Lemon Dance

What with the recent terror attacks in the United Kingdom, and the elevated threat levels for U.S. airlines, and my new job requiring me to fly, I think I'm going to have to leave some farewell letters in a safe place, should something go wrong. Not that anything will go wrong, until it does, in which case I might feel kind of foolish, except I won't be part of this existence anymore, and probably won't care quite as much.

Here's the thing about these types of letters: ostensibly, the things that I'd want people to know, if I were dead, should be things I should tell them anyway right now. No time like the present. What's going to happen? I'm going to write, sign, and seal these letters... and then what? Am I really going to save them for the proverbial rainy day? Am I just going to go ahead and give the letters out? Am I going to save some, and send others? Won't these letters change everything?

Maybe everything should be changed.

***

We're going to break one of the cardinal rules of Writ in an upcoming sentence, wherein I laud both Dance School and looking young. Sacrilegious, I know (and yes, it took me five minutes to ascertain the correct spelling of sacrilegious. Losing it.). Prepare yourselves, gird yourselves in the armor of truth, for you may not see a spectacle like this again, or until the next time I do this.

Ready? I know I'm not.

An advantage (perhaps the only such) to looking young and having a doctorate in Dancing is that people tend to underestimate me when it comes to things such as contract negotiations. They'll actually talk to me as if I were a small child, expecting me to agree with everything they say. Once I reveal, through several terse, yet salient, questions, that I know more than they do, they get very freaked out and thrown off. F*ck me for being a bastard like that, but f*ck them for making too many assumptions.

Take the other day, when I found myself at a used car dealership looking into purchasing an Infiniti G35. Yes, I'm going to be one of them sooner or later, and I might as well embrace my destiny before modding the sh*t out of that car. The proprietor, almost a dead ringer for Fat Tony from the Simpsons, his brown-stained button-down shirt matching his backwards slouch, told me about the financing options, the deal he was willing to work, and all the other crap. I just kept nodding, even when he suddenly shot forward in the seat and tried to put the thumbscrews to me, telling me that it was a hot car, priced to move, and tens of people had been calling inquiring about it.

Fine, whatever, if they beat me, they beat me. I told him I was still interested, but would need to get it titled in MD (yes, the faint quest continues). After some further talks, he said he would get it inspected, delivered, and his associate would transfer the papers, and I could transfer the money. He does it all the time. I started asking simple questions.

K.T.: Can I get your standard template contract?
F.T.: What for?
K.T.: I want to read it over the weekend.
F.T.: It's a standard contract.
K.T.: I know, I still want to read it.

K.T.: I assume you want a cashier's check during the transfer?
F.T.: Yeah, yeah, of course.

K.T.: Actually, can I get a copy of all relevant documentation related to the transfer?
F.T.: You mean like bill of sale and all that?
K.T.: Yeah.
F.T.: OK, I'll make up some copies.

K.T.: During the actual transfer, if the terms of the contract are unpalatable, will your associate have the authority to change the terms of the contract to my liking?
F.T.: [sputtering] I mean, this is just a standard contract.
K.T.: Yes, but you won't be there. He will. Should the contract contain terms different than those contained in the template, I want to ensure we can rectify that mistake.
F.T: Oh.

At this point, he starts extemporizing, before finally coming up with

F.T: And yes, my associate will call me, and I will authorize him to make the changes.

Somehow, I get the feeling most of the people he deals with really are as old and naive as I look.

I eventually gave up, because the passenger's side seat had some liquid damage, and smelled of human urine. Shame, it would have been fun to screw with F.T. a little more.