Would I lie to You? (Part 1)

At present, I scream at vaginas for a living, but prior to this little calling, I had many, many jobs. At one point, I sold cars, and by sold cars I mean I sold one–to my mom. I had the counter-productive habit of talking people out of purchases, sighting their budget, and being reasonable with their money. The guys who owned the car lot overlooked this bad habit, because they figured it was nice to just have someone they could trust to lock the door at night. I took the job because my father often bellowed arrogantly that I should NEVER trust anyone who sold cars. That fatherly advice was right up there with love God, and study hard, and drive safely. He hated used car salesman. So, naturally, I became one.
I made it clear on the interview, that my hours were limited, that I was a terrible liar, and that I really wasn’t the best driver. When that interview ended with ‘you’re hired!’ I thought it might be a casting call for some sort of reality tv show. They handed me W2’s and I-9’s, while I looked for secret microphones. The lot was small, the door barely locked, and we were in the middle of Nowheresville, Maryland. I concluded that this place was definitely a decoy for drug trafficing, or racketeering, but I shrugged at this and did my schoolwork.
Robert, the red-haired mechanic from West Pennsylvania, and if you know anything about West Pennsylvania, you know he owned a pick-up truck, would ask me out every single day. He would spit super sexy, super alluring, lines like “I’m not racist” when he’d ask me out on a date. Continuing with my schoolwork was all I could do to contain my fever for this particular smooth-talker. I wondered many, many times that maybe if I tried thanking him kindly for not lynching minorities, but mentioned that I myself was in the process of becoming a racist, once I finished all the paperwork, perhaps that would help quell the situation somewhat.
He fixed my car one day, and was able to guilt me into a “cocktail,” at a restaurant down the street from where we worked. I reminded him that I was too young to drink, and also too young to use words like “cocktail,” and that this was not a date. It was, rather, an employee field trip, and we were going dutch. Robert was 35, I was 20.
I played with my phone, and ate french fries, while he droned on about being a redneck, and how he didn’t see color when he looked at me. I happened to see many colors when I looked at him, but the ones I wanted to see most were the beautiful reds and blues of flashing police cars lights. Where the heck is Spiderman when you truly need him? He also profusely complimented my eyebrows. I prayed for a quick and quiet death.
At the end our field trip, he attempted to give me a non-racist kiss. I realized it was time to put my foot down. I, after all, had indeed appreciated the oil change or whatever, and I’m always trying to support people who think they might believe in civil rights, but there really is only so much I’m going to do for the cause. I made it clear that other than a handshake, and maybe a creepy photo of my eyebrows, there just wasn’t much more in the future for us.