It was a bitter cold January morning when the old couple walked into the dealership.  He was dressed in a crisp double breasted suit, she in a floral print matronly dress mostly hidden by a thick wool overcoat.  They were the first couple in that day.  The more seasoned salesman glanced at the new kid.  “You can take this one.  It’s time for my cigarette break.”  And with that, he turned on his heel and headed towards the side door where he could light up his Chesterfield while he hid out between a ’49 Buick Super Sedanette and a ’50 Ford Custom convertible.  “I  need the sale, but not enough to deal with that old son of a bitch.”

The new kid, full of more optimism than anyone with some experience under his belt, saw it as his opportunity to hone some of the sales tools he’d been reading about in the break room.  Besides, the couple looked like they could be his grandparents.  He’d almost feel guilty getting top dollar on whatever new Chrysler they picked out.  The commission from this sale would enable him to take the new receptionist out to dinner over at the Martin’s Tavern.  So far his sales pitch hadn’t worked on her, but dinner at Marvin’s would be tough for that sweet little bird to turn down.

“Howdy folks!” the kid smiled and extended his hand.  “What can I show you this lovely morning?”  The wife clutched her bag as though he was going to steal it.  The husband didn’t bother with pleasantries, just headed right over to a ’53 New Yorker sedan in the middle of the showroom floor.  The wife gripped the kid’s hand like an ironworker and nearly squeezed the ambition out of it.  She may have looked like a sweet old grandmother, but she carried herself like someone not to be trifled with.

Striding over to the mint green New Yorker where the husband was already firmly planted behind the wheel, the old guy looked up at the kid, inhaled deeply, and said “Nothing else in the world like the smell of a brand new car.  Always been a Chrysler man.  They build solid automobiles.”  ‘Solid’ might be what some would say.  ‘Stodgy’, others would call it.  But then the old couple seemed to be firmly committed to stodgy, and likely wouldn’t have it any other way.  The two men discussed the 331 cubic inch Hemi V8.  The old guy seemed to have his facts. “I like that I don’t have to take off my hat while I’m driving.  Nice tall roof.”

The wife, meanwhile, stood outside the car not even bothering to open the door, much less slide in.  A glance was all she needed.  “A car is a car.  They’re all the same to me.  More interested in the price.”  It dawned on the kid that this might not be the slam dunk he’d originally thought.

The husband made his way around the dealership, introducing himself to the parts manager, the service department manager, even the sales manager.  Seemed to have a lot of energy for an old guy.  The wife wrangled the kid to his desk and proceeded to fend off every single attempt he made to get an extra dollar for the New Yorker.  The interior protection package was a No Go.  The undercoating was a No Go.  The “Life Long Lube Club” membership was laughed at.  He figured he could make some money back on the trade-in.  “There is no trade-in,” she said.  Then she proceeded to beat him like a redheaded stepchild on the price.  She eventually pulled a single check from her pocketbook and wrote out the amount of $3,328 and slid it across the desk.  There would be no steak at Marvin’s Tavern with the new receptionist, based on this sale.

The older salesmen, back inside and watching the whole thing from a corner over by the Men’s Room, just snickered to himself, walked outside, and lit up another Chesterfield.  The husband rejoined his wife as soon as it seemed like the deal had been wrapped up, glancing at his watch.  “We ready to go?”

She stood up, reached out her hand to the kid and shook his with a death grip.  “We’ll be ‘round to pick up the car in three days.  Be sure it’s ready.  Make sure the gas tank is on FULL.  We’ll be heading out of town as soon as we pick it up and I don’t expect to stop for gas for a good four hours.”

The husband put on his hat, then his overcoat and followed his wife to the front door where they disappeared into the cold.

The older salesman joined his young apprentice who was still just a bit wrought up over the experience.  “People always think he’s the tough one.  Swear to God, she’s the one who pushes the buttons.  Maybe even pushed the Big One.”

Three days later, a long black Lincoln pulled up and dropped off Harry and Bess Truman off in front of the dealership.  Someone in a dark suit got out and transferred their personal luggage from the trunk of the Lincoln to the trunk of the new green Chrysler New Yorker sedan that had been washed, waxed, and was waiting beside the showroom.  Harry shook hands with the salesman; the kid was able to avoid the handshake with Bess.  They both turned and shook hands with the Secret Service man who’d transferred the luggage.  

Ever the gentleman, Harry opened the passenger door for Bess, closed it after she slid into the new car she’d written a check for three days earlier, and went around to the driver’s door and got in.  The 318 V8 Hemi roared to life under the hood, and they were on their way from the outskirts of Washington DC, cross country to Independence, Missouri, where they moved into the old Victorian home formerly owned by Bess’s parents.  They avoided the Presidential rail car and Douglas VC-54C used by presidents.  Known as “The Sacred Cow’, the plane was the precursor to Air Force One, but not available to ‘past presidents’, only current ones.

There were no Secret Service agents along on the trip; none were provided for former presidents.  It was just Harry and Bess, making use of rest stops, stopping for meals when they were hungry and lodging when they were tired, just like any newly retired couple in America would on their way back home.

Once back in Independence, Harry went about writing his memoirs and getting them published as quickly as he could.  There was no provision for pensions for former presidents, either.  They needed the money.  The book sold well enough that Truman only kept the ’53 New Yorker for two years, trading it in on a 1955 Chrysler New Yorker sedan.  Truman, famous for never looking back, couldn’t resist the Forward Look, apparently.

After acquiring the new Chrysler New Yorker in ’55 Harry turned his efforts to raising private funds for a Presidential Library.  It opened in 1957 and he promptly donated it to the Federal Government.

Of course, today most people who are elected to the highest office are millionaires before they’re ever sworn in.  Those few who aren’t, quickly become millionaires as soon as they leave office.  They never drive a car again, nor do they travel without security and a full compliment of staff to meet their every need.  But it was different back in the day.

Harry remained a Chrysler man till the end, his last one being a triple green 1972 Chrysler Newport sedan.  His Newport looked just like the one everyone’s grandparents from the era drove, with the exception of the special Missouri license plates he requested with the number 5745, the date victory was declared in Europe, May 7, 1945.

Not sure what ‘Give ‘Em Hell Harry’ would have thought about the Germans at Mercedes buying Chrysler in the 90s, or the Italians at Fiat ending up with it a decade or two later.  Luckily, the Japanese never acquired the automaker, once known for its solidly built cars, or ol’ Harry might have flipped right over in his grave.  But then, if he saw the opulence and luxury that former presidents are afforded nowadays, the fate of Chrysler might go completely unnoticed.  

The buck doesn’t stop anywhere these days.