A Cadillac for Jesus

Chapter One

Before all the miraculously mended motors, before the water changed into beer, before the miracle of the hot dogs and buns, Jesus appeared to be nothing more than your typical twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican in baggy shorts and wraparound sun glasses. I first met him one Saturday morning when he came looking for a Cadillac.

My business card claimed I was the Sales Manager at Dwayne’s Quality Cars. Not that there was anyone to manage. It was just Dwayne and me.

I’d come to Southeastern Florida about a year ago, but not because I had a passion to sell used cars. It was more a case of escaping deteriorating business and personal relationships back in upstate New York. Like the ancient Romans said, stercus accidit. (Shit happens.)

Anyway, Dwayne’s Quality Cars was located a few miles south of Stuart on US 1. It was a small operation, usually about twenty-five cars or trucks for sale. Dwayne never saw much reason to even pave the lot. It wasn’t like our typical customer worried about getting his Gucci’s dirty.

The big, shiny new car dealerships clustered closer to town, shoulder to shoulder with the strip malls. But Dwayne’s was surrounded by stretches of scrubby open land, with just a rundown radiator repair shop and one-room Bar-B-Que joint for company. The incessant sound of buzzing and clicking insects was occasionally interrupted by the Doppler rush and drone of a lone car scurrying by.

Dwayne looked like every northerner’s stereotype of a tobacco chewing good ol’ boy: Bass Fisherman baseball cap on his head, pointy-toed tooled black leather boots on his feet, and in between a big brass Confederate Flag belt buckle that peered out below his abundant beer belly. He sported a narrow white moustache, always impeccably trimmed. He never told me how old he was, but he bragged about his Social Security checks. Gettin’ my due, he’d say.

I don’t think Dwayne really depended much on the income from his car business. Stuart was sprawling south, and Jupiter was sprawling north, and he figured it was just a matter of time before his four acres along the highway would be very, very valuable to somebody. Meanwhile, the business gave him something to do when the fish weren’t biting. Like the bumper sticker on his pick-up truck said, Dwayne would rather be fishing.

He alluded to a wayward wife or two somewhere in his past, but when pressed for details, he’d just say, Boy, you don’t wanna know. Then he’d grin, lift his cap and point to a red scar just below his receding hairline. Don’t ever insult a woman with a frying pan in her hand, he’d say, and that was the end of the discussion.

We made a good team. Dwayne sold pick-up trucks to slow talking rednecks and good ol’ boys who would never ever buy anything from a fast talkin’ damn Yankee. I sold Town Cars and Caddies to Northeastern snowbirds still confused by southern drawls and Chevies and Civics to anyone leery of a Confederate Flag belt buckle.

It was a slow morning, lazily ticking its way to lunchtime. We were in our office, a faded red, mildewed, ten by twenty-foot shack. The air conditioner in the window whirred and rattled along full tilt. It was my turn to control the radio, and I tuned it to the most obnoxious West Palm Beach rock station I could find. I really preferred classic rock, but I was trying to pay Dwayne back for the weepy country ballads he subjected me to the day before. His choice of music was bad enough, but then he would sing along, off-key, making up the words.

You picked a fine time to leave me Lucile, with four hundred children and crap in the field…

But Korn and Rob Zombie were letting me down. Dwayne seemed completely unperturbed by the raucous sounds emanating from the radio. He sat tilted back in his chair, shiny boots up on the desk, pondering a crossword puzzle through narrow, black-framed reading glasses parked halfway down his nose. His cheeks bulged out as he worked his chew.

I studied the obits, looking for recent widows or estates that might have an unneeded automobile they’d like to unload. I told myself I performed a charitable service, giving the bereaved one less thing to worry about. Dwayne called me just another damn Yankee carpetbagger, but he smiled broadly when he said it. After all, he made more money on the sales than I did.

Dwayne grabbed an old Hills Brothers coffee can and used it for a spittoon. Lovely habit. He glanced out the window, then went back to his puzzle.

Darlin’, he drawled, would you kindly take care of the nigger out there?

He said it matter-of-factly, without obvious malice. Nigger was just his all-purpose word that covered anyone who wasn’t white; Haitian, Mexican, Guatemalan, whatever. Or in this case, Puerto Rican.

