Zena’s hand trembled just a bit as she put the key in the ignition.
In her suburban youth, she had ridden in cars. She had obtained and maintained driver’s license, and had been a committed driver out of necessity for several years. But she had never liked automobiles, and once she both lived and worked in an area of Chicago where public transportation is universal if not beloved, she sold her car with great relief.
She found herself at a car dealership now out of peer pressure. Zena had recently been promoted at her job, to a sales position with a cushy base salary, a solid bedrock of loyal customers, and tantalizing shoots of potential future growth. Blessed with an outgoing personality and an eminently trustworthy smile, Zena had clear potential, which was recognized by her boss Renee.
Zena got results in her first two weeks. Good results, even. But not, as Renee said, excellent results. “And excellence,” she declared, “is where you belong.”
“You need to manage your image,” Renee announced. Zena was perfectly good at making sales, she explained, but she needed to do more. She had to make not buying from her inconceivable. And to start, she had to make herself look amazing.
Renee boiled it down thusly: “Everyone wants to be successful. When you roll up at their office in a sweet ride, they know that they can be simply by buying whatever you sell. But they will never know that when you walk up to their office from the train, branded with the aura of bums and urine and failure.”
And with a flourish of girlish excitement, Renee invited herself on a car shopping trip that Zena didn’t realize she was planning.
They had already inspected a BMW and a Lexus, both of which Zena had pronounced “really an excellent car, but just not me.” Further analysis was beyond her. Zena really didn’t like any car, but Renee’s exuberance had the force of a general’s orders, so she resorted to weak indecision as her only glimpse of a way to wiggle out of buying one.
Renee knew just what to do. “I agree completely,” she declared. “Those were fine cars, but you are a woman who needs to stand out from the crowd. This next one, there’s no way you’re not gonna love it.”
“What is the next one?” Zena asked, looking for an opportunity to declare that she really wasn’t a car person after all, and that they might as well just head home. But with a wave of her finger and an exuberantly restrained hum, Renee refused to inform her until they pulled into the next dealership.
Mini Cooper.
“It takes a special kind of person to pull off driving in these cars,” Renee declared. “I sure wish I could. But you, I think, can.”
“I don’t know,” Zena muttered weakly, but Renee dragged her into the salesroom and in front of a heavily made-up and preternaturally perky blonde saleswoman.
“I’m Chelsea, how are you!” she erupted.
“This is Zena, and she’s going to buy one of your cars!” Renee popped. While the tone of her voice had a way to go to match Chelsea’s implausible squeak, it rose noticeably in just one sentence, and probably would overtake Chelsea before the test drive.
“Zena, I just love that name. You’re like an African goddess and a warrior princess all in one.”
“She is,” affirmed Renee. “My newest superstar.”
Zena scrunched up her shoulders and tried to make a sound that would make her seem excited. “Eep” is what emerged from her mouth.
Renee pointed at a red car with a white stripe down the middle. “That is the car that you are going to buy.”
“The Model 9822, it’s exceptional.”
“Very nice?” Zena whimpered.
Renee held up an informational brochure dangling from the driver-side window. “It’s turbocharged.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Zena admitted.
“It means more power and higher performance. You—
Renee’s sales instinct took over, and she cut Chelsea off. “You want higher performance. You deserve higher performance. We’re going to take it for a test drive.”
And so Renee steered the trio outside. Luckily she took the exit to the right; to the left was the lot for resales, but as this was her sale now, nothing Chelsea could have done could have turned her around. Chelsea did manage to nudge her away from the 9522s and to an exact replica of the showroom model. She even managed to warn Renee’s hand away from the driver’s door with a perfectly timed throat-clearing.
“Right,” Renee said. “It’s just lust.”
*****
This one, which will be completed tomorrow, was inspired quickly; a woman moaning quite loudly as she drove past the apartment building where I live. I mean, really loudly. (I live on the fourth floor.)
Just kidding—I was exiting the building when I heard her. Still, it was loud, and she was feeling something.
I combined it with some of my experiences with salespeople; I spent a lot of my life working for magazines that are 100% ad-supported, and as a result have had far too much more than my share of… let’s just call them, moments. It’s kind of fun putting three salespeople together, though.
I’m expecting this post to get a lot of hits*. After all, it will be tagged with “orgasm,” even though the true Mini Coopergasm doesn’t happen until part 2. So hey, tune in next time!
*Relative to other posts on this blog. I’m still famous only in the future, rather than the present.
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