 It was somewhere in the desert outside of Gallup, New Mexico that I first began speaking to the gas door release latch in my car. I'd been driving for several days, with no music, a smoldering hangover, and too much coffee coursing through my body. Although the latch proved itself to be a witty conversationalist, I decided to that I should stop somewhere and purchase a radio.
I chose to stop at a small electronics shop in Albuquerque. The parking lot was dry and still, I wondered if the establishment had closed for the day. Then I saw the neon sign in the window, speaking its one word vocabulary over and over. Open... open, open.
Upon entering, I was immediately accosted by the awkward adolescent working on that particular evening. Pale, thin, and stinking of chocolate donuts, he seemed so happy at that time and place. His singular purpose to provide retail service to the customers that entered his sphere of activity.
I explained my dilemma, and he began to recommend a good cd player unit. Ironically, it was priced at the exact same dollar amount that I had needed to purchase my automobile. I pointed out that I only had thirty dollars available from my travel funds, but this did not have the effect that I had intended. Indeed, it seemed only to strengthen his resolve to sell me that overpriced stereo.
I began to visualize myself choking this youth. Reddish-purple colors overpowering his pasty complexion, his eyes bulging out against those thick glasses. Overhead music trying to calm me, while his name tag frantically shrieks: "Can I help you? My name is Aaron!"
I snapped out of this trance and steered my friend toward the more reasonably priced portable cassette players. After thwarting more attempts to persuade me to buy a better product, we settled on a fifteen dollar item that suited my needs. I was just beginning to sense a small victory on my part, when I heard Aaron's voice crack.
"You're going to need batteries for that, of course."
Of course. |