Where I grew up, nigger was an epitaph used only in the most hateful circumstances. A year of Dwayne, and the occasional assault of rap lyrics thudding out of the car next to me at a stoplight had taken a bit of the edge off the once notorious N word. But I still cringed.

Yes, Masta, I replied. Dwayne didn’t even look up. Perceiving subtle sarcasm was not his strongpoint.

I snapped clip-on sunglasses over my regular glasses and stepped out into the searing sun. Dwayne kept the office so cold that the sweltering heat felt good. For about 5 seconds.

I spotted a short little Latino guy, early twenty’s, ambling among the cars. He wore a white tank top, baggy shorts, work boots and wraparound sunglasses. A gold chain hung around his neck. Undoubtedly looking for an old Civic to slam.

I couldn’t see how he got to the lot; no extra car parked anywhere. Not a good sign. He certainly didn’t ride the bus; no such thing as public transportation in Stuart. Not a pressing priority to the rich retired Republicans who ran Martin County.

I’d never had anyone walk onto the lot and buy a car. But it was possible. About three miles north, there was a gated community filled with pricey new homes. I suppose this guy’s BMW could have broken down and the butler had the day off, so he had no choice but to stroll over and buy a set of wheels so he wouldn’t be late for his tennis lesson. Or, maybe I misjudged his age, and he actually ambled over from the retiree’s condo complex two miles east. I hear they’re doing great things with plastic surgery these days.

The only other option was a decrepit trailer park six miles west, where migrant workers rented by the season, and dope dealers and crackheads just busted in and squatted.

Whatever. Somehow he got here, and The South would have to rise again before Dwayne got off his fat ass to help him. That’s what he hired me for.

I walked over to him. Show Time.

Good morning, I said, trying to project friendly enthusiasm.

Mr. Wraparound Shades looked at me and smiled, a big toothy grin. Like something was amusing him. Well, at least he had good teeth. Poor dental work usually meant poor credit rating.

Good morning to you, sir, he replied, with an exaggerated bow of his head. His English sounded fine. Just the slightest accent. So he wasn’t fresh off the boat. Okay, it was probably still a waste of time, but I’d give him the whole routine. First, loosen him up, try a little chitchat.

Hot enough for you? I said.

Yeah, I know that sounds incredibly corny and stupid, but weather was always my opening remark. People will talk about the weather to total strangers. And if I can get them talking, get them to feel comfortable around me, I have a better chance of selling them a car. Sports are good too, but you have to know who they root for first. I lost one sale when I revealed my Yankee roots and college football ignorance by confusing Florida State with The University of Florida. One’s the Seminoles, and one’s the Gators. Just don’t ask me which.

Well, I continued, It’s supposed to cool off a bit this weekend.

He just smiled and nodded. Okay. Now what? I doubted How ‘bout them Gators? would work here. I needed his name. Sweetest sound to anyone’s ears is their own name.

I extended my right hand. At the same time I reached up with my left to flip up my sunglasses. I was a used car salesman after all, and customers came in sure I was out to cheat them. So I always let ‘em look me in the eye. Then they could see I’m a trustworthy guy, not hiding shifty eyes behind my shades.

My name’s Tommy, Tommy Newman, I said. It was half-true.

He grabbed my outstretched hand, firmly shook it, and raised his wraparounds. Our eyes locked.

My name is Jesus.

I was momentarily speechless. Not a common occurrence in my profession. He pronounced his name Gees Us, just like Sister Mary Frances did, not the Hispanic Hey Zeus. But I didn’t even register that at first. I was spellbound by his eyes. They were so clear and bright, and they had this, this…

Okay, let’s get it straight from the start, so I won’t have to keep repeating it, because I hate the word: twinkle. It’s such a stupid, sissy sounding word. Twinkle twinkle little star. Then I think of Tinkerbelle. Then some little kid hopping up and down and squeezing his crotch with both hands, Mommy I gotta go tinkle! But, as usual, my long ago half-finished college education fails me again, and I can’t come up with a better word. So twinkle it is. Just remember, Jesus always had a twinkle in his eyes.

We both dropped our sunglasses back into place, and I tried to return to my salesman routine.

Pleased to meet you, uh, Jesus.

