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When Bud Edwards woke up the morning of Tuesday, October 16th he had no desire to go into work.  None.  That was a first for Bud.  He thought he might be coming down with something, but there were no symptoms of anything other than no longer giving a damn.  He thought he might feel different on Wednesday.  Then he figured maybe Thursday.  On Friday, he knew it was time to quit.

He called Mason and asked him to swing by the office that afternoon.

When he told Mason he was giving it up, both men were relieved.  Mason was committed to being true to his word and letting Bud work as long as he wanted to after buying his firm.  However, more and more of the work was requiring computer skills and electronic communication, tools that Bud deemed impersonal and overrated.  But, truth be told, the younger staff Mason had hired was finding mistakes in a lot of Bud’s work.  The tax return for Rex Hall had a error that underreported income and resulted in penalties that Mason wrote a check for himself in order to save goodwill.

Nonetheless, a big deal was made of Bud’s retirement.  Perry Silverman sent a reporter over from the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch to do a write up for the paper.  Bud’s longest tenured clients were invited over to the office for a reception the following November 2nd.  Mason made a little speech about what a pleasure it had been working with Bud the past years.  Joan was given a big bouquet of roses and an engraved silver platter.  Bud received a watch with the date engraved on the back.  The paper reported it being a nice affair.

A week later, late in the afternoon, Bud was restless.  He’d raked a few leaves, worked on cleaning out the garage, and then went in and showered.  “I’m going down to Frontier Ford-Mercury and trading in the Grand Marquis.  It’s time.  New life, new car,” he said to Joan who was watching TV while something baked in the oven.  “Do you want to come along?”

“No,” she said without looking up.  “You go.”  Bud wasn’t surprised.  She hadn’t gone along in years, but he’d have paid for it dearly if he hadn’t offered.  He grabbed his sport coat from the hall closet and slid it on despite the fact that it wasn’t all that chilly out.  Buying a new car was still a formal procedure and one ought to dress accordingly, he thought.  As he headed for the door, Joan said, “Don’t get black again.  It still looks like a funeral car.”  She never looked up when she said it.  He didn’t reply, but took the request under silent advisement.

At the dealership he took the card out of the pocket in the plastic cover that held the owner’s manual so he could remember his salesman’s name.  Justin Jones.  He would have never remembered that in a thousand years.  Had no idea what the kid even looked like, but felt loyalty was important, so he’d ask for him again.

He was met at the door by a young woman he figured must have been a greeter of some type.  “I’m looking for Justin Jones,” he told her.  The blank look on her face told Bud that Justin must not have made it in the car selling game.  No surprise.

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“I’m happy to help you with any automotive needs you may have,” the young woman said.  She handed him a card that said “Tiffany Brewster-Briscoe, Automotive Consultant”.  It was hard to tell which set him off the most: the fact that he would be buying a car from a female, the hyphenated last name, or the fact that they were pushing her position as being a consultant.  ‘I’m buying a car, not getting a rectal exam,’ he thought to himself.

“Whatever,” he said as he stuck the card in the breast pocket of his sports coat.  “I’m looking to trade in my ’85 Grand Marquis on a new one.  Should be an easy sale for you.  I’ve traded here for forty years.”  She shook his hand and said she’d be happy to help.  He was surprised at the strength of her grip.  He was also glad she was wearing an actual business suit.  None of that ‘casual Friday’ crap that was just an excuse for people to not have to go home and change clothes after they left work, before they started their weekend carousing.

“Do you have a color preference, Mr. Edwards?” she asked pleasantly.

“The wife says ‘don’t get black again’.  Other than that, I’m wide open.”  Bud was actually starting to like this new salesperson.  Or automotive consultant.  She asked a few questions about Joan’s preferences, hobbies, pastimes, and seemed to be getting a feel for what type of woman Joan was.

“Based on how you described her, I think your wife might really enjoy a Woodrose metallic sedan that just came in about a week ago.  It has a formal coach padded cover over the back half of the roof, turbine wheels, and an absolutely striking Cinnabar gathered-velour interior.”  Tiffany Brewster-Brisoe seemed to know her stuff.  “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Edwards wouldn’t be completely taken by this automobile when she sees it.”

“‘Woodrose Metallic’ sounds like a fancy name for pink.  I’ve already had a pink Mercury.  Bought it just for Mrs. Edwards.  Couldn’t wait to trade it in,” Bud explained.

