CROSSROADS

In 1976, at the age of 25, I left the U.S. with my French husband. People ask me where I met Jean-Claude, expecting to hear an exotic story set in a romantic Parisian café, and they are surprised to hear that we met in Kansas. I only mention him because he’s the reason I spent 14 years living in Canada, Germany and The Netherlands, where Jean-Claude and I divorced in 1989.

I was single, 39 and on my own for the first time when I landed in L.A. to pursue a new career and rent an apartment, both of which are impossible in Southern California without an automobile. So, my first order of business was to acquire one.

It was the end of a hot and sunny day, my second on the new job, when I stepped out of a taxi at the local Honda dealership and stared out at a sea of automobiles.

“Looks like you’re a lady in need of a new car.” It had taken less than 10 seconds for a salesman to beam his body from inside the showroom and materialize on a spot directly in front of me. I don’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Mike. Mike was a thin man of average height, with a tan face of pleasant features that were unfortunately overshadowed by a ghastly toupee.

“What did you have in mind? A Civic, Accord, CRX, wagon, hatchback?”

What I had in mind was a simple business transaction. The simpler the better. I looked past Mike and pointed to a sleek and shiny sedan parked in front of the showroom. It was taupe. Cars don’t get any simpler than taupe. “What’s that one?”

Mike looked over his shoulder. “That’s a 1990 Accord. Been a dealer’s car, just driven a couple of months by one of our execs.” We walked over to it and he opened the door. “Want to take it for a drive?”

“Sure.”

“You have a driver’s license?”

“Of course.”

It was Canadian. I also had a license from The Netherlands, which practically qualified me to fly an airplane. I had the sense that, for a sale, Mike wouldn’t have cared if the license came from Kuala Lumpur. He went inside for the key.

“All set.” Mike tossed the key to me, and I slid behind the steering wheel and studied the dashboard.

“The car’s insured, right?” I couldn’t help messing with him.

“Absolutely, every car on the lot is insured,” he said, though I noted a slight furrow of concern creasing his brow.

A moment later we were cruising down the street as Mike described the car’s features: power windows and mirrors, cruise control, AM/FM stereo cassette sound system. He droned on about the LX model upgrades: comfier this, snazzier that.

The car had almost 8,000 miles on it but Mike assured me it still came with a new automobile warranty. The exec must’ve been a very tidy guy — the interior was pristine and still had that new car smell. After driving it a few blocks, I took it out on the Freeway and eased down on the accelerator. Hold on to your hair, Mike, I thought.

“So, what were you doing up there in Canada?” he asked, his eyes fixed firmly on the highway.

“You know, working, living, stuff.”

“Did you like it?”

I gave him the answer I’d settled on over the years. “Some things a lot; some things not so much.”

When I pulled back into the dealership 10 minutes later, Mike asked me if I’d like to try out another model.

“No, this one’s fine. How much is it?”

Mike seemed pleasantly surprised. “Let’s go back inside and talk about that.” He ushered me into his office and shut the door. Mike flipped through some paper, punched some numbers into his computer and smiled at me like he’s ringing up my discount coupons. But I hadn’t come in that day quite as unprepared as it may have seemed. A friend of a friend was a Honda dealer who had been willing to violate the industry’s blood brother oath by giving me some ballpark figures.

When Mike announced what he thought “his manager might accept,” I countered with the one my friend of a friend had assured me he would accept. I padded it a bit because I was anxious to get back to my new apartment and have a glass of pinot grigio. Mike frowned. I smiled politely. He sighed a dubious sigh. “Let me see what I can do . . . ” he said and left the room.

I could see him consulting with his manager, a conversation that I felt certain was more likely to be about the Dodgers than about me. When Mike came back into his office and closed the door behind him, he gave his head a shake meant to convey his utter disbelief. “This must be your lucky day.” He grinned at me. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Then he asked me about financing.

“I’m paying cash,” I said. I’d come back into the country flush and with an aversion to credit.

“OK,” Mike said, rubbing his hands together. “We take cash. You can write me a check and drive that beauty home this evening.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, I need to call my insurance company first.”

Mike countered dismissively, “Actually, my dear, your current car insurance will cover the new one automatically.”

Oh, right, I’m just a lady.

“I don’t have any insurance . . . in this country,” I said. “I’ll get that set up first thing in —”

“You don’t have to drive it home this evening,” he cut me off. “You can give me a check, we’ll slap a sold sticker on it and it’ll be sitting here waiting for you.”

I shook my head again. “Once I give you a check and the car’s mine, I don’t believe your insurance would cover it if someone were to drive it and wreck it.”

Mike stood up and came around his desk, leaned against it, while I remained seated. He lowered his chin. That furrowed brow was back and deepening into annoyance. “But no one,” he said, “is going to drive it.”

He was obviously not familiar with hypervigilance, for which I am a poster child.

I stood up and smiled. “You never know.”

I sensed his mounting exasperation. “If you don’t take advantage of this opportunity today,” Mike straightened up, positioning himself between me and the door. “Someone else might.”

This brought to mind a boy in college who’d once issued that same warning. I wanted to tell Mike what I’d told that guy. But I was feeling more indulgent with Mike because he was, after all, just trying to earn a living.

“I want to buy this car but if it’s gone in the morning, I’ll buy another one. So, I guess I’m ready to go.” I glanced at the closed door behind him. “Unless you’re holding me captive?”

“Of course not!” He jumped aside. “I just know how much you want that car.”

“I do, and I believe it will be here tomorrow morning,” I said and asked if he might call me a cab.

It took me a little longer than I anticipated to get my insurance set up, but when I finally got back to the dealership, I was glad to see that “my” car was indeed still there. Mike’s face lit up when he saw me.

“Have you been guarding my car for me all this time?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and laughed. A good deal, I once heard, was one that was just as good for the other guy as it was for you. I don’t know about Mike but I got 20 years out of that Accord.