An Awesome Journey

©2020 All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09831-543-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09831-544-3

DEDICATION

I would like to dedicate this book to the memory of George Orwell, who showed us that sometimes an author can more clearly portray his or her ideas of what the future will be like by writing a novel rather than any other form of literature.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Mike Perry, who helped me create some of the original ideas in this story and also helped me with this current version. Some of the most interesting ideas in the novel are his.

I also want to thank Mark Plus, Pat Durbin, and Magon Kinzie for helping me get this version in its finished form.

WEBSITE INVITATION

You are invited to visit our website: anawesomejourneybook.org.

At this website, you can see more information about this novel and the author. You can read comments from others who have read the book and add your own comments.

At this website, you can email the author. And you can engage others who enjoy a challenging mystery, a dreamy, starry-eyed romance, and a fast-action adventure unfold over time past the singularity--laced with humor and a little eroticism in just the right places.

About the Author:

Mr. Pizer is the retired vice president of the Alcor Life Extension Foundation. And he is currently president of the Society for Venturism.

Contents

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Chapter sixteen

Chapter seventeen

Chapter eighteen

Chapter nineteen

Chapter twenty

Chapter twenty-one

Chapter twenty-two

Chapter twenty-three

Chapter twenty-four

Chapter twenty-five

Chapter twenty-six

Chapter one

Ralph’s chance meeting with Honest John that hot August day in 1955, seemed so insignificant at the time. There was no way that Ralph could have known this simple encounter would lead him to an extremely rare and unparalleled life. And it was all quite by accident.

Ralph was driving west on Van Buren Avenue in downtown Phoenix, the massive ‘49 Buick Roadmaster he was driving was sputtering and heaving from side to side like an elephant with a bad hangover. The engine was sounding awful. Now the car slowed to a crawl, started to rally, then weakened again. Ralph fought a long, losing battle to gather up speed. An impatient motorist honked behind him and shouted something. The engine gave a final death rattle and conked out and now the car was coasting. Ralph aimed for the curb, and the big Buick bumped it lightly as it wobbled to a halt.

Ralph Dombrowski, as a teenager, was not perfect, but he wasn’t as bad as the guy behind him had said. Bright, ambitious—he probably would have earned high marks at West Phoenix High if school hadn’t been so boring. Anyway, school was history now, and it was time for him to start making a living. Besides, he didn’t know if his aunt could afford to send him to college.

All his young life Ralph had wanted to amount to something. His friends were average and Ralph wanted more than that. Sometimes in the cool of twilight he’d drive up Skyline Lane to the top of Camelback Mountain where, in the distance, the lights of Phoenix sparkled over the desert floor like a galaxy come home to rest. Below him, exquisite white-walled mansions decorated the feet of the steep mountain slopes and whispered alluringly of fortunes yet to be made in a thriving, young metropolis.

Ralph was a very good-looking young man. He had short, dark hair and a finely chiseled face with a jaw that signaled authority. Girls often commented on his well-turned, powerful arms, broad shoulders, and hard muscular stomach. But Ralph was more than just a physical specimen. His radiant blue eyes could look right through you and there was something street-smart inside. Girls considered him more than handsome—he had a frank sensuality. He was the solid example of youthful manhood a girl would like to take home to mother—but only after she’d had her way with him.

In spite of his startling appearance, there was a hint of shyness about him, a not-quite-grownup innocence that brought out a woman’s maternal instinct.

At the moment, Ralph’s handsome face was drawn with worry. The damn car was out of gas, and that put the driver on the hook. He shot a frustrated sideways glance through the open passenger window on his right. Twenty feet away stood a man holding a paintbrush and painting on car windshields while talking with a woman whose lithe back was arching toward Ralph. The woman said something to the man, and they both laughed. She wore scanty white shorts and her wavy blond hair plunged down toward her narrow waist like a gold-plated waterfall. Her hips were curvaceous, her legs long, and Ralph thought she really filled out those shorts. She turned suddenly, caught Ralph staring at her picture-perfect behind, and smiled seductively. Ralph was surprised to see someone like her out this early.