“Probably from the fifties?”  Tiffany asked without waiting for Bud to answer.  “I can assure you Woodrose Metallic is nothing like that.  I think you’ll be impressed when you see it.  I can only explain it by saying the only other time you may have seen a color like it is if you were at just the right spot for the best sunset west of Fort Stockton you’ve ever seen in your life.  That is what the color of the clouds would have been.”

Bud swallowed while he thought about what that color must look like.

“I can guarantee you, if Mrs. Edwards doesn’t love the color more than any other car she’s ever seen, you can bring it back and trade it for a different one,” Tiffany Something-Hyphen said as she smiled at him sweetly, but professionally.  “She’ll like the color and interior as much as you’ll enjoy the 5.0 liter multipart injection V8 with 150 horsepower and 270 lb-ft of torque coupled with a smooth four speed transmission.  Something for everyone!”

‘Good Lord,’ Bud thought to himself, ‘you could put everything that last kid who sold me a car in a cardboard box and it would look like a BB in a boxcar.  This young woman knows the product and how to sell it.’

“Why don’t you have a seat here at my desk?  Let me get you a hot cup of coffee, or soft drink.  If you’ll give me the keys to your ’85 Mercury, I’ll get our used car sales leader to figure a trade-in value while I go around to the back and find that Woodrose Metallic sedan I think you’re going to love.”  Tiffany was smoother than a baby’s butt covered in a velvet diaper.

No sooner had Bud sat down and given Tiffany the keys to his car, she was back with a cold Coke from the machine in the waiting area and on her way out the door.  ‘They really ought to hire more female Automotive Consultants,’ Bud thought to himself.

Fifteen minutes later Bud was sitting behind the wheel of what he was convinced was one of the most attractive new cars he’d ever seen.  By the time they were back at Tiffany’s desk doing the paperwork she was telling Bud how much he reminded her of her father, and sharing some of her favorite childhood memories.  The way she threw her head back and laughed about her dad taking her to the Dairy Twin for an ice cream every Saturday night until she was old enough to start dating was sweet.  He never really even glanced down and read the figures on the sales contract before getting the checkbook from the inside pocket of his sports coat.  “That certainly is an attractive plaid,” she said.  “I wish more men would dress with a little style these days.”  Bud smiled as he slid the check across the desk.

Tiffany clipped the check to the contract and laid both sets of keys to Bud’s old Grand Marquis on top.  Then she grabbed two sets of keys to the new Woodrose sedan and escorted Bud out to the parking lot where his new chariot awaited.  Tiffany had asked  the used car Sales Leader to take the new car over to the Eggs & Ammo and fill up the tank before running it through the car wash, all while they did the paperwork at her desk and Bud finished off his second Coke.  

While Bud sat behind the wheel Tiffany ran down a list of features and how each one operated.  Bud was fairly sure some of them had been on his ’85 model, but he never even knew they existed.  At the conclusion of the short session making sure Bud was thoroughly informed on the workings of his new purchase, and happy with the transaction, Tiffany reached down and gave him a small hug.  Nothing suggestive, just sweet.  She handed Bud a card, in addition to the one that was tucked into the owner’s manual.  “If you ever need anything, just give me a call.  We appreciate your business.  If you know of anyone else needing a new Ford or Mercury, please give them my name.”  She was sincere, but professional.  Bud couldn’t wait to get the new Grand Marquis home and show Joan, sure she would be as impressed with the purchase as he was.

On the way home Bud breathed in that ‘new car smell’.  The Grand Marquis he’d just traded in had less that 15,000 miles on it, so it still had more of that aroma than a typical five year old car.  But brand new, right out of the dealership, the scent of all the plastics off-gassing was top five smells Bud ever enjoyed.  He thought back to driving the ’85 Grand Marquis home and Joan not even coming out to see it for a couple days.  He was going to make darn sure that didn’t happen this time.  Who knew when they’d ever get a new car again?

Pulling into the driveway, Bud saw the flickering light from the TV through the window in the living room.  When he went in, Murder She Wrote was playing loudly, Angela Lansbury hot on the trail of some unsuspecting bad guy.  Joan was lying on the couch, exactly as she had been when he left. It looked like she had dozed off.  The TV Guide had fallen to the floor beside the couch.

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