No Need for Plasma

It is New Year's Eve and the salesmen are briskly walking, single file, through the glass doors to the car lot. On their faces are scowls, angular and hard, masks made of long hours with little pay. In their hands are helium-filled balloons, which freely float and bob on their strings like fishing lures in water. The salesmen, with their solemn faces and bunches of red, white, and blue balloons, resemble sad clowns as they move through the car lot, placing one here and there in a patriotic whimsy that seems to say, "Yes it's New Years Eve, and yes we're open, and God bless America!"

The calls flow in on my phone. I vocally manuver my way through the oncoming waves of "uh's" and "um's," of needy husbands and ex-wives, and of needier solicitors, debt collectors, and the occasional customer. My fingers move fast on phone's keys like the beating wings of a hummingbird. My voice, stern and robotic, is often mistaken for a recording as I push each call to its respected place. I watch the flickering lights of my switchboard light up like a cityscape at dusk, muddled with the confused voices of its constituency, all asking to be guided here or there. It is the usual morning rush.

Dirk walks in from the lot and stands by my desk for a moment to adjust his tie. Last month he was asking me to google places where he could donate plasma for cash, a task I would pursue for beer money back when I was in college. Last month Dirk was nervously scouring beneath the seats of his car for loose change to buy gasoline. He was counting dollar for dollar the debt he owed to his bank in overdraft fees. But not this month. He's sold enough to hit his bonus, and mabye he'll sell more. "You never know in this business," he tells me. I jokingly tell him that this article is called "No Need for Plasma," and he says maybe not. He could always use the extra money.

The week between Christmas and New Years is supposed to be one of the busiest in car sales and so far it has been...okay. Stephen Paul Skinner asks me if we are open on New Years Day and I tell him, "bell to bell."

"Really?" He frowns and walks back to his office.

New Years is just another day in car land.