A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  “Yes, I believe I have heard of that rating as it relates to the condition of a car. My understanding is that Concours d’Elegance is showroom perfect, or maybe a bit better.”

  “I can’t vouch for that. I can vouch for its condition, which is Concours d’Elegance. And I can vouch for actual mileage of a hundred ten.”

  “Thousand.”

  “Miles.”

  “A hundred ten miles?”

  “Vouchsafed.”

  “And the price?”

  “What is the budget?” Touché; no man of a superior nature wants to freely express his limitation.

  “Precisely. Can you please tell me the number of dollars that should appear on the bank draft?”

  “I have to see. The market does change and can change quickly on these vintage classics of extreme rarity and extreme excellence, and this car will not likely come along again in our lifetime. It will be somewhere in the mid-four range.”

  So ensues another silence, as if to see which stature might rise to stratospheric indifference on the price of a thing. Straining the line is the question the fellow wants to ask but can’t: does the mid-fours refer to hundreds of thousands, or millions? Well, it really should make no difference, considering the magnitude of respect, regard, and spiritual debt owing to Mister Cienega, a social, cultural debt that could never be repaid in a simple …

  “That would be four point three to four point seven.”

  “Yes. Of course …”

  “Let me see what I can do. Can I call you back in a few?”

  “Of course. I’ll stand by.”

  Only Mulroney is often sung to the tune of Only the Lonely, and Mulroney sings it, noting improved pitch on a sleep-deepened voice with less effort than, say, in the shower or rolling down the road. Still drowsy, he carries on like a crooner. He can’t actually carry a tune, but he scores again, dialing direct to the Doozy dealer’s home phone to learn that the car is still available, and yes, three point eight can take it. “What? Whaddaya got? Talk to me.”

  A call back to the original inquiry opens on unctuous cordiality, including the weather and prospects for more. They agree wholeheartedly on the blessed relief of the weekend approaching and review a few activities we’re all so fond of, like, for example, walking along under sunny, blue skies. Or viewing fabulous views. And the great blessings of lasting friendship and decent family values. But somewhere this doily shuffle must find a point. Each party is determined to postpone the meat until the hors d’oeuvres are thoroughly picked over, with a few flies buzzing around. Another ring in Mulroney’s head reverberates like a familiar bell, going into Round Ten. These are the championship rounds. He feels intact, all systems stable, and he knows how to wait for the opening on the knockout punch, because it will come, surely as pride cometh before the fall. With ring wisdom Michael Mulroney can be a Heavyweight Champion in the World and cure life’s niggling shortfall on one fell stroke of a used car on an incoming call. He could call this a laydown or a bend over, but in these times of life and death as they relate to reputation for service and product knowledge, he can only call it providential. A half-million dollar margin is sitting on the table. It not only glows, it flashes like a lightening bolt, if only a closer of stellar caliber can harness the power—can raise Thor’s hammer and strike! And bring this motherfucker home.

  Of course, the devil is in the doubt, and questions buzz like stray static in the clouds: who in the world keeps a half-million dollar margin a secret on a deal that feels damn near public? Will this gouge come back to haunt? Could a very sweet deal make all parties happy parties on, say, four point oh, or even three point nine? Minus federal, state, local, and out-the-ass taxes, rendering a net of chickenshit point one. Why bother? Why pussyfoot around with a Band-Aid on a compound fracture, when a splint and a transfusion are indicated? A half mil could loosen the screws like no tomorrow, could turn this slow descent on a Judas cradle into a waterslide to Paradise. But then …

  Even chickenshit point one could warrant a price drop on the house to get that lump o’ coal off dead center and get the Brady Bunch or the harpies or anyfuckingbody in here to get the show out of hock and on the road. The obvious truth of the numbers on the table flashing in effervescent reality is that a man must make a living, be it honest or otherwise, and these are corporates on the buying end—or else they’re family fortunes or otherwise capital conglomerates feeding much as a lamprey or other bloodsucker on the body collective, doing what comes naturally to balance the system. So what? What will it be? A hun? Three hun? Or half a unit? This is action, on the fly.

  Mulroney describes the Duesenberg as the most delectable entrée a person could possibly imagine, as beyond fantasy and perhaps the perfect iota for the man who has everything and then some—buying time, he carries that tune, as he was trained to do and could do blindfolded, formulating the perfect pitch on a soft drop all the while, until a stray arc jolts him into saying, “… it came on last month at four point three, and I’m told a few offers are in process as we speak. It’s rare, and it’s new. A hundred ten miles. I offered three point eight. Do you want it?”

  Into the silence that can only be called preggers, the two men measure each other in terms of magnitude, fortitude, verisimilitude. In Mulroney’s corner, unspoken terms are harsh: What, this bonehead thinks I’m bluffing? But a man of extreme skill will often overlook his extreme efficacy in the clutch. The affected fellow on the far end sizes up the Big M, the situation, and the numbers, and he finally speaks. He does not say yes, we’ll take it.

  He says, “I beg your pardon. It’s so late, and I do get excited, you know, until I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Runnymeade Runyan.”