The woman was a Van Buren Street prostitute. She knew all types of men—and was weary of all types. Still, as she studied the fine young specimen now blushing in his car seat, she couldn’t help thinking how great he looked. Experience told her he probably had too much going to make a good prospect.

Phoenix, Arizona was an exciting town in the 1950s. It had all the conveniences of a large eastern city, but the palm trees and giant cactus told you it wasn’t one. In the first few blocks east and west of Central Avenue in the main part of the city, stood attractive office buildings, some motels, a few government structures, generally clean and unobtrusive. But as one traveled east, things gradually changed.

East Van Buren Street, three blocks north of Washington Street, ran through the poorest, most rundown part of downtown Phoenix, Arizona. East Van Buren Street was famous for two businesses: selling used cars and the world’s oldest profession. Driving east past Seventh Street, the motorist entered used car row, seventeen consecutive blocks of car lots that finally ended at the iron gate of the Arizona State Insane Asylum. Each lot overflowed with a medley of old cars and trucks, ranging from the common to the rare and unique. A touch of variety was added by an occasional camping trailer or weathered boat. The side boundaries were narrow, and the lots squeezed against each other creating miles of iron jungle. Rows of light bulbs hung quietly overhead on sagging wires, waiting their turn to brighten up an evening. These were flanked by faded old pennants that waved silently in the warm breezes as if mutely trying to cheer them on. On every lot, a dilapidated building or converted mobile home served as an office. New car dealers, the original tenants, had long since migrated north to the new Phoenix area. Now the poor, underprivileged, and minorities came to the row to bargain for wares they could hopefully drive away, not too far from home.

The blonde prostitute was now standing on the corner, trying various seductive poses for the benefit of the passing traffic. The man she’d been talking with had gone back to his painting.

Finally, there was no putting it off. Ralph got out and stood on the curb, eyeing the rough old Buick with disgust. The corners of the massive Buick grill turned down like the mouth of a huge dead beast. Ralph imagined for a moment a giant slack tongue protruding in front and cursed himself for not being more careful and checking the gas before he’d started out, even though that was supposed to be the owner’s responsibility. The temperature must be past a hundred already—a bad day to have to go outside on foot.

Sounds like you’re out of gas, said the man who’d been talking to the hooker. He was now painting a slogan in gaudy orange on the windshield of a bright red ‘46 Ford coupe. ‘’And, it looks like your tie-rods are shot too, judging from the way your car was wobbling." The man pointed toward the Buick with his brush.

Honest John’s Used Cars, where Ralph’s car had come to rest, seemed like a typical Van Buren used car lot. On the front line were vehicles ten to twenty years old, while the next rows consisted of cars a few years older. There was an office, an aging brick building painted over a few times too many in now-peeling shades of yellow and green. Far in back was a collection of pre-war models and really ancient derelicts, which seemed to be leaning against each other to keep from falling down. The cars in the front had newly lettered slogans, like NO MONEY DOWN, E-Z PAYMENTS, or LOW MILEAGE. All were freshly polished, and their glass and chrome sparkled in the noonday sun.

Ralph glanced over to the corner, now to his left, where the prostitute was beginning to shimmy. When any car passed, she would undulate her pelvis, inviting stares from male motorists, causing them to slow down. As Ralph watched, a pickup with three boys stopped at the corner. Smiling, the hooker walked over to the truck and started talking to the boy on the passenger side, whose mouth hung open. Meanwhile the man had finished painting the windshield, placed the brush in a can of thinner on the ground, and was cleaning his fingers with a rag. Ralph approached. Sir, I wonder if I could please borrow a can to get some gas. The man flashed a friendly smile. He was short, stout, and fiftyish, with a bright red-and-white checkered sport coat and a red bow tie. The well-oiled dome of his bald head shone like the polished autos, and short black hair fringed its sides. But the two things Ralph noticed most were the oversized sunglasses with the dark blue lenses, and the huge, friendly smile.