And pleased to meet you, Mr. Tommy. He actually sounded like he meant it. Weird dude. Back to the script. Helpful, low pressure.

Were you looking for anything in particular? I asked, while mentally reviewing our inventory of small and cheap. I had a ten-year-old Honda Civic, a twelve-year-old Camry, two Ford Escorts, and a high mileage Neon. Gotta be the Civic.

He pointed. Si.

He had pointed to a cream-colored 1985 four door Cadillac Seville with a brown faux convertible roof. Huh? Was he just messing with my head? Like he’d really want that oldfartmobile?

’85 Seville, I said. Yep, a real beauty.

Beauty? Cadillac’s made some classy cars, but this sure wasn’t one of them. It was butt ugly, specifically the butt. The front half wasn’t too bad. Just a typical big, squarish, ostentatious American car. But the designers must have been in a hurry to get to happy hour when it came to the back. Instead of a nice rectangular shape to balance the front, they chopped off the trunk at a 45-degree angle. Didn’t look good fifteen years ago, and looked even worse now. And as ugly as the original car was, the previous owner had compounded the problem by installing a faux convertible top.

Well, mine is not to reason why; mine is just to sell and lie. Not really lie, of course. Just, um, finesse the truth? We walked towards the ugly old beast, and I racked my brain for particulars.

Low mileage, I said. Great condition.

Especially for a car that sat in a garage for five years. It took the widow that long to finally, tearfully, part with it. Flat spotted tires, rusty brakes, engine oil turned to sludge, so much mold and mildew in the interior I actually needed a scraper to remove it. I hoped the three air fresheners I’d put inside were hiding the smell.

Jesus walked slowly around the car. In the bright sunlight the touchup paint I’d applied to numerous scratches and small dents was blatantly obvious. Well, you try matching 15-year-old paint that’s seen its fair share of Florida sun.

Got a couple little dings, I said. See, I’m honest, I’m not hiding anything, trust me, but the body is real sound. Never been in an accident. As far as I knew, anyway.

Can I hear it run? Jesus asked.

Sure can. I opened the driver’s door and the heavy scent of cheap air fresheners and mold momentarily gagged me. The keys were in the ignition, just where I’d left them, oops, yesterday when I scrubbed out the interior. I took one last gasp of fresh air, slid into the seat, and turned the key.

And nothing happened. Not even a solenoid click.

I briefly considered bluffing with see how quiet she runs, but I doubted I’d get away with it. I glanced up at the dome light. It was dark. Which meant the battery was not only merely dead, it’s really most sincerely dead. Odd, it was fine yesterday. In fact I listened to the radio while I cleaned. I remember laughing because they were playing an old Stones song, with the line here comes your 19th nervous breakdown, just as a customer pulled in, and I went to wait on him, and we went for a test ride in an Escort, and I never did get back to the Caddy, which is why the keys were still in it, and - I reached over and turned the radio volume knob counterclockwise; it clicked off – I guess I never shut off the radio, either.

Wonderful.

Is there a problem? Jesus asked.

No, no, it’s nothing. Someone must have left the lights on. Battery’s dead. I’ll just-

Maybe it’s just a bad connection. Pop the hood.

No, it’s dead, believe me.

Jesus stood in front of the car, waiting. I sighed. Waste of time, but I decided to humor him, and prove him wrong. I pulled the release, and watched him lift the massive hood. The upright hood blocked my view, so I couldn’t see what he was doing. Even if the battery cables were loose, how was he going to tighten them without a wrench?

Try it now, he called out.

I shook my head, and turned the key. The engine instantly started.

I hopped out of the car and ran around to the front, where Jesus peered at the grimy engine. What did you do? I asked.

Jesus smiled and shrugged. Not much, he said. Motor seems fine. He pulled the hood down and it clanged shut.

I felt discombobulated. I’d have bet anything that battery was stone cold dead.

Jesus pointed to a handwritten cardboard sign behind the windshield that read $99.00 Down!

Is that true? he asked.

I had to concentrate, get back to the task at hand.

Yes sir. If you meet the requirements.

What is the total price?

Not yet, not yet. As Dwayne would say, gotta hook ‘em before you reel ‘em in.

Sure is a beauty, I said. A real classic car. They don’t make them like this anymore, you know?

