73
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D a t e w i t h a S h e e s h a
truck, or recreational vehicle. I headed out there Tuesday morning after a couple more hours online researching my upcoming travels. The day was bright and shiny. Powerful rays of sun ricocheted off hoods and roofs of all the new and used vehicles, sitting in their lots like row after row of metallic puppies, waiting patiently for a new owner.
I pulled up in the Babamobile, next to the gleaming Good Auto building on Brand Court. From what I could tell, they mostly handled Pontiac and Buick products, as well as the dramatically brutish yet handsome Hummers. I hopped out of the van, and was immediately approached by a salesperson. I had to give the guy credit, strolling the lot on a minus-twenty-five-degrees-Celsius day.
He patted the side of the van as if it were a trusty old steed.
“Time to trade in the old girl?” he asked with a chummy smile.
I frowned. “Ah, no.” Although I dearly wished I could answer in the affirmative. “I’m looking for Darrell Good.”
“Oh sure,” he said. “Both Darrells are inside. Where I’m going to be pretty soon,” he added, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. “Just ask anybody; they can point the one you want out to you.”
I walked into the showroom and fell in love. There, in the centre of the room, sunlight lovingly caressing its curves, was a jaunty, two-seater convertible. It was a rich, dark green, the kind I’ve always associated with MG roadsters racing through the English countryside. I was drawn to it like sand to ocean. Like gin to tonic.
Like cheese to crackers.
“Gotta love that curvaceous body,” came a man’s voice behind me. I’d smelled his heavy Tom Ford cologne first. “A powerful front-mounted engine, rear-wheel drive, fully independent suspension, big wheels and tires, and a close-to-perfect weight balance. She’s got a one-seven-seven-horsepower inline-four, zero to sixty in eight seconds.”
None of that meant a thing to me. My relationship with cars has little to do with what’s under the hood. Sure, I like something powerful and reliable, that sounds sexy when you turn the key.
But my love came from somewhere more visceral. Every car has 74
F639BE36-0B80-4264-BA79-F0E13F235E3A
A n t h o ny B i d u l k a
something to say. And this one was screaming: dump the minivan, take me home!
“When the top is dropped, the tunes are up, and you’re on a twisty road, there is nothing like this car,” the guy informed me.
“Except maybe a Miata. But you’re going to like the price of the Solstice much better. We’ve got it in Brazen—metallic orange—
and Cool—metallic silver, too.”
“What’s this colour called?” I asked in a hypnotic monotone.
“Envious.”
Green with envy. Cute.
“I like the green.”
“It’s my favourite, too.”
How’d I know he’d say that? The spell was broken. I turned to face the salesperson. “Actually, I’m looking for Darrell Good, Junior.”
“You found him. I’m Darrell.” He held out his hand. “What can I do for you…?”
“Russell, Russell Quant,” I told him as we shook.
“Oh, you’re Anthony Gatt’s friend. He told me you’d be stopping by.” He glanced at the car. “I guess you’re not really interested in the Solstice then?”
“Interested, yes,” I answered. “In the market? Sadly no.”
He glanced around the showroom as if looking for someone.
“Listen,” he said, holding out one hand in the direction of a glassed-in office at the far end of the room. “Why don’t we talk in my office? Can I get you some coffee, or something else to drink?”
I declined and allowed myself to be herded into the man’s office.
Darrell Good looked pleasant enough. He was exceedingly pale, a little on the too-thin side for my taste, with fine, near-blond hair modestly styled, trendy glasses, and an expensive suit. When we were seated around his office desk, he quickly checked
F639BE36-0B80-4264-BA79-F0E13F235E3A
D a t e w i t h a S h e e s h a
truck, or recreational vehicle. I headed out there Tuesday morning after a couple more hours online researching my upcoming travels. The day was bright and shiny. Powerful rays of sun ricocheted off hoods and roofs of all the new and used vehicles, sitting in their lots like row after row of metallic puppies, waiting patiently for a new owner.
I pulled up in the Babamobile, next to the gleaming Good Auto building on Brand Court. From what I could tell, they mostly handled Pontiac and Buick products, as well as the dramatically brutish yet handsome Hummers. I hopped out of the van, and was immediately approached by a salesperson. I had to give the guy credit, strolling the lot on a minus-twenty-five-degrees-Celsius day.
He patted the side of the van as if it were a trusty old steed.
“Time to trade in the old girl?” he asked with a chummy smile.
I frowned. “Ah, no.” Although I dearly wished I could answer in the affirmative. “I’m looking for Darrell Good.”
“Oh sure,” he said. “Both Darrells are inside. Where I’m going to be pretty soon,” he added, rubbing his gloved hands together for warmth. “Just ask anybody; they can point the one you want out to you.”
I walked into the showroom and fell in love. There, in the centre of the room, sunlight lovingly caressing its curves, was a jaunty, two-seater convertible. It was a rich, dark green, the kind I’ve always associated with MG roadsters racing through the English countryside. I was drawn to it like sand to ocean. Like gin to tonic.
Like cheese to crackers.
“Gotta love that curvaceous body,” came a man’s voice behind me. I’d smelled his heavy Tom Ford cologne first. “A powerful front-mounted engine, rear-wheel drive, fully independent suspension, big wheels and tires, and a close-to-perfect weight balance. She’s got a one-seven-seven-horsepower inline-four, zero to sixty in eight seconds.”
None of that meant a thing to me. My relationship with cars has little to do with what’s under the hood. Sure, I like something powerful and reliable, that sounds sexy when you turn the key.
But my love came from somewhere more visceral. Every car has 74
F639BE36-0B80-4264-BA79-F0E13F235E3A
A n t h o ny B i d u l k a
something to say. And this one was screaming: dump the minivan, take me home!
“When the top is dropped, the tunes are up, and you’re on a twisty road, there is nothing like this car,” the guy informed me.
“Except maybe a Miata. But you’re going to like the price of the Solstice much better. We’ve got it in Brazen—metallic orange—
and Cool—metallic silver, too.”
“What’s this colour called?” I asked in a hypnotic monotone.
“Envious.”
Green with envy. Cute.
“I like the green.”
“It’s my favourite, too.”
How’d I know he’d say that? The spell was broken. I turned to face the salesperson. “Actually, I’m looking for Darrell Good, Junior.”
“You found him. I’m Darrell.” He held out his hand. “What can I do for you…?”
“Russell, Russell Quant,” I told him as we shook.
“Oh, you’re Anthony Gatt’s friend. He told me you’d be stopping by.” He glanced at the car. “I guess you’re not really interested in the Solstice then?”
“Interested, yes,” I answered. “In the market? Sadly no.”
He glanced around the showroom as if looking for someone.
“Listen,” he said, holding out one hand in the direction of a glassed-in office at the far end of the room. “Why don’t we talk in my office? Can I get you some coffee, or something else to drink?”
I declined and allowed myself to be herded into the man’s office.
Darrell Good looked pleasant enough. He was exceedingly pale, a little on the too-thin side for my taste, with fine, near-blond hair modestly styled, trendy glasses, and an expensive suit. When we were seated around his office desk, he quickly checked
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