Blazer for a few minutes, running the air conditioner at arctic blast and watching the leafy oak branches sway in the wind. I didn’t regard Beta Harcher and Tamma Hufnagel as such bosom buddies; they might have been allies, members of the same church, followers of the same version of God, but maybe they just weren’t friends. People who pride themselves on their powers of judging others don’t bond well. There’s always that withholding of true affection, waiting for a sign of human weakness from one that the other can deliberate on. Clearly Beta Harcher rejoiced in finding people deficient in some way, so she could proclaim what awful sinners they were and how bad they needed God—and her guidance. How do you stay friends with a miserable so-and-so like that?
I pulled away from the First Baptist Church of Mirabeau. Making peace with death. Tamma Hufnagel seemed to have already done that, and right quick.
I COULDN’T STAND BOB DON GOERTZ. FORTUNATELY I only knew him from a distance. Bob Don owned the two biggest car dealerships in Bonaparte County. If you looked up
charlatan
in the dictionary you might find a bejeweled and polyestered Bob Don leering back at you, ready to shake your hand and arrange financing for your new or quality pre-owned car. I’m only a bigot toward car dealers; I’ve yet to meet one I like.
He replaced Beta on the town’s library board when she got booted. The Hufnagels liked him, which was no recommendation in my book. As soon as Beta got sacked for her reactionary hysterics, Bob Don stated that what America was all about was freedom of the press and he’d sure be delighted to donate his time to the library board The board elected him without a second (or possibly first) thought. Since then he’d been as sweet and as fake as cotton candy to me. I guess he knew I was a force to be reckoned with. Or he wanted to sell me a car. Apparently for Bob Don, running a car dealership was a lot like running for public office. He could smell the winds of change and spit the other way quicker than you could blink his saliva out of your eye.
I pulled my Blazer into the quiet dealership, hoping that Bob Don hadn’t dashed off to a cholesterol-filledlunch with the good ol’ boys. I parked, stepped out of the car, and made it about three feet before a fat, balding salesman arrowed toward me.
Telling him as we hustled along that I wasn’t buying, but was just there to see Bob Don, I swerved and made it roughly twenty feet before a younger fellow with huge sideburns and bad teeth attempted a verbal tackle, offering to let me test-drive a Bronco. Nimbly avoiding him and his sales pitch, I made it to the air-conditioned showroom. With a plea to use the bathroom, I pushed past another sweaty salesman and got into Bob Don’s inner sanctum.
A gum-chewing, beehived receptionist examined me critically before picking up her phone and announcing me to the King of the Road. Bob Don came to his office door quickly, which surprised me. He surprised me further by looking happy to see me. His broad, tanned face broke into an ear-to-ear white grin.
“Well, hey there, Jordy, it’s good to see you!” He pumped my hand like I was a water well.
“Hello, Bob Don. I wonder if you have a minute to talk privately.”
“Why,
sure
I do.” Apparently talking to me would be the highlight of his day. I found that a little difficult to believe, what with all the unsold cars on his lot.
We went into his office, decorated in small-town prosperity. Pictures of local Little League teams that were sponsored by the Goertz dealership covered the walls, going back at least two decades. Trophies for the teams that fared well stood on a shelf. He’d backed several winners and probably sold their parents a car while the glow of victory was fresh. There were pictures of him and his wife over several years, the fashions changing somewhat but not straying far from rural Texas couture. His wife was a numbed-looking woman
I pulled away from the First Baptist Church of Mirabeau. Making peace with death. Tamma Hufnagel seemed to have already done that, and right quick.
I COULDN’T STAND BOB DON GOERTZ. FORTUNATELY I only knew him from a distance. Bob Don owned the two biggest car dealerships in Bonaparte County. If you looked up
charlatan
in the dictionary you might find a bejeweled and polyestered Bob Don leering back at you, ready to shake your hand and arrange financing for your new or quality pre-owned car. I’m only a bigot toward car dealers; I’ve yet to meet one I like.
He replaced Beta on the town’s library board when she got booted. The Hufnagels liked him, which was no recommendation in my book. As soon as Beta got sacked for her reactionary hysterics, Bob Don stated that what America was all about was freedom of the press and he’d sure be delighted to donate his time to the library board The board elected him without a second (or possibly first) thought. Since then he’d been as sweet and as fake as cotton candy to me. I guess he knew I was a force to be reckoned with. Or he wanted to sell me a car. Apparently for Bob Don, running a car dealership was a lot like running for public office. He could smell the winds of change and spit the other way quicker than you could blink his saliva out of your eye.
I pulled my Blazer into the quiet dealership, hoping that Bob Don hadn’t dashed off to a cholesterol-filledlunch with the good ol’ boys. I parked, stepped out of the car, and made it about three feet before a fat, balding salesman arrowed toward me.
Telling him as we hustled along that I wasn’t buying, but was just there to see Bob Don, I swerved and made it roughly twenty feet before a younger fellow with huge sideburns and bad teeth attempted a verbal tackle, offering to let me test-drive a Bronco. Nimbly avoiding him and his sales pitch, I made it to the air-conditioned showroom. With a plea to use the bathroom, I pushed past another sweaty salesman and got into Bob Don’s inner sanctum.
A gum-chewing, beehived receptionist examined me critically before picking up her phone and announcing me to the King of the Road. Bob Don came to his office door quickly, which surprised me. He surprised me further by looking happy to see me. His broad, tanned face broke into an ear-to-ear white grin.
“Well, hey there, Jordy, it’s good to see you!” He pumped my hand like I was a water well.
“Hello, Bob Don. I wonder if you have a minute to talk privately.”
“Why,
sure
I do.” Apparently talking to me would be the highlight of his day. I found that a little difficult to believe, what with all the unsold cars on his lot.
We went into his office, decorated in small-town prosperity. Pictures of local Little League teams that were sponsored by the Goertz dealership covered the walls, going back at least two decades. Trophies for the teams that fared well stood on a shelf. He’d backed several winners and probably sold their parents a car while the glow of victory was fresh. There were pictures of him and his wife over several years, the fashions changing somewhat but not straying far from rural Texas couture. His wife was a numbed-looking woman
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