Car Trouble
Terrence Jackson is on his way home from another long day at the advertising firm he owns when he hears it--a steady chug-chug-chug beneath the hood of his brand new, candy-apple red Mercedes that he knows the sports car shouldn't be making. He paid too much money for this damn thing to have it sound like an old man wheezing uphill. The late afternoon heat only adds to his discomfort. By the time he pulls into the driveway of his modest, split-level home, he's ready to call the dealership and chew someone out for selling him a lemon.
By morning, he's calm enough to call the firm first to tell them he'll be late. His secretary answers. A pretty young girl with a thick Southern accent, Melissa Jones is fresh out of college and, if truth be told, was hired more for her looks than her filing abilities. Though Terrence isn't the least bit interested in the fairer sex, she's nice to look at, and sounds sweet on the phone. "Would you like me to call Gary's Auto for you, Mr. Jackson?" she asks, her voice bright despite the early hour. "They're such nice people there. I always have them service my car."
"I was planning to take it back to the dealer," Terrence admits. "It's not that old."
Through his cell phone, he hears the rustle of papers as Melissa digs amid her obscure filing system to find the paperwork on the car. He's already behind the wheel of his Mercedes, his tie not quite cinched tight just yet. The first beads of sweat trickle down the back of his thick neck into the cool cotton of his button-down shirt. He angles the rear-view mirror to take a look at himself--dark skin with a hint of reddish undertones like mahogany, short buzzed hair beginning to turn gray at the temples, large eyes the warm color of hot chocolate. He's a big man, a one-time high school football quarterback now on the downhill side of forty and picking up speed. The muscle around his middle has begun to soften, and lines etch around his eyes when he smiles. Melissa calls him handsome, in a flirty, innocent way that suggests she thinks he's past his prime.
After an eternity, she tells him, "No, sir. You bought the car last year, and you didn't get the extended warranty. If you don't mind me saying, I think the dealership would just rip you off. Gary's is pretty cheap."
For a young co-ed on a tight budget, Gary's might be fine perhaps, but not for the principal of Richmond's largest ad firm. Still, Terrence is touched she'd think him naïve enough to get rooked by the dealer.
"Besides," she says amid a flurry of noise as she shoves the papers back into her unorganized drawer, "Gary's is just down the street. If you have to leave your car there, you can walk to the office, or I can send someone over to pick you up."
That cinches it. "All right," Terrence teases, "you've convinced me. Do you get a commission or something for referring people that way?"
"I'm sort of seeing Gary," she admits with a laugh. "I can call them for you--"
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