Syd sat alone in his darkened office at Newman’s Super Honda, protected from the outside world by Gladys, the dealership’s ferocious receptionist and his unofficial secretary. Unlike the rest of the car dealership, which was furnished in that impersonal prefab car dealership decor, Syd’s office was plush and warm, with a big oak desk, a gigantic leather chair, and deep carpeting. He had a computer, a stereo, and a TV, but very few office supplies. Years ago, he had embarrassed himself in midmeeting when he was unable to jot down a phone number. “Gladys,” he bellowed. “Bring me a sheet of clean white paper.”
Gladys scurried in, placing one blank sheet of typing paper squarely on his empty desk. With a certain flourish, she also
offered him a pen. To Gladys’ credit, she was able to do both with a straight face.
Syd was not so lucky after the meeting. By that time, Gladys had told the story to everyone on the property and even to Ann, who had called during the meeting. “Bring me a sheet of clean white paper” became one of those moments that haunts a man, a standing joke that even Syd told on himself time and time again.
He could hear voices outside, salesmen, the service manager, all asking to speak to him, and he heard Gladys firmly turn them away, claiming he was busy. He was busy, or at least deep in thought. He fumbled with notes he had taken at his lunch meeting earlier. His partners were unhappy and he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. For over twenty years, he’d been able to do something beyond sell cars—he’d been able to convince guys with money that owning part of a car dealership was a good investment. However, in an Amazon. com-type world, a nice steady return on your money no longer seemed good enough. His partners were itchy—they didn’t know where they wanted to put their cash, but they were damn well sure that there had to be something sexier and more lucrative than selling Civics and Accords.
This depressed Syd. Or maybe it didn’t. Syd could never quite tell if he was depressed or not. He often turned to his wife, who, after all, had some training in these matters, to tell him. Sometimes she surprised him. “I think you’re very depressed,” she’d say, often when he felt merely calm. Or: “I’ve never seen you so happy,” when Syd was in the midst of a major anxiety attack.
Mostly, though, she got it right. And she’d been getting it right long before she had any professional schooling in various mood disorders. “I know you better than you know yourself,” she often said. He believed her, and it frightened him. Syd
even sometimes feared that she could read his mind. He had been faithful for thirty years of marriage—not because of any highly developed moral sense. He was a car salesman—how moral could he be? He was simply afraid of Ann.
Of course, there was that time in San Francisco. How long ago was it? Well, the boys were ten, so it was sixteen years ago—thirteen years into his marriage. Syd was alone, at a Honda party, when a striking Eurasian woman spoke to him. Two car sales pros making idle chitchat, he thought. It probably took him the longest time to catch on, he realized later, that something else was afoot. Too much eye contact. The personal space between them kept shrinking and shrinking. Soon, her hand was resting on his arm.
When it finally dawned on him that this woman might have an interest in him, he felt confused. There’s a way to handle this, he thought to himself. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself by inviting her to his room and getting rebuffed. It had been far too long since he’d been in this situation. Suddenly, he knew the answer. He knew just what he needed. He needed advice—but it had to be from someone smart, someone he could trust. Someone who understood him. He needed Ann. She’s the one who has style, he thought. On the brink of what could have been a nicely frivolous one-night stand, Syd could only think of one thing: Ann would know the right thing to do. Not the right thing as in “Keep your pants zipped.” But the right words, the proper way to invite her back to his room, what drinks to serve. Without Ann there to guide him, Syd felt too incompetent to have an affair. And calling her for advice just didn’t seem practical.
So Syd behaved. He was tough at work and passive at home. He could yell at his employees but not his sons. He could say no in the midst of any negotiation and walk away without a grain of doubt. If Ann or the boys wanted something,
however, he folded like a paper doll. It was his job to make them happy.
Syd had said nothing about the growing insurrection among the partners, but he knew Ann knew. “I bought you something,” she’d said the other day, taking a break from her facial aerobics tape on TV. She presented him with a giant jar of Saint-John’s-wort. It had helped, too.
Gladys buzzed in on the intercom. When Syd was behind closed doors, only seven callers were allowed to interrupt him—his four partners, his wife, and his two sons.
He was relieved to have it be Tim. “Dad, just a quick question. Do you have to be licensed to sell cars? I mean, if I wanted to sell cars out of my apartment, could I?”
“No, you’d need to have a license. You’d have to meet some fairly strict government guidelines, which would pretty much preclude you running things out of your apartment. They were designed as a way to keep Detroit from selling directly to the public, so there’d be an independent buffer between big powerful automakers and poor hapless consumers. That’s why you have to have a place to show the cars, where people can drive them and see firsthand what they’re buying. That’s the law, at least in the state of California.”
“Thanks, Dad. See you Sunday,” said Tim, offering no insight on why he wanted the information in the first place. It was not Syd’s nature to press, especially within the family. He was happy enough that Tim had called.
Besides, it took his mind off his problems. He packed up his briefcase, which, besides the notes from the meetings and some tax work, had the results of his newest nonhobby: gardening books, four of them.