He waited for another customer to enter. Through the glass in his little cubicle he could see the front door. The same was not true of all the cubicles. The others had to stand out on the sales floor to see any new mark that wandered in. This special placement was reward for his seniority. Seven years was a long tenure in used car sales.

An eight-year-old Buick pulled up out front. Dull eyes peered over the huge meaty hands on the steering wheel. One of the newest salesmen edged quickly toward the front door. No one else moved. Next month he too would leave these clod kickers for the newest high school dropout to join the staff. You didn’t sell a Mitsubishi to a big redneck in a Buick.

He reached into his pocket and anxiously fingered a small plastic container. It made him feel a bit calmer. As he glanced back out the window into the showroom the big farmer waived loudly in his direction. He flashed a too large smile and gestured back. Damn! He had sold the Buick to Old MacDonald at his last dealership.

He reached into his pocket again. It was almost lunchtime. He made plans to walk across to Denny’s for the hamburger steak. He could make it until then.

About the Author

Gerald Cannon

I growed up po and ignant in Alabama. Then I went off to college and became a socialistic atheistic business school grad with an MBA. Not wanting to add evil capitalistic bastard to my resume, I obtained an antidote degree -the MFA. What a difference a letter makes. Now I teach college and make art. That's more fun and I'm less prone to drift toward the dark side. So, at the advanced age of sixty.... I have chosen mind over matter, joined the League of Defensive Pessimists and have no better answers, only fewer questions.

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