McMansion-happy Calabasas could take anywhere from a half-hour to three times that depending upon traffic. Today Overman was cruising comfortably, having successfully erased from his consciousness the sales meeting that would occupy most of the morning. How many more ways could his boss continue to sell German cars to Jews? To be fair, it wasn’t just Jews. All manner of conspicuous consumers descended upon Calabasas, that proud Southern California bastion of white flight. But the fact that Overman was an intrinsically guilty Jew made him feel extra guilty each time he sold a Mercedes Benz to one of the tribe. The congregants of Temple Alhashem were undoubtedly his best customers; a living testament to the amount of energy Overman expended diverting them from the BMW dealer down the street.
Mostly he just hated his job. How did a once young man with such promise become a middle-aged hawker of zero down financing? After graduating from Columbia with honors, he had worked as an entertainment executive for the studios, segueing into positions with various management firms and talent agencies on both coasts, garnering ever more generous stock option grants and lavish expense accounts. Now he struggles to keep his eyes open as self-important gasbag Hal Steinbaum enumerates the latest sales incentives being offered by Steinbaum Mercedes of Calabasas. “We’ll pay off your trade, no questions asked!” “Complimentary maintenance for 36 months!” “Free, All-You-Can-Eat Sunday Barbecue, with 16 oz. Stein-baums of beer!”
The fledgling sales guys, or Green Peas as they are known in the trade, seem to get off on these depressing pep rallies, filing out of the conference room with renewed determination and amped-up testosterone. Overman feigns his usual smile and pads back to his corner desk, away from the hubbub. He will pick up the phone and good-naturedly badger the couple who looked at the CLK convertible last Saturday, review his list of customers with leases about to expire, make a few cold calls from the leads handed out at last week’s meeting.
Overman looks up from his desk to see Douchebag-of-the-Month Rick Crandall flirting with Maricela, the receptionist with the insanely round ass. Crandall is a white trash middle-aged lifer with a tired wife and two ADHD kids. Maricela, a hard-partying and even harder-bodied twenty-six year-old, is best known for the ornate and provocative “tramp stamp” tattooed above her coveted rear bumper. She has a steady boyfriend, but is also aware of her power over all things male. On the surface she may be a lowly receptionist, but for all intents and purposes Maricela runs the dealership. It is common knowledge that Hal Steinbaum himself begged her to accompany him to Cancun one weekend when his wife was out of town. And that when Maricela turned him down, she somehow wound up with a raise rather than a pink slip. The unspoken truth is that every guy on this lot is her bitch. Maricela is at all times the model of grace and composure as she cheerfully answers the phone: “It’s a beautiful day at Steinbaum Mercedes.”
When has it ever been a beautiful day at this shithole? Overman asks himself. On the other hand, how could you blame the messenger? The poor girl didn’t make up that greeting, she was instructed to recite it by some dopey middle manager without a creative bone in his body. Overman has nothing against Maricela. She has always treated him kindly, although, to his chagrin, like some benign grandfatherly eunuch. Conversely, he has been nothing but polite and gracious, which could not be said for the rest of the esteemed sales force. Overman admired her assets as much as the next guy: he just had enough class not to drool all over the showroom floor. At least that’s what he told himself. In truth, the respectful distance he kept was rooted in a lifelong fear of rejection and being exposed for the lonely, horny train wreck he had honed to perfection.
Overman studies Maricela as she works the phones. She has an effortless, inviting smile, chatting with the ease of someone who has yet to experience despair, know anybody with cancer, or even gain a few extra pounds. He thinks about getting to work, but instead contemplates for the gazillionth time whether or not she’s fucked Rick Crandall or anyone else at the dealership. How could she say no to the boss and then bang one of his puerile protégés? Then again, she’s the one in control of the company pheromones. She can do whatever she wants. For all Overman knew, she was blowing Gene Cantalupo in Pre-Owned, who fucked his way through Nissan of Rancho Cucamonga. Picturing the two of them together made him want to throw up.
He tries to get to work, but an Einsteinian equation, profound yet elegant in its simplicity, invades his already cluttered brain. Based on the massive amount of fantasizing, plotting and planning at Steinbaum Mercedes, one of these degenerates had surely banged or would bang the exquisite Maricela.
Overman manages to regroup, and is about to dial a number when he hears Maricela laugh from across the room. As he stops to savor this primal, unrestrained thing of beauty, he sees that she’s looked up and caught him staring. He feels himself starting to blush, but Maricela doesn’t chuckle or grimace or avoid his gaze. She gamely stares back, openly and without judgment. Overman keeps looking at her. Maricela doesn’t blink. Should he turn away? He tries, but he can’t. Overman is focusing with an unconscious intensity, a wild current coursing through his veins. He feels his body start to convulse, his blood pressure rising like the price of bathroom fixtures in his dream. Fearing a seizure or worse yet, a spontaneous public ejaculation, Overman manages to get up and stumble toward the water fountain. He bends down and lets the cold stream splash all over his face, now drenched in sweat. The sleeve of his poly-cotton shirt comes in handy, a surprisingly quick drying agent. Overman takes two deep breaths and starts to regain his composure when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to find himself face to face with the magnificently sweet-smelling Maricela; her bare midriff only inches away.
“Excuse me, Mr. Overman.”
“Please. Ira,” he managed, his pulse racing.
“Ira,” her lips formed the two simple syllables of his name in a way that really did make it a beautiful day at Steinbaum Mercedes. “I don’t know what it is, but something about you seems… different.”
I’ve been the same asshole my whole life, he thinks to himself. Then he remembers that there has, in fact, been a change. “No glasses,” Overman informs her, pointing to his naked face. “I had Lasik.”
The young woman can’t take her eyes off him. “I... I don’t know why but when you looked at me just now, something happened.”
“No kidding?” Overman asks lamely, an impressively speedy erection in the making.
Maricela nods her head. “Even though I’ve seen you like a gajillion times before, I felt like I really saw you for the first time. And you really saw me.”
Nothing new about the latter, Overman thinks to himself. He’s studied every inch of this girl in the office and reviewed his findings in the shower for as long as he can remember.
“Does that sound stupid to you?” she asks adorably.
“Not stupid at all.” Overman has no clue what she’s talking about. At the same time, he’s smart enough to recognize that he’s scoring points and must get them on the board while the getting is good. He tries to think of something insightful to say, but draws a complete blank. As he wonders how any man could be this pathetic, Hal Steinbaum appears out of nowhere and grabs Maricela by the arm, dropping a roll of Mentos on the floor in the process.
“Just the girl I want to see. I got a laydown who’s about to get reamed for two g’s over sticker. Come in my office and watch how it’s done.”
Maricela follows him, her eyes not wavering from Overman as she goes.
What just happened? Overman wondered. It was as if he had telepathically communicated his needs and desires to this young woman and she now wished to respond in kind. But why would a smoking hot twenty-six year-old be interested in a poorly preserved middle-aged relic? Maybe it was a nasty joke set up by one of the Green Peas. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. What if the Lasik surgery really did make him handsome and