The man extended a stubby, but sturdy right hand. Hi. I’m Honest John, owner of this place. As Ralph reached out to shake hands, he noticed two rather large diamond rings on Honest John’s fingers. How would you like to trade that old Buick in for one of our little beauties? Before Ralph could answer Honest John had opened the door to the Ford coupe. Step over here and check out this interior. I’ll bet you’ll think it’s brand new.

‘’Wait a minute, sir! That car I’m driving isn’t mine. I’m just taking it down to the shop where I work, a company called Golden Coat Auto Paint and Body. I’m a delivery boy. Ralph paused. Not that I’d object to owning one of these fine-looking autos of yours, but it’ll have to wait for now."

The last thing Ralph wanted was to offend the owner of the nearest gas can or telephone. He nodded at the front row of cars and pointed to some of the more interesting ones. They’re sure beautiful, he commented. I see you’ve got a ‘51 Olds Super 88 with the Holiday hardtop, and a repainted ‘50 Ford Custom Crestline, and over there’s a ‘51 Kaiser—I think that’s the Deluxe Traveler model.

Hey, you know your cars, son.

‘Yes sir, but I don’t have the money for one. I just started work a few months ago. I’m sorry I can’t buy one now, but I sure would appreciate it if you would let me borrow a can so I could get some gas."

Honest John flashed his wide smile. The whole lower half of his face consisted of evenly spaced, pearly teeth, and it radiated a warm and sincere friendliness. You won’t need to go anywhere to get gas, he said. ‘’We keep plenty right here. The smile seemed to widen even more. ‘’We never know when we’re gonna run out, too. Honest John turned and called in the direction of the office, Hey Rufus, bring a can of gas up here.

A dark curly head rose above the trunk of an Oldsmobile in the second row. Dressed in oily coveralls, the man had skin black as coal and a big polishing rag in each hand.

That’s my lot boy, Rufus. He’ll bring some gas up here and we’ll have you going in no time. As the black man shuffled off to a big tin building in back of the lot, Honest John added, I’ve had some cars painted at Golden Coat. They done a real nice job. How long you say you worked there?

About two months—although I’m looking to quit. Not that they aren’t nice folks, polite at least, but all I do is pick up and deliver these Junkers for the dealers around here. When I hired on, I thought they were going to teach me bodywork. Instead the job is low paying, and well, uninspiring. Also, dangerous. Every day some old Junker’s brakes give out, or the steering wheel comes off in your hand. Ralph held up an imaginary steering wheel and both men laughed. He continued, The other day I had a Studebaker catch fire while I was delivering it back to Auto Heaven Used Cars—one of our best customers. We paint two or three of theirs a day. Well, I was pulling into their driveway when smoke started pouring out the hood. The door was stuck shut and I had to crawl out the window.

Honest John flashed an interested smile and Ralph went on. I barely got out as flames started spewing out the front end. Then the boss comes out swearing like it was my fault. By the time the fire engine got there the car was burned to the ground, and I was still getting cussed at. Hell, I could have been killed!

Honest John nodded sympathetically. Rufus returned briskly with a five-gallon can of gas and a funnel, a glowing cigar dangling from his lips. Honest John shouted, Put that thing out. You wanna blow us all up? Rufus carefully tapped out the cigar against a nearby light pole while Ralph began to empty the can into the tank.

On the corner, the prostitute had one of the boy’s arms out the window and was stroking his hand up the front of her blouse. The other boys were laughing and hooting.

