I drive the Saturn VUE. Unlike my Honda CRV, the Saturn sports utility vehicle feels more “trucky” — wider and heavier. Inside controls feel cheap; the flimsy plastic knobs and levers feel as though they might snap off in my hands.
Clyde sits in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio. As casually as he might say, “Looks like rain,” he says, “You ought to drive the Lexus.”
My eyes bug out (more than usual). Clyde’s parents drive the Lexus SUV. Each time we ride in it, I have to wear a drool guard. “We can’t afford a Lexus SUV.”
Clyde shrugs. “They have an ad in the paper,” he says. “Five thousand down, and just one hundred dollars a month more than you’re paying for your Honda now.”
I splutter. “But … still!”
Minutes later, we wander the Lexus lot. The salesmen must be at church; none appear to badger us with recitations of features and lectures on image. I reel at the sticker price. “These cost forty thousand dollars,” I say.
“You’d pay just one hundred dollars a month more than you do now,” Clyde says again.
I put the idea out of my head.
“This one’s nice,” Clyde says. “Silver-blue. Black interior.”
If there were such a thing as car porn, this particular model would be a centerfold. It gleams in the dusty late-afternoon sunlight, giving me its “come-hither” look.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
“Why not?” Clyde asks.
“I can’t put you in a Saturn, and drive myself around in a Lexus!”
Clyde shakes his head. “But it’s so nice.”
Back home, I sit surrounded by Tarot cards, building spreads to explore the question: “Lexus … or new Honda CRV?” I shuffle and deal, making notes and adjusting positions.
“What do the cards say?” Clyde asks.
“That the Lexus would be an adventure, but the CRV is the more practical choice.”
Clyde nibbles his lower lip. “Hard to beat a Lexus.” He wanders off, looking for work to do.
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