very loud very bad music on outdoor speakers; inside there were bowls of pathetically over-picked ruffled potato chips; sausages were promised. (I am a vegan, I muttered, darkly. Popcorn was invoked. ) The outdoor music was so loud I thought of the FBI's psycho-warfare against the Koresh Branch Davidian compound; men in stiff suits milled on the sidewalk -- Mormons ? Undertakers ? No.
Car salesmen.
But I had an epiphany.
I was entering a world with its own set of rules and procedures. Its own scripts. The men (they were all men today) working in it have their own agendas, processes, rituals, goals. Like in medicine. I expect patients to undress and don johnnies. I expect them to tell me certan things, and to allow me to touch them, to invade their rectums and vaginas for God's sakes ! I feel irritated by (but try to accommodate) patients who can't tolerate the "rules" -- and a lot of it IS empty ritual.
I know the goals of selling a car and of providing healthcare are not comparable.
But I decided that, insofar as it is possible, I would abide by the "buying a car" rules and rituals. And be polite. DK was chafing, pissed, wanted to bolt. More men kept arriving, each some sort of sub-manager, each with clipboards, promises, suggestions, attempts to pin us down to cars, timetables, appointments, anything. Many had that hairstyle, that upgreased spiky one, that seems au courant. They were large and hearty.
People who sell cars have a pretty lousy job, and I'm going to try and keep my inner crank in a Gorian lockbox during this whole ordeal. It will not be easy w/ DK at my side.
Needless to say, we didn't buy one today.
The horror.
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