You really auto hire me.

Cars, that’s my field. All cars, all shapes, all makes, all models, all-wheel drive, all-ternators. You name it, I’ve named it. And then some - naming it, that is.

I’ve driven them all, or at least watched them drive by - sometimes on the road. Well, mainly on the road. OK, always on the road.

I’m a master at openings - like the doors, the trunk. I’m working on the gas tank latch. I’ve nearly got the hood to open - or “popped” as we like to say in the auto biz.

I hear about the Auto Mile in Norwood, and I know it’s a cinch. Must be autos there, I tell myself. And where there’s autos, I figure, there’s just got to be cars.

I come on down to a big dealership, which will be the lucky one to hire me.

“Can you sell?” they ask me.

“Do Eskimos eat rice?” I answer.

“OK, then,” the suit says. “What do you think of catalytic converters?”
 “I don’t think religion has a place on the lot.”

A precise answer, I think. They don’t hire me – afraid I’d show them up, I’m sure.

But the Mile, as it’s known in the auto biz, is pretty long. A mile – or more. And I’m not talking a mere Kilo-motor here.

My next pit stop was not too far away - just around the corner, as we say in the auto biz. I hit the road, put the pedal to the medal, put it in gear, and steer clear. I was in the driver’s seat and firing on all cylinders. Yes, I just couldn’t wait to get to the next idiom.

But then I remembered that my wallet was running on empty, so I upped my ante – my uncle was out of town - and gave another dealer a shot.
    “So you think you can sell here, huh?” the suit (different color, no relation) questioned with a questionable question. “OK. Let’s see you charge a battery.”

“Done it a million times,” I smiled. “Visa or Mastercard?”

Well, I thought 30 seconds later, that was quite a short interview. I’m taking it that his, “We’ll let you know,” is the way they say “You’ve got the job.” In the auto biz, that is. My biz. Autos, that is.

Just to be on the safe side, I pull into one more lot. This one, I feel it down to my tailpipe, is the one. It’s the one I waited for all my life, the ideal match. I’m nervous, but I’m sure I can get these wheels spinning off the lot. The owner himself comes out to greet me.

“Welcome to Ricky’s Rollerblade and Tonka Truck Stand,” he says. “I’ll talk to you soon, but now ma says it’s time for bed.”  

Stuart Green is a freelance columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].