Ralph finished emptying the gas, glad the car had selected such a lucky site to run out of gas. This dealer seemed so much nicer than most of the ones he picked up cars for. How much do I owe you? Honest John turned to Rufus. How much was in that can? Rufus considered. Musta been least four gallons. Yup, they was four gallons. Can was almost full. Honest John smiled at Ralph. One dollar oughta be enough. Why don’t you see if she’ll start up?

Ralph fished the money out of his wallet, grateful the matter had turned out so well, and climbed in the car. Now, with a minimum of cranking, the big engine rumbled back to life.

Just as Ralph was starting to pull out, an old man came jaywalking across the street right in front of Ralph’s car. The man was really old and sort of staggering. When he came to the curb, he tripped and stumbled but caught his balance right in front of the wiggling prostitute. They both smiled at each other. The sun was hot and the old man was sweating heavily from the heat. He opened his month as if he was going to say something, but then gasped a large breath of air, clutched his chest with both hands, and collapsed on the sidewalk. He lay still on his back.

Ralph got out of his car and ran towards where the old man lay.

Honest John ran into the office to call an ambulance.

Rufus ran to the storeroom where there was a refrigerator with cold water bottles.

The prostitute ran to the old man and squatted over him with one knee on each side of his pelvis. She began to feel for a pulse.

The three boys ran over to watch the prostitute.

Honest John came running back from the office saying, Help is on the way. Rufus came running with the water. Ralph, the three boys, and several others gathered around the old man with the prostitute straddling him. They saw a very strange sight.

The prostitute put her mouth over the old man’s mouth. It looked strange at first, but at closer look, Ralph could see she was breathing into the old man’s mouth.

After she blew some breaths into the old man’s mouth for a minute or so, she straightened her body up and put both her hands flat on the old man’s chest and began pushing up and down. Then she bent lower and breathed into his mouth again. This went on for several minutes. Just as the siren from the ambulance came into hearing range from a block away. The old man coughed, lifted his head a few inches, and gasped in a huge breath of air.

Rufus handed the prostitute the cold water and she had the old man take a few sips just as the ambulance crew ran over to where the old man was now sitting. The crew loaded the old man into the ambulance, while one of the crew was talking to the crowd, asking questions and taking notes. Soon the whole show was over, the ambulance hurried off, the boys headed back to their truck, and the rest of the crowd dispersed. Honest John and Ralph were left alone on the sidewalk contemplating what had happened. The prostitute had told them that as a teenager she had worked in her uncle’s hospice facility, where people died almost every day. There, she had learned that sometimes death could be reversed by the technique she had just demonstrated. One of the boys squirmed, made an ugh face, and said, You put your mouth on that man’s slimy old mouth.

The prostitute walked up close to him, put her face in front of his, and said, Hey dumbass, I whore for a living. Do you think that is the most repulsive thing I have to do? The boy shrunk back, dumfounded.

The prostitute went back to her corner. Honest John went into the office to cool off, and Ralph got into the Buick to take off. As he pulled out, Ralph saw that both the truck full of boys and the prostitute were gone.

Ralph did not realize it at the time, but later in his life, for the most profound reasons, he would know that this whole incident was probably the most propitious life-changing event he would ever have in his life. It would start an awesome journey of story-book quality and rare experiences, that most people will never have and can only dream about.

***

Back at Golden Coat, Ralph had to make his way past two figures in overalls and painters’ masks to Mr. Gold’s office, which was in back near one of the body shop’s pits. The paint fumes always hurt his eyes a little, and he held his breath the last few steps. He would need to explain what the customer wanted done to the Buick, and why he was delayed, and ask for a dollar from the petty-cash box.

Ralph loved cars, and auto shop had been the one class at school he’d always excelled at. When he graduated, he had been quick to land a job. He had worked hard at Golden Coat, careful on the driving and the washing and cleanup, as well. The weekly pay of forty dollars was a good start, but Ralph was hoping for better. For two months he had waited patiently to begin learning to paint. Then he’d nearly gotten burned alive when a car caught fire, and a few days later met a used car dealer wearing diamonds.

