Hi, my name’s Gary, Gary LeTrans. You probably heard of me. I used to sell Ford Galaxies and Chevy Novas from Kenosha to Temecula, from Waukeegan to Winterfell, and down to the Gates of Moria. Let me tell you something, when I speak ‘friend’ and enter, you know you’re getting a great deal on a new-to-you car. I tell ya, honest to God or may lightning strike me down, I once saw this little blue guy, couldn’t a been taller than two thimbles trying to consecrate their nuptials, and this other really tall guy, all bones, no meat on him anywhere, stooped over like broken branch, and these two guys were arguing. I couldn’t understand half of what the little guy was saying, but I could tell these two were not friends. Y’know what I mean? They were like 2 seconds from throwing punches. You’d swear the little old guy – he had this beard, a really big, white beard, but it looked good on him – anyways, he’s staring down the other tall guy, shouting things that I do not understand, but it must’ve been some curse words, like their local colloquialisms or something. Right when that beaky tall guy was about to step on him, I jumped out of my used like new, ’74, Beige-Red Galaxie and stepped in to the fracas.

“Guys, what’s goin’ on here?”

– That’s me, that’s what I said to them

I don’t think they were expecting to see such a fine specimen such as myself, with my slicked back hair, and my seersucker bell-bottoms (gimme a break, this was the 70’s. It was a different time back then), and with a trunk full of Schlitz, and I said “Guys, what’s goin’ on here?” That’s exactly what I said to them. I remember it word for word, to this very day. “Guys, what’s goin’ on here?”

So anyway, after like 15 minutes of arguing, I finally strike a deal that brings these two clowns together. Turns out, these two guys were tired of car-pooling together, so I started getting in to my groove. Immediately, I pin the little guy as a Nova guy. He might be blue but his temper is red hot, like the latest used Novas, maybe even a Yenko (boy if I could’a got my hands on one of those back in the days…). And other guy, clear Galaxie guy. No doubts. I start rattling off options. Little guy wants brakes. How many? “Four” he says. “Gee, I don’t know, let’s put you down for two and don’t drive over 30. If I find a few more later, I’ll add them on, no charge to you or the Mrs. What about you Lanky McGee? You want air-conditioning? Hey, whoa! C’mon, what is this, Christmas? Look, I got one, right now, with a tail-pipe and gasoline in the back seat. It’s yours, right now, just sign here.” You know what he says to me? He says “how much trade in can I get for this cat?” Never in a million years. Well, that’s two pennies [for the] boatman’s horse right there, ami’right? They settle down, we strike some deals, I make out like a bandit on the financing ’cause I don’t these two even knew what banks were! Hey not my problem. You gotta look out for number one, right? After everything is signed and I schedule delivery of these two mostly used cars, I head back to my car, Gary LeTrans’ personal office and late 70’s love shack, and start pulling away. I think that’s when they started reading the fine print, because the language those two guys were shouting at me would peel paint off a church! “Well smurf you too Gargamel!” I shouted back, and gunned that beautiful engine off into the sunset, getting trapped 5 miles later on the on-ramp of the 110-405 interchange.

Times were easier then. I had a beer in every hand, and a beautiful date in every other hand. My wallet was fat, and my nose was powdered. Disco was king and the Beegees were hitting high notes like I was pushing cold, hard, American steel to every suburban housewife and every Nazgul promoted to upper-management. They say one simply does not walk into Mordor, and why should they when they can drive in style, with the top down, and a beer in each hand, in a new-to-you Ford Galaxie… the suspension is not under warranty, so be careful on the Pass of Cirith Ungol.

But let me tell you, I’m in newspapers now, and it’s no dream boat. No beautiful ladies, no high-revving engines, no rocketing down the highway in an unregulated death trap. Now it’s word counts, readerships, “emerging technologies.” Pshaw… There’s no technology I ever needed that didn’t get me drunk. This business, it sucks the life out of you… or maybe it’s the constant supply of cocaine. Journalists love the stuff, it’s like every day is Christmas and their nose is that greedy little bastard your cousin Sally had on her me-trip to the Dells. And guess who’s Santa? Pablo, Escobar, but we don’t talk about that.

Anyway, between the dwindling readership, changing political climate, hell! the changing climate itself! Newspapers ain’t what they used to be. I wouldn’t know much about that though, but they ain’t like selling cars neither. Nobody expects a free car, but all yous want free newspapers on your FacePhones.

So… I’m cashing out of the business. this is my last piece for this newspaper, the good ol’ Vidalia News Recorder.

Where’s the cocaine? I’m outta here. I gotta feed that trade-in cat before he pees on the rug again.