Yen For Cars

Yen For Cars

       By Douglas Carthorse

                        o to be in Tokyo

                        moment of the groundswell

                        brought waves of smoke

                        fraught with effluent

                        those stacks so close

                        to that most private place

                        that humber’s not

Yitsi Yashumi paid for the vehicle in full. He drove it out of the parking lot and into the street. At the first turnpike half a mile further he took the left-hand exit and sped up to eighty kilometers. The speed sign recommended forty. He wished to put the car to its limits, to swing sharply and cleanly through the sweep and feel its handleability. As the curve progressed it tightened, and still Yitsi kept his foot on the accelerator. Rain had wet the pavement and without warning the wheels let go and he slid into the curb. The bounce and bump told Yitsi, after a few seconds of disbelief, that his new belonging had been badly damaged. He would not be able to drive away unscathed. He shook his head and sat there. Then he got out and looked. The front wheel was bent in a painful way. Yitsi got in again and drove backwards. The car balked but went. It went forwards, too, with the same reluctance. He drove this way the half mile back to the automobile center. They looked at him and at his car with amazement.

       “What happened?” a salesman said. He wore a grey suit and an out-there tie. His shoes were polished and of a burgundy color. His greying hair had not one strand out of place. Yitsi was bald. Tall, thin, hairless, and with running shoes that needed to be replaced. He always felt conspicuous on the transit bus with these on. When he got to his place of work he switched to loafers immediately.

       “It had rained on the turnpike and I took it a bit fast and slid into the curb,” he pleaded. He cajoled, whined, winced, boasted, whispered, kept silence, assumed authority, intoned indifference, and called for cheap repair in that single sentence. He stood looking at the damage in contrition and his stance asked for understanding, nurture, good-will, conciliation, cooperation, charity and brotherhood.

       “That will cost two, three thousand dollars to repair,” the salesman said after a minute’s reflection. He nodded towards Yitsi, took a step away from him and regarded him with candid coolness.

       “And that’s a lot of money,” the salesman added. He chided, spat, withdrew, hurt, expectorated, was snide, washed his hands of the whole affair, invited new expenditure, and tossed Yitsi on a pile with this one statement. Another customer entered, and then another, and a third. The salesman took a small step away from Yitsi and turned towards the new clients. Two other salesmen, who had been observing the discussion from a small distance, moved over toward them as well.

       Yitsi waited a long while before addressing the salesman again. The salesman had not seen him sidling up. The sound of Yitsi’s approach told the him that Yitsi was hopeful, wished for service, expected temporary ignoring, need wise advice, cared for others, grew up respecting the activities of all individuals, had engagements pressing, would not call his girlfriend tonight, tended postponing bowel movements, had never shouted out obscenities, frequented dollar ninety-eight breakfasts weekends, and lived in Transcona.

       “What if I don’t want the car anymore?” Yitsi said. The saleman did not answer him. His silence told Yitsi a great deal. It refused to hear, broke wind, spent time alone on a beach, hated people, required preening, used the bathroom more often than normal, and likened humans to cattle.

       “Would you take it back?”Yitsi inquired. His question spoke of unrequited love, wild rides on rollercoasters, unbridled longing, rebuffed paramours, hours waiting for a phone call, laughing out suddenly in a silent movie theatre, working more hours with less pay, waiting for the neighbor’s Doberman to leave the front so he could retrieve the morning paper, and having his wife abandon him with the children for good on Christmas Eve.  

       “Yes,” the salesman said, indicating by tone numerical calculation, extra sales figures for his personal quota, the placid study of a sucker, three suits to bring to the cleaner’s, a stop at the wine shop on the way home, business connections, and travel to some place warmer.

       “We could take it back, but you know the car is not new now. The moment you drive it off the lot you lose two thousand. The accident adds another two or three thousand for labor and parts. The depreciation because of the accident is another four thousand. That’s nine thousand. You could get back fourteen. We’ll do it for you as a favor. You’ll have to sign a waiver. I’ll go get it. But, let’s hurry it up, shall we?” He walked to an office and came back with some papers. Yitsi looked at him, looked at the papers, looked at the salesmen waiting by the parts counter, looked at the customers examining the green and blue sports vans in the showroom, and then wrote down his name.

       “At least you didn’t have to pay in yen,” the salesman said. He showed his sense of finance with these words. He indicated his understanding of foreign peoples, his take on purchasing and earning, his view of the human soul, a sense of separateness from the discoveries all people make frequently in their waking hours and the desire to have the deal done with and out of the way.

       Yitsi stood at the bus stop for thirty minutes. He took the bus home the ten miles to Transcona. He walked up to his apartment and looked out over the train tracks, almost empty of movement or boxcars. Feeling quaint, faint, sweaty, tired, alone, cold, needful, sleepy, wrung out, wide, tall, thin, flexible, barefoot, uncentered, shod, bendable, rigid, and certain, he spoke finally.

       “At least I didn’t have to pay in yen.” He closed the curtain and turned his face into the room.