The secretary told Ralph to have a chair in the waiting room, as Mr. Gold was on the phone. She would ask Mr. Gold if Ralph could go in when he got off the phone.

Ralph chose an old wooden armchair between a coffee table with magazines and newspapers piled on the tabletop and sat next to one of the better workers from the body shop named Steve, with whom Ralph got along well. Steve was one of the nicer, most competent workers in the body shop.

What are you up to, Steve? Ralph asked.

Just finishing up my break. I got about ten minutes left. I like to relax here because the coolers work the best in here.

Steve seemed engrossed in an article on the back page of a two-day-old issue of the Arizona Republic newspaper. A strange headline, Ralph could see from his seat, read. Crazy Ideas that turned out brilliant.

What’s the story you’re reading about, Steve? Ralph asked.

I started reading an article where IBM intends to make hard drives for computers that could store a whopping five megabytes of information on a hard drive for only $10,000 per megabyte, and they were reducing the dimensions of their better computers from the size of a large room to merely the size of two refrigerators. But then this article just below called ‘The Crackpot Idea of the Week’ caught my eye.

What’s it about? Ralph asked with a smile on his face.

It’s a story about a Japanese science student, Asuka Fuji, who is predicting that Japan will quickly recover from the war devastation of her country and will soon be building computers that are as small as orange crates and can fit on the top of the average office desk. Further, she predicts that within fifty years computers will be so small that people will be able to carry one in their pocket.

Yea, Steve, that’s what I like about the Japs, ten years ago we nuked them twice and now they are rebuilding as if they think they will soon lead or take over the world, again. They got good spirit.

Well Ralph, the most bizarre part is that she predicts within a century or two, big computers will be building small computers that will be so small you can only see them under a microscope. The tiny computers will have infinitesimally tiny robotic arms and legs. The purpose of these tiny-scale technologies will be to build tiny, robotic, computerized devices—smaller than bacteria or viruses—that can live in a human cardiovascular system and move atoms around in human cells. They will be able to build and repair things by moving atoms around.

Sounds like she was too close to ground zero when one of our nukes went off, Ralph said with a chuckle.

Here is the really funniest part, you’ll die laughing when you here this, She predicts that these tiny future devices will be able to keep human bodies repaired at the atomic and cellular level, so people never grow old. People of the future will be biologically immortal. Now isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve heard all day?" Steve threw the paper down and walked away laughing.

Ralph waited until Steve was out of the room and then grabbed the paper, quickly folded the page up, and put it in his back pocket—just in time. The secretary opened the door and peeked in. She told Ralph that Mr. Gold would see him now.

Ralph, I’ve got some bad news. Mr. Gold had started speaking as soon as Ralph opened the door. I thought we had insurance on that car that burned up the other day. Well, I just got done talking with my agent. Seems we got no coverage for this kind of thing. Mr. Gold was known to be shrewd. He was nearly bald, of medium height, with a potbelly, and rounded, sloping shoulders. He had an oversized nose with a mole on the side of it. His eyes were framed by bushy brows with wild gray hairs streaming out. He had blackheads. His teeth were bad. Ralph hated it when Mr. Gold smiled.

Mr. Gold was smiling now. It’s not like you wrecked the car or something. If you had smashed it up, the insurance would pay. But they say since it just caught fire, they won’t. Go figure.

An efficient body shop is constructed much like a giant orchestra pit. The acoustics at Golden Coat’s giant tin building with twenty-foot ceilings were overwhelming and every sound was picked up, amplified, and echoed. Under these conditions, with a little imagination, the slightest noises became like musical notes and joined together they made a kind of music. Sometimes the sound was augmented by a passing car radio or other tones from the outside. The song a body shop sang was not always pretty, but still, if Ralph listened carefully, he could always make out the music. Today, for some reason, it was especially bare.

