I'm not looking forward to this.

Why can't buying a car be like shopping for a tie or a TV or a toothbrush? You enter the store, look around, decide what you like, check the price. If it's acceptable, you buy; if not, you don't. Why does purchasing a car have to be a contest, a struggle, a battle of wits and wills? Who decreed the rules of this nasty game?

Pointless to speculate, I suppose; there's little choice in the matter. Either you play the game or you take the bus.

So here I am, reluctant but resigned, about to enter the arena once again. How long has it been since the last time? Ten years? Eleven? I'm not exactly a seasoned pro, not exactly an old hand at this. No matter. In the interim I've gained maturity and confidence. This time I shall play the game like a master.

I come to the battlefield armed to the teeth. I've been all over the 'Net, researched every relevant site. I know the model and color and equipment I want. I know which accessories I need and, more importantly, which I don't need. I know all about the worthless junk they throw at you at the last minute to jack up the price--the mag wheels, the undercoating, the rustproofing, the extended warranty. And, to the penny, I know exactly what I should be shelling out. In short, I've done my homework.

Without a doubt they'll try to talk me into something $20,000 beyond my price range. But it won't work. I know what I want. To me, a car is not an image enhancer or an ego booster. It's transportation, pure and simple--a means of getting from here to there. I'm a CPA, for godssake, and a damn good one! I'm about as sober and practical-minded as a guy can be. What I need is a modest car that's efficient and reliable. What I do not need is an extension of my penis.

So this time, I pledge to myself, I will not be taken advantage of. This time I will come out on top and win the game. This time I will not get screwed!

I take a deep breath and push open the heavy glass door of the dealership. The showroom reeks of Essence of New Car. Stationed on the deep red carpet (how do they get them in here?), three sleek, top-of-their-class sedans in gleaming metallic colors--cobalt, silver, emerald green--beckon silently.

And there they are, as I knew they would be. The opposition. The enemy. The sales force.

The four of them stand there like a phalanx of soldiers in offensive array. Quickly I take them in. There's Grandpa on the left, then the College Prep, then Miss Dress-For-Success, and finally, unmistakably, Mr. Big. From his demeanor he's clearly the one who calls the shots. As soon as the others see me, they surreptitiously glance over at him to learn the current answer to the perpetual question that dominates their professional lives, Who's Up?

To faint looks of disappointment, Mr. Big himself advances towards me. The others move off.

Shit.

As we size each other up, he smiles broadly, welcomes me, asks how he can help me today. I tell him why I'm here. Great, he says. Always a pleasure to deal with people who know exactly what they want. Makes the job that much easier.

I've already taken a strong dislike to this guy. He's too tall, too tan, too big, too built. His nose is too large, his jaw too square. His teeth are too white. His hair is too thick and too black, too shiny, too slicked back. He's good-looking, I suppose, if you think coarse and craggy is attractive. I don't.

And what the hell does he think he's projecting, dressed that way? Investment banker? Hollywood agent? Vegas pimp? Sure his clothes look expensive--they practically scream money!--but the overall effect is excessive rather than elegant. Gaudy, not rich.

The gray striped double-breasted suit so well molded to his frame is almost certainly custom-made; he trumpets that by leaving the bottom-most buttons on his coat sleeves, the buttons closest to his hands, ostentatiously undone, so the world can see they're fully functional, not just sewn on as decoration. But the lapels are a bit too wide, the stripes too bold and far apart; the suit veers away from banker and heads precariously towards Mafia kingpin. The solid silver tie knotted in a nice four-in-hand goes well with the suit and the starched white shirt, but it's just a bit too shiny and thrusts out a bit too aggressively above the gold collar bar. With the exception of his marriage band, the rest of his jewelry items--the ornate gold-and-diamond cufflinks, the matching signet ring, the Rolex--all say cash without class. The silk square puffed in his coat pocket--small silver lozenges on a dark wine ground--is tasteful in itself and would cap his outfit off nicely . . . if only the puff weren't so large and protuberant. As it is, the effect is foppish, not sophisticated.

Still, I find myself wishing I had at least worn a sports jacket, if not a suit and tie. Opposite this guy, in my chinos and polo shirt, I feel distinctly underdressed. But dammit, it's Saturday. I wear a suit and tie all week; why should I have to dress up on the weekend?

At any rate, I remind myself, it's too late for regrets, and besides, I'm not here to impress anyone. I just have to deal as best I can with my opponent of the afternoon, this big, greasy, glittering, nouveau-riche peacock of a car salesman. I don't have a clue how this will go, but I'm apprehensive as hell. And very much on my guard.

