During the test drive I slip the key into the ignition, feel liquefied pterodactyls burst into flame, and this sleek little contraption that resembles nothing less than the most proliferating insect on this planet, well, zooms. I think of my bicycle, Little Wing, my credit rating’s glow-into-go, and thru the window, take in the sea of rainbow balloons bobbing their festive heads over the array of metal, glass, and plastic beasts, an army of toy-store trinkets ready for play.
Give it a name, like it’s your child, the over-caffeinated salesman says, cufflink diamonds clicking on the desk like tiny hooves to the masculine bloom of his five o’clock shadow. Each installment would be bigger than my mother’s monthly mortgage. But this adorable little cartoon car makes me feel so stylish, so sexy. But I pause, think how unlikely we still roar down the highway in these coffin-plush compartments, hyper-machine-gun-fire explosions under the hood, spark plug ignition, biosphere decimation… do we kill our Mother for the sake of this smooth conveyance?
So Robert, which payment plan would you like? Sixty or seventy-two months? Both are easy with your income, my starched salesman says, looking triumphant, his “either-or” close cock-sure as the nuclear orange Turbo-Beetle still test-drive warm out back. Oh, all of them, I say before I smile, turn, walk out without signing anything.
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