  Perhaps you’ve heard of me? At least he has the good taste and forbearance to avoid verbalizing the question. Moreover, he demonstrates non-specifically that the vintage classic automobile suggested may indeed have extreme wow and will be acceptable under the terms offered. His warmth and carefully chosen language also indicate acceptance, such as it is or can be in such a rarified class of person, of whom Michael Mulroney may be blended into the fold, as it were.

  The half-million dollar price drop becomes a donation fit for the gossip wire by sunrise. As casually cavalier as a caviar canapé on toast, hold the crust, Big M becomes ensconced with the values we believe in—while he sleeps. As a new player on the block with brilliant potential, Mulroney gets another phone call early the next morning, at an hour Mulroney would find distasteful, which distaste he would demonstrate by answering the phone, The fuck you know what time it is? But luck holds, even up from the depths at hazardous speed, as he fumbles the phone to the point of moaning, “Hullo.”

  “Oh, hello. Runny Runyan here.” And that’s how it is in the top drawer, neat and orderly but snug and snuggly too. Runnymeade “call me Runny” Runyan describes Mulroney’s loyalty as most effective at a level rarely seen in America since the halcyon days of our President, Ronald Reagan. “And I must say …” He must say that the home crowd is tickled fucking pink with prospects for such a wonderful toy for our great friend Lombard Cienega—that a couple of the fellows actually heard about this car, they thought, but couldn’t believe it to be real, yet alas, it is! Mister Runyan did not say fucking, but Mulroney could hear it, given the masterful nuance and silky inflection and perfectly ambient ooze, like soft-boiled eggs at room temp. “We can’t wait to see the look on his face! But the reason I’m calling is, well, yes, I know it’s early for some of us, but actually a tad late for others, if you get my meaning. But at any rate some of us were chatting, you know, and your name, Mulroney, is bouncing off the walls at State Party Headquarters. I mean, not actually at HQ per se but off the walls figuratively speaking, of course, of those of us in a position of, shall we say, interest.” So ensued the next silence in a series of silent interludes, these silences sparing any iota of one-up. Rather—oh, brave new world—they sizzle in searing excellence.

  For starters, Mulroney is speechless. Runny Runyan
thrusts the baton further out front, proclaiming as if to a crowded auditorium, “We need men of your caliber in the legislature. I’m talking Federal, of course. That would be the U.S. Senate. We see you, and you’re up, which should not be to suggest an automatic in, but then again, you know. That is, your name is in the hopper. We’ll be in touch.”

  Yet again, Mulroney hasn’t a syllable to say. He has distinct thoughts: that it isn’t his place to say that he doesn’t feel like a Democrat, what with the lefty whining and spending, but he can’t be a Republican either, given the slime. And he can’t see running for the U.S. Senate from California if he’s moving to Hawaii. But then a U.S. senator mostly lives in Washington, which could be worse than California in many ways and is certainly not tropical. Then again, he could be Senator M from the great state of California and hang out on the beach on Maui and work shit out from there and just skip the voting on the Senate floor. One vote; how big a difference could it make? And surely nobody would wonder why he’d rather be in the tropics instead of Lodi or Sacramento or D.C. So, maybe he’d give it a go.

  On the serious side, he wonders why he left a half million dollars on the table when he could have solved his problem posthaste, at least for a few more months. Fending off regret, he knows why: because of the far greater return with this bunch, maybe. This talk of the U.S. Senate is smoke up the wazoo—Runnymeade Runyan knows it but may not yet realize that Michael Mulroney knows it too.

  As if amused at the dazed comprehension of a man thrust into greatness by the select steering committee, Runnymeade Runyan breaks this silence with a warm chuckle and comfortable phrasing, “Yes, well. We’ll be in touch.”

  As if Runny Runyan will be delivering the vintage classic to Mulroney. Ah, well. It’s all pie in the sky till the moolah clears. And the beauty of making no money on the deal is that the ultimate closer doesn’t give a flat flying fuck if it closes or not. Gee, how did Mulroney get so Big?

  Repressing the big question of dollars left on the table and why, Mulroney rises to another question with a far better range of answers. Why does he feel so good? Or good at all? California is miraculous and so is the healing process.

  He stands up, hardly taking the full count.

  He flexes his legs and hands, toes and fingers, and feels that pain has taken a holiday on a morning of azure clarity, on which potential seems fabulous all over again. He literally assures the ref, “I’m okay. I’m good.” Rarely have sunbeams converged so poignantly on a man so recently grappling with life, self and the circumstance therein. He wakens in a balm of color and light, as if God is his cut man. He dreamt vividly, something about boxing, but can’t remember what, except for snot and spit flinging over the top rope on a roundhouse right.

  He shuffles to the bathroom robotically to take a whiz and wonder: What, the California Republican Party is thinking of running the ultimate used car salesperson for the U.S. Senate? That sounds like an eleven to one shot in Vegas. Then again, it is a ’37 Doozy ragtop with a hundred ten miles. You could eat off those heads. You could slide in behind the wheel and feel like 1937 all over again, which may be the year Ms. Betty Burnham and Lombard Shenanigan and Runny Nose Onion have in mind right now, harking back to a time BEW, Before Extreme Wealth. Shaking the dew, he laughs: rich, old fuckers. Laughter is a symptom of something new, but he doesn’t test it.