His name is Steele. Bill Steele. And mine? Evans, I reply tersely. Yes, but what's my first name. I'm about to give him my classic put-'em-in-their-place retort, about to tell him Mister, but I think better of the idea. Too revealing. Why give him a clear sense of where I am with him? I simply say Gary.

He extends an outsized paw and we shake hands. I'm fully expecting a stereotypical, bone-crunching, show-ya-I'm-a-stud squeeze. Instead I get a firm but moderated shake, one that suggests strength rather than demonstrates it, that respects the differences in our weight and stature without being patronizing. Score one for Mr. Big.

He leads me towards his office, stopping on the way at the receptionist's desk to whisper something to her that I can't make out. Then we're both inside, and the door closes behind us.

The large office is not what I was expecting. Like its owner, it's expensively appointed, but unlike him it's elegant and tasteful. Everything is rich, dark wood, fine leather, polished brass. An oriental carpet covers the floor, and the lighting is subdued. A couple of big, soft-looking leather armchairs and a matching sofa promise comfort. It's as if I'm in an exclusive gentleman's club, not a car dealership. I feel myself beginning to relax just a bit.

At one end of the inevitable mahogany desk sits Steele's computer monitor and keyboard, at the other end two brass-framed color photographs: an appealing blond woman in her thirties and five beautiful, stair-stepped kids, four boys and a girl. They all look as if they've come straight from central casting.

Then I notice the walls. From one end of the office to the other, the walls are covered with framed awards, proclamations, testimonials, certificates. William H. Steele, Top Producer 1996. Top Producer 1997. Top Producer 1998. Dealer of the Year, Western Region. Certificate of Recognition, National Association of Blah Blah Blah. It goes on and on. There are trophies too, standing on a shelf. Congratulations are evidently in order--Mr. Big here is some kind of super-salesman. But the display on the walls is no innocent expression of pride in a job well done. No, it's clearly strategic. It's meant to intimidate. I tense up again. The battle is about to be joined.

Steele pleasantly indicates one of the big leather armchairs, and, rather than retreating behind his desk, chooses the twin armchair opposite for himself. He asks if I'd like coffee or tea or a Coke or something stronger. I let him have it.

He has to understand one thing, I tell him heatedly. I'm not here to drink or to socialize. I'm here to buy a car. I can see he's a hotshot salesman, but there's no point in him trying to use his salesmanship on me. Not only do I know exactly what I want, but I know exactly what I'm willing to pay. I've done meticulous research. I know his invoice for the model and equipment I've chosen, and I know what's considered a fair markup in the industry. If he can get me the car I want at the price I'm willing to pay, we have a deal. If not, no amount of arm-twisting or salesman psychology is going to work on me, and we shouldn't waste each other's time.

I can feel my heart pounding as I finish my piece. Steele is looking at me intently. The smile is gone from his face, replaced by an expression of earnestness and concern. He leans forward.

He's sensed my hostility from the start, and to be honest, he can't blame me. Lots of people come in feeling the same way. Car salesmen have a pretty dismal reputation, and in too many cases, he has to admit, it's well deserved. But he hopes I'll soon realize he's not the typical salesman. All he's asking is that I give him a chance to prove himself and earn my trust. He didn't get where he is today (and here, somehow without the gesture appearing boastful, he indicates the wall display) by mistreating his customers. This business is built on relationships, and it's relationships that make people come back. Although he's just met me, he can already tell I'm intelligent and reasonable, someone who treats others fairly and expects to be treated that way himself. That's the kind of customer he wants, the kind of customer he can build a relationship with. He'll do whatever needs to be done to begin forging that relationship, if only I'll give him a chance.

He's a bullshitter, of course. And yet . . . and yet he almost seems sincere. Jeez, what an actor--he should be on the stage! Funny, though. I was expecting him to sound like an arrogant asshole. Instead, he comes off as modest and soft-spoken . . . intelligent and reasonable . . . sincere. Who knows? Maybe he actually is. Despite myself, I feel my anger beginning to dissipate.

Perhaps it's his voice that's calming me. I have to admit he has a wonderful voice: deep and rich, resonant, like a cello. The kind of voice people can't help but listen to regardless of what's being said. If ever he left this business, he could easily land a job in radio, that's for sure.