Mr. Gold was still speaking, Sure, I agree, the wiring must have been bad. Who knew? But still, the insurance company won’t pay. Ralph stood quietly thinking, and then said, "Well, why not call the owner at Auto Heaven and just level with him. Tell him it’s not our fault. Surely, he won’t expect us to pay if it’s not our fault.

Outside the office, the music continued on its normal course. The compressors beat out a quick and regular beat - thud, thud, thud that was joined in harmony by the staccato ack! ack! ack! of an air chisel. The tenor, a high-pitched whirring electrical motor, joined in seamlessly. The overture was accentuated by the occasional bass outcry of a hammer striking a large piece of metal.

Gold sat firmly behind the big desk, arms folded across his chest. That’s not the way it is with car dealers, Ralph. They’re hard men and they won’t let something like this pass. They’re going to want us to pay for that car.

Outside the office, the orchestra played a complicated passage: Thud. Thud. Thud. Acka-acka-acka. Acka-thud. Acka-thud. Boom! Boom! Boom!

That’s not fair, Ralph replied carefully. We shouldn’t have to pay. We didn’t do anything wrong. His voice hardened perceptibly. ‘’Just tell the bastard we’re not going to pay for one of his jalopies that caught fire and cooked itself." Outside, the music became louder. The body and paint men were very busy. Thud. Thud. Acka-acka-thud. Boom. Boom. Acka-acka-boom!

Gold continued. I can’t do that, Ralph. Auto Heaven is too good an account. They give me too many jobs, and I don’t want to lose them. Err, I know it isn’t entirely your fault, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to take care of this yourself. Look at it this way, paying for this is a good thing for you, Ralph. It will help you to be more careful to look and listen for danger signs when you are driving these old cars to and from the used car lots.

The music stopped.

Ralph was in shock. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But Mr. Gold, it wasn’t my fault. I shouldn’t have to pay for something like that—

Mr. Gold’s loathsome face was serious as he broke in. Now Ralph, you have to learn how it is when you accept a position of responsibility. You have to learn to be perceptive to possible problems and prevent them before they become disasters and ...well... you have to become dependable.

The music started again. A drill press whined, joined by the bell-like ding of a small body hammer. Hmmmm, ding. Hmmmm, ding. Hmmmm, ding. A fast but somehow somber tempo.

Gold’s face was stern. Ralph, we don’t have enough profit in these paint jobs to handle something like this. You’ve got to act in a responsible way. I’m willing to help you as much as I can. His expression eased a little. I’ve made a deal with Auto Heaven for you. I’ll pay them directly for the car. Because of the circumstances, they’re letting you have it for what they have put in it—six hundred dollars.

Now a new sound seemed to fill the small office. Its exact point of origin was unidentifiable. It wasn’t just body shop music. This sounded like real musical instruments.

Ralph listened more intently. Could it be? Yes, it was. From somewhere else, it seemed like a violin was playing.

Mr. Gold’s face relaxed completely. ‘’You’re my employee, son. I’m gonna take care of you. I’ll work out a deal for you where we’ll take out fifteen dollars a week from your pay. The hideous face took on a slight compassionate smile. I don’t mind fronting you the money, son. I know you’re a good boy and you’re going to go far in this company. I’ve always helped my employees when I could. Now the smile was very friendly and very ghastly at the same time. Well, son, do you want to do the right thing? Do you want to be a good employee? What do you have to say?"

The violin stopped.

Well, sir, one answer comes to mind, Ralph replied briskly with a thin smile of his own, staring directly into Mr. Gold’s face. Let me tell you what your chances of that happening are, sir. I think you would have a better chance of getting a grizzly bear and stuffing him into a phone booth, and then jacking him off with a hand full of broken glass, than you will of getting me to pay for that death-trap Junker that caught fire or getting me to work here for one more day."

