So much horsepower for so little respect

Kid,

I don't know why I ever filled out an application to work at this dealership, but it is a constant reminder of what I lack. I dangle temptation in front of my nose every day. I sell sports cars. I love sports cars. I watch people far richer than me, and with far less interest in cars than me, drive away with one of these beautiful machines every day. I guess they earned it, though. They come in with suits, their skin a bit wrinkly, and I know that most of them worked and saved and put off expenditures, all for the moment that they meet with me. But at the end of the day, they drive away in a sleek, eye-catching bundle of horsepower, and I drive home in my rusty Accord. And I am jealous as hell.

I do a pretty good job of containing myself, I think. I never say to my customers, "I'd love to have one of these, but I can't because my stupid job won't ever pay me as much as you make." I sometimes stare at the cars. I run my fingers across their unrealistically frictionless bodies, and when the days are especially slow, I get in the cars and just drive them around the lots. It's like I own these things. I leave them in a lot, and come back to them the next day. It's such a good feeling to see them there, waiting for me. They go nowhere without me - well, until someone buys them, and reminds me of how little I have. These cars are like a long-distance girlfriend to me, or like I'm a divorced parent with minimal visiting rights. I have them for a short time, but they'll eventually just go away.

And so, it kills me when someone like you walks into my dealership and drives away with one of my cars. You, with your rich daddy opening his wallet in the name of some fleeting, insignificant event - graduation from high school would be my guess. I wanted to tell you the wrong information, tell you to get an oil change every 15,000 miles or tell you to get the cheap gas. I want your car to be ruined, because you don't deserve that car. That car deserves better than you. You don't know anything about that car. Not like I do. You probably want it to pick up girls, not because it rides like a dream.

I see kids like you come in every so often, and it always sets me boiling. But, you were different. You were worse than them all. You acted so smug, like your daddy's money was your money, like you expected - no, like you were OWED - this car. You don't know what accomplishment is like, or struggle, or longing, or appreciation. You want something, you get it. That's what you know, and that's how you operate. You treated me like I was just standing in the way of your car. Your car. As if your car was parked here all along, like it came out of the factory with your name on it, and I was just guarding it here. All along, just waiting for you to come in.

You didn't even walk with your daddy. You walked ahead of him, you spoiled little shit. He trailed behind you, one hand in his pocket, probably holding on to his wallet. His wallet is your leash, but he never tightens his grip. You get what you want, whether you care about it or not. That car isn't yours for the taking. It isn't fair, but you could care less. I should quit this job, because look this is what happens to me, over and over again: My cars can be yours, but they can't be mine.

Joel.

dirty laundry