He's talking about the car I've decided on. He approves. It's a very practical choice for a young guy like me. I color slightly at the blatant flattery, but for some reason I don't find it offensive. In fact, the way he says it, with a certain twinkle in his eye, it's almost charming. I respond that I'm not so young but thanks anyway, and for the first time I allow myself to smile. He smiles back.

My mind wanders a bit--unusual for me. For a moment I lose the train of the conversation but quickly regain it. He's segued to his family. Chitchat. I promised myself I wouldn't let this happen, but now for some reason I don't mind. He shows me the photos. His wife and children are the apples of his eye. They make his life worthwhile.

Me? No, no kids. I'm not married. Divorced.

I regret the lie as soon as it's out of my mouth. Why oh why do I feel so guilty about not yet being married? It's nothing to be ashamed of! In due time the right woman will come along. It's just a matter of time, that's all.

Steele nods sympathetically, but somehow I have the impression he sees right through me.

My mind wanders again. Why is it doing that? I don't know. Maybe it's the constant stream of his conversation. Man, can this guy talk! His deep baritone washes over me rhythmically and persistently, rising and falling like waves in the ocean. Strangely, I'm very aware of the sound of his words while at the same time having difficulty concentrating on their meaning. I force myself to focus.

Ah. OK. He's talking about relaxation. Right. Relaxation is so important to good communication . . . which is the heart of any relationship, business or otherwise. Yet there's so little relaxation in today's hectic world. So few people really know how to relax. Instead, relaxation's opposite, tension, predominates everywhere. There's so much tension in everything we do. So little . . . relaxation. So much . . . tension. You can feel the tension as you . . . breathe in, very deeply . . . and hold the breath for a count of five . . . one, two, three, four, five. Then as you . . . releasethebreathveryquickly . . . you feel the tension breaking and the relaxation flooding into your body. Yes, that's right. He's glad to see I'm so much more relaxed than when I first came in. Glad to see I'm so much more comfortable. Buying a car should be a relaxed, comfortable experience. And he's sure that as we get to know each other better, I'm just going to . . . continue to relax more and more . . . continue to grow more and more comfortable . . . so we can communicate better and better . . . and begin building our relationship.

He looks at me as I look at him. I hear his words although I can't follow their meaning. I just keep looking at him. He continues to gaze at me intently, never taking his eyes off mine as he speaks. It's as if he's studying me all the while . . . probing me . . . taking my measure. But for some reason I don't feel self-conscious. Not at all. In fact . . . I rather like the attention. I like how it makes me feel. I feel a growing bond between us . . . a sense of . . . I dunno . . . rapport. A feeling that we're . . . somehow . . . in sync.

He's right about how relaxed I feel. Just so relaxed . . . and so comfortable. The big soft leather armchair envelopes me . . . caresses me . . . as I sink down deeply into its cushions . . . feeling warm . . . and relaxed . . . and heavy . . . heavy . . . just as heavy as lead. Bill's words wash over me . . . warmly . . . deeply. I'm in a warm fog . . . a pleasant, comforting, reassuring fog . . . I can't concentrate . . . but I don't care . . . because it feels so good . . . just to relax.

Now and again I catch a few words . . . fragments . . . little meteors of meaning. Fulfillment . . . wants to help . . . what I really need . . . what I truly want . . . innermost desires . . . why deny myself . . . feel, don't think . . . who I really am . . . it's OK . . .

My eyes are closed.

I don't remember closing them.

Why are my eyes closed? I don't know. But it doesn't matter. I could open them . . . if I wanted to . . . but I don't . . . because it feels so good . . . just to keep them closed . . . and relax . . . so deeply . . . as I ride the escalator down, down . . . descending to ultimate relaxation and peace . . . tenth floor . . . ninth floor . . . eighth . . .

I'm standing up, eyes open. Bill stands opposite me, a small separation between us. My eyes are locked onto his. He's talking to me but I can't catch the words. My body is stiff as a board, feet together, hands glued to my sides. A rigid plank standing on end. Stiff and rigid. I can't keep my balance. I'm losing my balance. Toppling forward, falling towards him. His hands receive me, absorb the impact, cushion the blow as I crash into him, feel his suit coat against my face. He doesn't move, not an inch. Solid. Massive. An oak. The Rock of Gibraltar. He stands me up again. Again I lose my balance, but faster. Again I fall against him. Again he stands me up. Again I fall. Stand. Fall. Stand. Fall. Over and over and over and over. The room is spinning. The world is spinning. Where am I? Who am I? I don't know. It doesn't matter.

