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We were on our way. This seems silly now, but there’s something so special about your first car. I guess it’s just such a huge step towards total independence. My heart was pounding, and I had butterflies in my tummy. Dad’s voice broke in on my thoughts.
“How much do you want this car?”
“More than anything.” Well, almost, I thought, suddenly remembering my first sight of Peter’s penis as he dropped his shorts, a reminiscence I wasn’t about to share with my father.
“Not as much as the dealer wants to sell it. Let’s talk about the gentle art of negotiation.”
Dad drove the little Morris Minor out of the car yard. I think Bruce would have had a heart attack if I’d tried. And in any case I felt so nervous I probably would have backed it into one of the other cars for sale. But as soon as we were out of sight, Dad stopped the car, walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and said “Move over.” He got in, pulled the plastic dealership sign off the windscreen, where it had been stuck with four suction cups and put it away out of sight in his jacket.
Dad wrote down another figure on one of Bruce’s pieces of paper. He showed it to me. It was exactly the trade-in price plus twenty percent. He put it down on Bruce’s desk and wrote our phone number underneath it. “That’s our best offer.” He was all brisk businessman. “Phone us if you change your mind.” He got up and walked out and I, remembering my promise, got up and went with him. “That noise,” said Dad, though I hadn’t heard anything, “was the sound of our friend’s jaw hitting the floor.”
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