Ralph got up to leave. Mr. Gold’s face was different now. The smile was gone. The jaw was tight. The veins in his neck bulged. Dark rings were forming around the eyes. Ralph thought at any minute smoke might come pouring out of Gold’s ears. He crossed the office and politely closed the door as he left.

There was music outside the body shop too, and it was pleasant. Cars on the street hummed by merrily like church organ music. The warm breeze blew softly through the leaves, and a lone bird tweeted. As Ralph walked farther and farther away from the body shop from Hell, the music swelled louder and became more beautiful.

At the parking lot, Ralph started his old Chevy and eased onto the street. He should have turned west toward home, but then, without consciously thinking about it, instead of west, he turned his trusty old Chevy east in the direction of Honest John’s car lot.

On the radio, according to the deejay, someone known as Elvis Presley, the Hillbilly Cat, was singing a country song called That’s All Right. Ralph had never heard of Elvis Presley, but he remembered the song. That’s all right, Mama! Ralph sang along with the radio when it got to the chorus, wishing he could sing with more conviction.

Sometimes in life, things happen for a reason. You just don’t always know what that reason is right away. Perhaps it is fate, or God, or luck—good and rarely bad, but when this happens, especially if you are a strong-willed person, it is best to go with the flow, and listen for the quiet voice inside that silently but with bold confidence says, Trust Me.

And at that moment, as Ralph’s car pulled into Honest John’s Used Car lot. An awesome journey was on.

Chapter two

Ralph parked his car and walked to the office. If the outside of Honest John’s car lot had looked well-organized, Ralph thought as his eyes adjusted, the inside might charitably be termed shambolic. In the main room of the building, electrical wiring sprouted everywhere. On close inspection this seemed to be caused by a shortage of wall plugs. Every original outlet had a multiple plug adapter stuck into it, the sort that made six plug-ins out of two. Along the linoleum floor were electrical cords of various colors going to a television, an adding machine, a radio, a wall clock, a coke machine, a portable oven, a hot plate, a dirty white refrigerator, a toaster, two table lamps, and an old record player. Wires ran across the floor and crawled up desk legs where appliances waited. Wires held with strips of tape ran up the wall and over the ceiling to reach other parts of the room.

The rest of the room was just as indecorously utilitarian. A wooden desk stood by the front door with several chairs around it. Against the wall was a large table covered with papers and paperweights and ashtrays. There was a peeling bookshelf, which evidently served as a filing cabinet and storage shelf. Another dusty desk sat sullenly in a far corner, piled high with stacks of yellowing ledger cards and manila folders. The room smelled of tobacco and was unoccupied.

Two open doors were visible. The closest led to a back room, which turned out to be a kitchen decked in peeling, flowered wallpaper. It now became obvious that this building had once actually been a house. The kitchen had a stove, another refrigerator, and a green enamel sink.

May I help you, sir?

Ralph started as if caught in some illegal act. The voice came from behind, and he turned to find a short thin man who looked to be of Mexican descent standing in the other doorway. The man wore a pale-blue summer-weight sport coat, a beautiful blue silk tie, and a very stately straw hat. Although he did not appear much over forty, the hair that showed under the hat was silver and distinguished, perhaps because the man had a thin silver mustache. Now he stood straight with a look of pride and dignity, waiting for Ralph to speak.

‘’Ah, yes, you can, said Ralph heartily, trying to cover his embarrassment. Can you tell me where I can find the owner, Honest John?"

Excuse me sir, but perhaps are you looking to buy a car? The small man spoke in a soft voice without accent. Because if you are, I can help you.

No, Ralph answered in what he hoped was a steady tone, I’d like to see him on a personal matter.

‘’You don’t have any papers for him, do you, sir?"

The gentleman cocked his head. Is it legal business?

Ralph was beginning to get annoyed. No, it’s nothing like that. Just tell me where I can find Honest John. I have some business with him on my own behalf. Believe me.

Through the outside door came the sound of a car driving in the lot, perhaps it was a customer. The little man looked annoyed himself, then pointed to the other room door as he headed outside. Through there, sir, then in the back.

