted him. The conversation went something like this.

“Hello, welcome to H_______ Motors. Thanks for coming in today.”

Big smile, extended hand. The driver rudely slapped my hand away and said something along these lines. “I own this place, and I don’t talk to any fucking salesman. You got that, jackoff?”

“Excuse me, Mr. H_______. I didn’t know who you were. It won’t happen again.”

Then he got two good punches in the gut. He folded up and puked his lunch all over himself. The alcohol smell was overpowering. This was pre cell phone days. I walked over to the used car office, grabbed a phone, and called the police.

“Yeah, this is ‘The Tank’ over here at H_____ Motors on _______. I just had a drunk take a swing at me and had to defend myself.”

Police arrive, Smell him. Asked me if I saw him drive in. Asked me if I would testify in court that I saw him drive in and get out of the vehicle.

“Oh, hell yes!”

People, especially managers, were milling around. Mr. H______ had regained the ability to talk.  Didn’t matter, he was cuffed and stuffed.

After he was hauled away, the managers started motherfucking me. I just smiled, picked up my umbrella, and went over to my truck. Offered to fill the most vocal one’s dance card but he was all bluster. Drove off. One hour later I was back at my old lot where we all kissed and made up. Sold a car that night.

Never was called to testify. Saw Mr. H_______ a few times after that at various car venues. For some reason he stayed clear of me.

I’ve had a lifetime problem controlling my temper. Sometimes it does feel so good to lose it.

When he slapped my hand away, that was taking a swing at me. Calling the police was a tactical move. Being first with my story, and him being drunk, negated his position and money.

The moral of the story? Don’t go all wretched on a dirty white boy.