Clyde Shops for a Car

Clyde has driven his droning, low-slung Corvette since he graduated from high school. This week, he decides he wants a new car.

“What kind of car?” I ask.

He shrugs.

We drive up and down the Interstate. “Do you like that one?” I ask. “How about that one?”

He frowns at each one, shaking his head.

At the Saturn dealership, we wander the rows of cars. Clyde reads stickers and peers at interiors.

“What color do you like?” I ask.

Clyde shrugs. “Something I don’t have to wash often.”

A salesman approaches us. Clyde taps an L300 and says, “Tell him I want the nicest one of these.”

Minutes later, Clyde test drives the car over the ruts and potholes of Jackson’s High Street. He pushes all the buttons. He adjusts the mirrors. He fiddles with the radio. He opens the sun roof. He closes the sun roof. He opens it half-way. He closes it again.

“How do you like it?” I ask. “Isn’t the leather nice? That’s a six-disc CD player. Oh, heated seats! Rides pretty smooth, eh?”

Clyde nods.

Back at the dealership, the salesman notes he can offer zero percent five-year financing on the L300. Clyde’s ears prick up. He does the math in his head. He hands the man his driver’s license and the paper work begins.

“You don’t want to drive something else?” I ask.

Clyde shakes his head.

Back home, I pause in the garage and stare at Clyde’s Corvette: single owner, low mileage, purchased new more than twenty-two years ago. Over the years, I’ve flitted from car to car to car. Clyde, on the other hand, finds what he likes … and keeps it.

I run inside, find him, and hug him from behind. He laughs. “What’s that for?”
I say nothing. I just stand there, holding on.