I'm standing quietly now, my balance regained, gazing up at him. He's moved very close to me. He continues to talk . . . quietly . . . continually . . . beautifully . . . but I can't catch the words. I just look up into his eyes. Funny, I never really noticed Bill's eyes before . . . how deep and dark they are. Deep dark pools, the kind you can lose yourself in.

These feelings . . .

I realize I admire this man. I like being in his presence, like standing in front of him, like looking up to him. This big, powerfully built, powerfully dressed man who's smiling at me, talking gently to me, giving me his undivided attention.

These feelings . . .

He likes me too, I know. It's so good to be liked by a man like Bill. A handsome, masculine, rugged man like Bill. A studly daddy, father of five. A super-success with the courage to flaunt it. A man's man.

He reaches over and gently strokes my cheek, top to bottom. Repeats the gesture, over and over, talking quietly to me all the while. I can't catch his words. But his warm hand feels so good. So good. I'm tingling all over. I don't want him to stop.

Now he takes my hand in his, draws it towards him. Brings it up to his head, directs me where to touch him. I feel his hair, his ear, his tanned, prickly cheek. He moves my hand to his chest. My fingers trace the wide lapels of his suit coat, feel the richness of the wool. He's talking to me but I can't catch the words. I feel the hard, shiny knot of his heavy satin tie, thrusting boldly out of his tight collar like a torpedo. He directs my hand to the heavy silk handkerchief nobly puffed in his breast pocket. I luxuriate in the sensation of the rich silk, the softness that contrasts with and sets off his own hardness, that only serves to enhance the overwhelming impression of masculinity he radiates from every pore. At his gentle urging, I carefully extract the silk square further from his pocket. The puff rises, blossoms, grows more tumescent.

Now he brings my hand inside his unbuttoned suit coat, rests it on his chest. His white cotton shirt is so smooth and luxurious, it feels like silk. We continue to gaze into each other's eyes. He's talking to me but I can't catch the words. My hand starts moving on its own now. Slowly, slowly, I explore his chest through the shirt. Trace the outlines of his massive, defined pectorals. Feel their hardness and heat.

These feelings . . . these strange, new, powerful, powerful feelings . . .

I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am. I just know it feels so good, so right, to be with this big man . . . to look into his dark eyes . . . to listen to his deep voice . . . to touch his hard body. All I want is to be with him. All I want is to make him happy. My salesman. My friend.

My beloved.

He's still looking into my eyes, smiling, as he moves my hand to his crotch. Through his suit pants I feel an enormous pole of hard flesh, thick and rigid, extending down his leg. I realize my own body has long since responded in kind.

I want to merge with this man, meld with him, incorporate him into me.

My eyes close. The room spins crazily in my head . . .

I can't believe I've dozed off, right here in Bill's office. How embarrassing. I've got to get more sleep. Fortunately it was only for a second, while he was off getting the paperwork together. I'm sure he didn't see.

Funny. My rear end is sore. Hope nothing bad is developing down there. Chances are I've just been sitting too long in the same position. But if it continues, I'll go see Dr. Harris.

Now Bill is back and I'm signing on the dotted line. I am so excited! Me, Gary Evans, in a red Porsche convertible! I can't believe it. Man, am I gonna turn heads!

Bill has given me a fantastic deal. Sure it's more than I intended to spend, but look what I'm getting! And I'm so grateful he's clued me in to the importance of the little things so many people overlook: undercoating, rustproofing, an extended warranty. My investment is fully protected.

How foolish I was to think that buying a car has to mean somebody wins and somebody loses. If the relationship is right, the salesman and the customer both come out winners! I've learned so much from Bill.

Now he leads me to the gleaming crimson chariot waiting for me just outside the door. The top is down and the tan, glove-leather seats are warming in the bright sun. Before I climb in, we shake hands one last time. I realize I'm a little choked up.

The fact is, I'm sorry to say goodbye to Bill. In him I feel I've found more than just an honest salesman. I feel I've found a friend. I brighten, though, when I remember I'll be seeing him on a regular basis from now on. After all, as Bill says, life is too short to keep a car more than a year!

I take my rightful seat behind the wheel, start the engine, hear its powerful purr. I feel so happy, so content, so . . . fulfilled . . . I almost start to cry.

Grinning from ear to ear, Bill gives me the thumbs-up sign. Lookin' good, Gary!

Thanks, man, I call to him as I drive off. See ya next September!