Ralph entered the side room, also unoccupied, and picked his way through piles of old tires, car wheels, cardboard boxes of auto parts, and other odds and ends. A window with slightly closed blinds admitted slanting sunbeams across the floor, lighting dust motes along the way. At the back stood two more doors, one to a bathroom that was partly open, exposing a sink stained with grease and dirt. The other door was closed. Ralph walked over to the closed door and knocked.

Come in, a voice replied. Ralph opened the door and there sat Honest John.

The office, which Ralph guessed had once been a bedroom, was very neat. A nice desk sat against one wall. There was a metal filing cabinet against another wall. Built into the third wall under a curtained window was a small room-size refrigeration unit that hummed softly. There were a large green couch and several varnished wooden chairs. The room was very clean and cool.

Honest John put his cigarette out in the ashtray, stood up, and extended his hand. A big smile flashed across his face, exposing perfect teeth. ‘’Well, if it ain’t the kid who knows cars! How ya doin’, kid? He seemed genuinely glad to see Ralph. Close the door, you’ll let the heat in."

Ralph shut the door quietly. I just stopped by to talk. Got a minute?

Sure, have a seat. What’s on your mind?

Ralph sat, swallowed, and began. ‘’Well, sir, you know that story I told you, about the car catching on fire? Honest John nodded as Ralph continued. Mr. Gold gave me a very hard time about that. He said the man that owns Auto Heaven wanted me to pay for that obviously defective car. As if it was my fault. Mr. Gold wouldn’t back me, or anything. Six hundred dollars. I’m not donating 40 weeks of pay for something that wasn’t my fault."

Honest John pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. They wanted you to pay the cost of the burned car? Ho, Ho! Great story, kid. Now I have heard ‘em all.

Ralph relaxed a bit. Suddenly he felt enormously better, as though a great weight had dropped from his mind. The man in front of him was no fool about the auto business, and apparently Ralph had done exactly the right thing.

He went on with a bit more confidence. Mr. Gold tried to make it sound like it wasn’t completely my fault. But still, he tried to cheat me. I told him to bug off and I quit right there. Now I need a job, and there’s something about this place that interests me.

Honest John smiled a kind, knowledgeable smile. I see. He looked at Ralph seriously. ‘’Well, it’s like this. I’ve already got a good lot boy. He may not seem like much, but..."

Ralph interrupted. I’m not talking about a lot boy, sir. I want to be a salesman. Someday, I’d even like to have my own place, just like yours. I’d be a fool not to see you’re doing very well at this.

Honest John blinked. His hands came down. Ralph could see what the man was thinking. Few people appreciated the beauty of an operation like his. All they saw were old cars and clutter. It was obvious that Honest John took Ralph’s words as a sincere and heartfelt compliment.

I am doing okay. You’re right about that, in fact, better than okay. Hmmm. You have any experience selling?

Ralph paused. His street smarts told him that his next answers would be very important—maybe even the most important thing he would ever say in his life. ‘’Yes, sir, I’ve sold magazines, and I had a paper route when I was a kid. I’m a hard worker and I can be depended on. I’ll make you money, sir, and I’ll never cause you problems, not the kind that are my fault, anyway."

Honest John sat quietly.

Ralph continued, his voice very solemn, ‘’And, you can count on me, sir. I always tell the truth."

How old are you?

Twenty-one, Ralph lied, knowing he looked older than his age. Even at twenty-one a business owner would consider him young for an important sales position.

Son, you’re pretty lucky. Honest John was thoughtful. I just lost one of my best salesmen the other day. I normally keep three. Two can’t handle all the ups.

Can’t handle what, sir?

Honest John smiled. "We take turns waiting on the customers here. When a customer comes in, whichever salesman hasn’t taken a customer yet gets to wait on this one. He is ‘up.’ He waits