Just When You Thought Things Couldn’t Get Any Worse…

Last Saturday, I drove out to a car lot with low expectations. I was planning on looking at a few trucks, getting depressed when I saw how much they’ve changed since my 2003 model, getting more depressed when I saw how much they cost, and driving my grandfather’s truck home in tears. I was also dreading the whole idea of dealing with a Car Salesmen.

I parked in the guest parking area and wasn’t even completely out of my truck before someone swooped in to offer assistance. *sigh* Fine, it was a big lot and I guessed I could use some help finding out which direction the trucks were in. We start walking towards the trucks, and I’m telling him what I had, how much I loved it, and how I wanted something as close to it as possible. I also tell him that I’m looking for something used, since I can’t afford a new one. So, of course, he walks me straight to the brand-new Toyota Tundra.

I drove a Tacoma. It’s a smaller of the Toyota trucks. The Tundra was the big one. I don’t want a big one. Over the past six years, the Tacoma has gradually increased in size until it’s as big as the Tundra was in 2003, and the Tundra is now ridiculously big. I had explained this in our walk, so I have no idea why he walked me straight to a truck that he knew I wasn’t interested in. I pointed this out and asked if we could look at Tacomas, and we started walking again.

We got to the Tacoma area, and my fears were realized. Too expensive. Too big. Too different from my old truck. I also notice that they’re all new. So I suggest we look at some used ones, since I’m looking for an older model that’s as close to my old truck as I can get. We start walking, and out of the corner of my eye I spot a familiar shape. I turn my head to look and gasp. This salesman was about to walk me right past a 2003 Toyota Tacoma PreRunner (which I had very specifically said I was hoping to find when I first spoke to the man) and not look back. I stop and point, “How about that one?”

At first, he acts surprised to see it, as if it magically appeared on the lot. I started circling the beautiful truck, kicking the tires, checking for anything out of place. I press my face against the driver’s window and look inside as he’s stammering about something, but I don’t hear him. I already knew that I’d be buying this one. I don’t even look back at him when I ask, “You have the keys for this one?”

He wanders off to the main building while I sit and whisper to my future truck, petting the sleek metal and telling it how good of a driver I’d be. The salesman returns with the key and puts it in my hand. For a brief second, I swear it glowed with a brilliant blue light. And then I realized something was amiss. “It doesn’t have keyless entry? Was it built by cavemen?”

The salesman assures me that they can add keyless entry for a modest fee. I make eye contact with him for the first time, and see that he wants this sale. I get in the truck, and the seat feels like home. All the controls are where I remember them. The steering wheel is right where I need it to be. The mirrors are already adjusted for my height. It was Fate.

The test drive proved what I already knew. This was my truck. I didn’t want to appear too eager, though. The salesman was as hungry to sell it as I was to buy it. I made an offer, which included them installing keyless entry. His face got all scrunchy for a second, but he regained his composure like a pro and invited me into the building. I patted the truck on the hood and whispered that I’d be back.

One thing I’ll never understand about the buying process is the constant trips that the salesman has to make back and forth between you and some back office. Why can’t they just sit you down in the back office and avoid all that leg work? My offer was accepted. Begin the two hours of paperwork.

At the end of the day, The Replacement Truck was in my driveway, newly washed and ready for a lifetime of adventure with his new partner. All was right with the world. In less than a week, I’d be past all this worry and misery over the accident, and I wouldn’t even have a car payment.

Sunday evening, I picked up a notepad to make a grocery list and saw two little white bugs underneath it, amidst a pile of chewed up notepad. They quickly darted into two little holes in the wooden sill upon which the notepad had previously rested. I’ve got termites in my fucking house.

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