Joel's Good Day

Have you ever had one of those days when everything seemed to go smoothly and seamlessly, just the way you drew it up?

Me neither.

Until yesterday!

Yesterday was the day I had chosen to accomplish two things: line up a condo rental for a year and trade in my car for a gently used Chevy Malibu. In both cases I knew I would have to assert my usual male dominance. Both the realtor and the car salesman would soon know that I was not someone to be taken lightly. They would learn that I was a worthy adversary, and they would each tremble before me and do my bidding. I wouldn't bully them. No, that is not my way. But, like a Jedi knight, I would project such an air of confidence, such a calm demeanor, and such quiet strength that they would have no choice but to submit.

(Full disclosure: I tried the same approach with a girl named Melanie about 45 years ago...let's just say the results weren't pretty.)

For me this momentous day started around 4 am. That's when I woke up screaming from a nightmare that involved my being trapped in the same room as a rental agent and a car salesman. They were hooded and each one was brandishing an over-sized check, like the ones you see at golf tournaments. They were holding the checks to my face and laughing hysterically. I was tied to a chair, naked (Now there's a nightmare!) and begging them to let me spend more money than they had requested. I think there was also a Hostess Cupcake in there somehow but the details are fuzzy now.

Startled awake, I began making all necessary preparations for my car-condo conquest. First, I made sure I wore my power underwear, the ones that have "Yes I Can" stitched across the backside. (I had decided against wearing the ones that read, "Oh no you didn't!") Next I practiced every way I could devise of saying "No" including, "Get the hook" and "Pick up the clue phone." I debated about using "Go piss up a rope!" but eventually vowed to keep my image as classy as possible as befits a Jedi. Finally, I meditated and assumed the little-known but very useful yoga pose, "Dog Biting Salesman."

I was ready. The first battleground would be on Navarre Beach, a long narrow barrier island that stretches right along the gulf coast for about 15 miles from Pensacola to Navarre. It was here that I had scheduled an appointment with the realtor to view a bay side three-bedroom condo.

As I drove across the half-mile causeway that connects the city of Navarre with Navarre Beach, I was struck by the beauty of the gulf and, especially, the quality of the light. There was something about the light that evoked memories of all those beach towns you've ever visited. But this beach town is different. There is no amusement park or string of carnival food stands; this is a place where people come to live more than they come to play. Splayed out in front of me were a bunch of beach homes, many of them beautifully painted in a kind of South Beach pastel mode, most of them on stilts in order to withstand the September/October madness that frequently visits this part of the world. There were two main streets running east-west parallel to the coastline and a bunch of connecting smaller streets running north and south. At its widest point the distance from the gulf side to the bay side is about five or six blocks.

"I want to live here and I don't care what it costs."

I was horrified when I heard my inner voice say those words. "Shut up, you weakling! Just say no!"

"Yes I can," said my underwear.

"You shut up too."

"Everyone who wants to live here, raise your hand (if you have one)," said Dog Biting Salesman.

"You be quiet or I'll transform you into the 'Dog Under Steamroller' pose."

But before I could resolve this argument, I had arrived at the condo and there was the realtor. Only it turned out she wasn't the realtor, she was the owner. She was young, beautiful, and was carrying Alexandra, her sweet six-week old daughter, in one of those combination car seat/carrier/incubator/rocker/MP3 player thingies.

"You must be Joel," she smiled.

"I would like to rent your condo, whatever the cost," I stammered.

"OK," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

And then it was on to the car.

I was willing to drive the 75 miles from Navarre Beach to Panama City because the Chevy dealership there had a gently used 2009 Malibu that I was interested in seeing. I knew full well that when you buy a new car, you lose several thousand dollars in depreciation when you drive it off the lot. And since I may have committed most of my income and savings to the condo rental, I was more determined than ever to put up a strong fight on the car. I've bought many cars over the years, and I have found that it's best to enter the showroom with an "I could care less whether I get a car or not," attitude. Put them on the defensive and keep the pressure on until you hear those magic words: "Joel, what do I have to do to get you into this Malibu?"

That's when you know you've got 'em!

My salesperson was Nancy.

"You're here about the 2009 Malibu," she said.

"I could care less whether I buy a car or not," I said.

"What do I have to do to get you into a Malibu today?"

"From the looks of it, get a shoehorn."

"Good one."

"I know."

"Did you know that GM is offering a $3,000 rebate on the new 2010 model?"

"That should cover the damn depreciation," said Dog under Steamroller.

"Where do I sign?" I asked.

"Oh no you didn't," said my underwear.

Just in case you're wondering, I didn't go for the paint protection guarantee or the full-size spare tire.

Much love,
J

Oh, I almost forgot. The picture of the USA made of license plates from each state in the correct shapes of those states (Did I say that right?) was taken by me at the dealership. It's huge and it's hanging on the wall for all to see. I loved it immediately, especially the dedication it must have taken to cut up a license plate until it was small enough to be Rhode Island. Brilliant!