And thank God they don’t. Hideous design, inefficient engine that burns a ton of fuel, terrible handling, and shoddy workmanship.

He didn’t take the bait.

So how much is it? he tried again.

Well, do you have a car to trade in?

No.

Good. Because I could imagine what kind of shape it would be in.

You came at a great time, I said. We’ve got a special sale going on through the weekend. And into the next week, and the one after that, and the one after that. Save you 200 dollars.

Wow. So how much?

Normally the next thing to do is find out if he could pay cash, or needed to finance. Very few of our younger customers could lay out enough cash, unless it was a real junker. And he sure didn’t look to be the exception. So moving right along...

Were you thinking of paying cash or financing?

Oh, I have the cash.

He pulled out his wallet and fanned five 20 dollar bills.

See? he said.

Uh, good. Yeah, that covers the down payment all right, but I meant did you want to pay cash for the whole car?

Well, how much is that?

Okay, back to my script.

You know, you’d probably be surprised how little this great car might cost you per month. Right now we’re offering an incredible financing program.

Right. Incredibly high interest rates stretched over an incredibly long term so the monthly didn’t look so bad. A couple of Dwayne’s good ol’ boys ran the program, and they kicked back an incredible finder’s fee for every loan they made.

So how much do you think you could afford per month?

Just give me a decent number to work with, and we’re halfway there. I’d juggle the down payment and years of the loan and make it work. And guess what? He’d be so surprised and grateful he won’t notice he paid the well-padded asking price.

Oh, maybe twenty-five, thirty dollars?

Bonk. Tilt. Wrong answer.

Well, even if we could get you into a five year loan, you’re probably looking at about fifty dollars a month. Can you afford that?

He slowly shook his head no. I reached in and shut off the engine. This time I made sure I took out the keys.

We have a nice Escort over there. Might be easier on your budget. See the blue one?

Jesus looked across the lot, and shook his head.

No, that will not work. I really need something like this one. Could we take it for a ride?

Normally I’d be anxious to get the customer behind the wheel. But I already knew he couldn’t buy this car. Of course I could always humor him, in the hope that he’d buy a different car from me.

Nah.

Well sure, I said. I looked at my watch. Oops, I forgot I have an appointment, so we can’t go right now.

I can come back later.

Of course, I said. But why bother?

Good. Okay. Gracias, Mr. Tommy.

Thanks for stopping by. And wasting my time.

Do you have a business card? he asked.

Yeah, but I try to save them for real customers.

Sure, here you go.

I handed him one. Normally I’d pass out a few, tell the customer to pass them along to his friends, tell him I’d pay him a finder’s fee if he sent me someone who bought a car. But I figured this time it would be just a waste of paper. Gotta save those trees, you know.

Jesus turned and walked towards the road. I wondered where he was going and how he was getting there. I suppose I could have offered to give him a lift. Nah, he got here on his own, he could find his way home. Wherever that was. I watched as he reached the edge of the road, faced the northbound lane, and stuck out his thumb.

Yeah right. Who would give him a ride? Stressed-out Mom and her minivan full of screaming soccer brats? Great Grandma Gerty headed to the hairdresser’s for her blue tint? Cigar-smoking J. Paul the IV and his trophy wife out cruising in their Porsche? Grandpa Goldstein coming back from an early round of golf? None of the above seemed likely to stop in the middle of nowhere and pick up a small dark stranger.

I noticed a shiny black pickup truck coming from the south. Big, bulbous chromed grille: a late model Dodge Ram. I could see three young guys in the cab. White boys. Jesus waved to them. Yeah, right. Like they’d stop? But they began to slow down. Then, just as they drew close, one of the guys threw a super-sized soft drink at Jesus. He dodged the cup, but not the contents. One of the boys yelled, Get a job, you scumbag Guat! Jesus stood there and watched them laugh and high five each other as they sped off. On one corner of the truck cab’s back window was a decal of a wild-haired cartoon kid pissing on the number 24. At the other corner was the number 8. Go Dale Jr.

Well, it could have been worse. Last year, five teenagers were arrested for assaulting migrant workers. They’d drink a case of beer, then find a poor Mexican or Guatemalan and beat the crap out of him with a baseball bat. This worked real well because if you