The Case of the Elusive Car Salesman

I was pacing around Lexington, waiting for my local mechanic to finish the

latest repairs on my ‘77 Chevy Impala.   My name's Yesterday, Sam Yesterday.

It was hot in Lexington, by that is not uncommon for mid-July.   I'd had a

good several months, and I was in good financial position for the first time

since I bought that Impala back in 1977.   That car had served me well, but

lately it had been failing.   Maybe it was time for a trade, I thought; so I

walked over to the nearest friendly (sort of) car dealership.

As soon as I set foot on the shiny showroom floor, it seized me.   It was the

most beautiful thing I had ever seen.   A sparkling combination of steel,

leather, electronics, and a very large engine.   The muscle car had been

revitalized in the form of a 1995 Chevy Impala SS.   It was sleek, resembling

the type of car Darth Vader would drive.   I grabbed the nearest salesman,

hopped into the body hugging leather bucket, fired up the 275 bhp. LT1 engine

and took off.   As the 6-speaker CD stereo belted out Aerosmith the poor

salesman tried to sell me a car that had already sold itself. I had fallen in

love, it was the only car that I had loved since that ‘77 Impala.   It had an

engine large enough to satisfy my primitive need for power, an image that

screamed "Hey you with the radar gun!   See if you can catch me!"   Granted, it

was heavy, it had watery boat-like handling, and drank gas like my Uncle

Bubba drinks beer.   Still, I loved it. It wasn't Japanese, German, Korean, or

otherwise.   It was a big hunk of purebred, American muscle car, dammit.

I picked out a nice shiny new one, called the bank and drove home in my new

wheels.   I decided to spring for all the bells and whistles; leather, CD

player, alarm system, keyless entry, etc.   I figured that if this car was

going to run as long as my last Impala it should be well-equipped.

As I was admiring the view from my office in the Financial... [continues]

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