Sold

He offers the wheel. I decline and ride shotgun. This particular auto has a name that I change here to protect everyone. Let's call it the Box. I point to a square of shag carpet on the Box's dash and ask what's that. "For your phone or music player," he says and tosses his own cell on it and indeed the phone stays put while we whisk around curves on a frontage road. He turns on lights that bounce around the front floor in rhythm with music pouring from the speakers. Seeing my feet in the otherwise dark interior distracts me for a moment. How about the Box's safety features like air bags, traction control, and anti-lock brakes? Yes, it has all of those features and they work fine. Now, let's return to the sound system. We scoot around with smooth, shiftless transmission, then pull into the back lot where plastic covers the upholstered seats of new Box arrivals. My nose picks up the fresh scent in spite of the protection. Send me your inventory list of available colors, but include only those with no racing stripe. I walk to the front where a man leans against the hood of my wagon made before hands free calling and interior atmospheric strobes. It's for sale, I tell him. Thanks but no thanks he replies. I ride home with my radio turned off.