Moira Learns To Mind by gurn blanston
It was odd how I came to work in car sales. I had heard of the wild times after hours. The tales told of men with wads of cash in their pockets – and the women who left those pockets empty – killed many a long hour of standing around the car lot smoking cigarettes and nursing hangovers. If it weren’t for coffee, cigarettes and the vicarious pleasures of those stories, I would have had no social life at all.
Late one evening, Joe, the sales manager, and I were walking the lot making sure that all the cars were locked for the evening. Joe began another story of his adventures at sales conferences. Apparently, he was conducting training sessions about a new sport utility vehicle. The sessions were repetitive and mind-numbing. Before his last scheduled session, Joe slipped out the back door for a smoke and a quick snort. When he returned to the conference room only one trainee showed up. But this trainee wasn’t your typical salesman. Actually, she was no salesman at all …
At this point I interrupted Joe’s tale. “Joe, everyday I sit here and listen to all these war stories. But it seems they all occurred at least fifteen years ago.”
“Well, man, you missed the heyday of hedonism.. The seventies and eighties were flat off the hook. The blow, the strippers, the poker games with monthly paychecks as the stakes. It was insane,” he replied with his cajun grin.
“Yeah, I guess those were the days, huh, Joe?” I said with more than just a bit of resignation.
I began to plan my evening. Stops at the liquor store, the grocery store, the video store and then a few hours of escapism before returning to hump the lot through another Saturday. Saturdays were the moneymaking days in car sales. And while most of the guys looked forward to the opportunity to earn a month’s wages in a day, all I could do was envy the customers’ freedom to spend a Saturday shopping for cars or in any way they chose.
“You know you’re right, boy. Nobody runs around like they used to. What say we go grab a beer and see what’s up these days,” Joe said as he pulled the latch on the last car.
Wow! Going for a beer with an old, married dude and the chance to hear Joe travel further and further down memory lane, now that’s entertainment. But, who was I kidding. This was my best social invite of the season.
“Where you thinking of going?” I asked.
“Might as well start at the top. Let’s stop in at the Sheraton.”
“What? You wanna go to the old folk’s home?”
“Sure, it’s our best bet if you want to get a taste of the good old days. Plus, the house band really rocks that old James Brown sound.”
The lounge at the local Sheraton hotel had a reputation as the last resort of the middle-aged and horny. I still considered myself a young man, so the idea of cruising chicks old enough to be my mother was a bit embarrassing, not to mention depressing. But, what the hell, a beer’s a beer and a bar’s a bar.
The one really good perk of car sales was the demo. There was no other way that I could be cruising in a brand new sports coupe. The only downsides were the dealer tag and the sales sticker in the rear window. In my mind, they announced to all that I really couldn’t afford this car and cemented my status as a lowlife, money-grubbing shyster. But I did love this car. Due to my recent success, I had been given my pick of the demos. Naturally, I chose the baddest unit on the lot – a jet black, drop top coupe that just cried out for speed and open roads. I never heeded those calls.
As we pulled out of the lot, Joe revved it up. Oh, a challenge, I thought. We started to drag from light to light until we arrived at the hotel. When we walked in all my fears were confirmed. The bar was dark, and the band was hopping. The patrons, however, looked like a gathering of my mom’s friends from church. This was going to be less than interesting.
We pulled up a couple of stools at the bar and ordered. Joe got a beer. I ordered a screwdriver. I always drank vodka because I thought it gave me a clearer buzz and a lighter hangover. Joe bantered with the bartender about the talent available tonight. The bartender said the business had been slow, but if a woman were still hanging around, she must be good to go.
Then Joe turned to me with an earnest look on his face. “Listen up, man,” he started. “All the guys have all the stories and they all have the woman of their wet dreams,” Joe stated as if pronouncing his deepest thoughts. “They tell these tales of playmates purloined and pinups petted. But, the truth is that the women in those stories, when they are true at all, are average, bored, drunk women next door. Not the girl next door, but the schoolmarm next door. The young girls are all looking for what you don’t got, man. And they are sure to make you pay for the pleasure – money, cars, drugs, mental cruelty. Who needs it, man? That’s what my wife is for, know what I’m saying?”
“Great, Joe, now you’ve managed to ruin my fantasies of these women.”
“Boy, playmates and hotties are for your fantasies. But if you prefer the real thing, you’ll find it in a fleshy, flushed woman of forty searching for something at the bottom of her bourbon and ginger.”
“Is that so?” I deadpanned with all the sarcasm I could muster.
“That is so,” he retorted with a dramatic flash of his beer mug and a wink. “Do you remember my test drive story?”
Everyone knew the infamous test drive story complete with high-speed blowjob and the stained upholstery to prove it.
“Well, when I tell that story I usually don’t tell all. Everything happened just as I say, but if that bitch was under two hundred fifty pounds then I’m an Olympic speed skater!” Joe busted out all over the bar.
I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing. Joe started waddling and twisting on his stool like a beached walrus. As he rocked, he moved his fist back and forth in front of his mouth while sticking his tongue in his cheek. The combination of his histrionics and my fifth screwdriver left me unable to stop laughing.
We were brought back down by a giggling voice asking what was so funny. I looked over to see a fortysomething redhead sitting with her well-endowed friend. When I say well-endowed, I mean well-endowed all over. She was huge!
Joe turned to the women and said, “Well, I was just telling my young friend here that, if he wants to change his luck, he has to be ready to go moped riding.”
“What does that mean?” the redhead asked with a knowing gleam in her eye.
“Well, you know the best girls are like mopeds – they’re fun to ride, but you don’t want your friends to see you riding one.”
I couldn’t believe that Joe had just said that, especially with the redhead’s friend sitting right there. In fact, the big girl rolled her eyes and turned to the redhead, “Moira, I gotta go, the sitter’s gotta be home soon.”
“Don’t let this old coot run you outta the bar, Sammy,” the redhead replied while cutting a drop-dead look in Joe’s direction.
“It ain’t that, Moira. Besides, from the looks of him, he’s too old to ride the Schwinn down the driveway.”