  The morning miracle continues through a brief span of minutes, in which the man grinds the beans and fills the hopper and tamps it down and twists it into place and pushes the buttons to make the espresso and steams the milk to make it a latte. It’s a quiet time, delicately delineated by morning sounds: birds chirping, a car passing, Allison up and about. She’s happiest in the morning, fresh and energetic and most of all optimistic. She’d rather be happy and usually is. Mulroney maneuvers the parts into the process for the little cup o’ joy that will bring him up to his own potential for happiness. The body is too stiff and sore for another ride, no matter how clear the blue, blue sky or how great the potential for personal improvement. Allison never gets exercise, but then she never rests either. Lithe and limber as a pussy willow, she’ll come around soon, so they can share the same happiness again, perhaps, once things get moving out of the rut they’ve come to—out of the rut he’s driven them into. It’s temporary, or should be. Big M Mulroney is not a fool or foolhardy. He knows his safety nets, and though he’s fallen through one or two or three, he has a few left to break the fall, including the big one. That would be liquidation. Even at pennies on the dollar for goodwill and auction prices on inventory, he could still keep his shirt on—and maybe her shirt too—with enough left over for a couple tickets to Hawaii, first month, last month and damage deposit. He pours the slightly foamy milk over the magic elixir for the taste of renewal. Maybe it’s psychological, but the eyes open wider on that first sip, as if to see more. Are you kidding? Mulroney without resources? Do you happen to know of a used car lot, say, in a hundred mile radius? Aloha, I’m Mikale, and I’d like to show you the sweetest ride this side of the Pacific High. How often over the years has a true blue double threat representing the front end and the close wished for one more play on the sales field, to show these kids how to open the hearts, minds, and wallets of a lovely couple in need of basic transportation?

  Setbacks happen, and then they’re done. Or not. What can a man do, stress out?

  The Chambers Brothers said it best on action relative to indecision: Time Has Come Today. Mulroney has a hunch that Betty B is on elbow-rubbing terms with the Cienega/Runnymeade bunch and may have an inkling of potential magnitude on peripheral return—or any return greater than zero. Damn! What was he thinking? So close, and now it’s done. Then again, with a niggling questionable move shrinking in his wake on each step, Mulroney trods onward. Ahead lies resolution with emphasis on clarity.

  Walking up the road overlooking the ocean, he thinks the view from the top too casual and convenient for a man to stroll, as if this path at this height in this rarified neighborhood is not in the world but is removed, isolated, detached, immaterial. No, scratch immaterial. It’s way material. Just so: any man or woman could walk this stretch without four-wheel drive or Sherpa guides, but they don’t. What, they’ll park at the corner, get out and walk up the road and then walk back? No. A man in his own neighborhood—this neighborhood—is financially secure, or he has the paper stacked just so, to reflect security till the end of the month. He lives in a bubble. What do bubbles do? Theoretically, a man at the top needs to meet no challenge, except by choice, to soothe a challenged ego. In reality he could walk up this road and back forever, viewing the fabulous panorama with endless sighing. But this isn’t reality; it’s the unreality of the exclusively affluent, and as clear blue as the sunny skies might be, the bubble has popped.

  Mulroney wants to shuffle down to the flats, where the world turns by manual control, where winning and losing are uncertain instead of prearranged or calculated for optimal control of dollars as they may influence the future and its beneficiaries. Is it any accident that the rich get richer? No, it’s not. Does that source of irritation make Mulroney a lefty? Perhaps, but he feels confident that the grovelers and whiners down in the flats will irritate the bejesus out of him as well, likely by the third beer. Now there’s a challenge, and the outing shapes up. He wants to descend back into the real nitty gritty, where the burgeoning Big M cut his teeth and dug in on initial ascent. Who was it? Yes, the rabbit, Br’er Rabbit, who said it best: Why, I was born and raised in the briar patch! And so he was, and Mulroney was too, and together they’ll walk down to the flats whistling Zippity Do Da. That walk will require a climb back up unless a ride comes along. The downhill mile won’t be too bad, but the mile back up will be a grunt. And he might miss the Brady Bunch or the harpies cruising by for another look. Or, he could be unavailable when a correct offer comes in. That’s okay and would perhaps be the cornerstone of a takeaway, that maneuver close to the heart of the global-sales-elite who best understand desire and how
to work it for fair advantage. Beyond that, prospective buyers might see Mulroney out for a stroll without a care and imagine themselves in that role—they’ll see him on brief respite from the Life of Riley at the top of ridge overlooking the bay on the central coast. Who wouldn’t think it fabulous, to possess the eagle’s roost at the tippy top? Envy, as well, might precipitate an offer as yet unseen. Mulroney can’t help a self-satisfied smile, imagining an observer with a thought bubble that reads: Gee, I’d like to be that guy. Then he frowns to better fend off the vanities. Then he waves to an SUV full of people who may well be house hunting, and he calls, “Hello!”

  Yes, down to the flats, which descent will begin just up and around, once past Betty B’s place, where a milestone will mark a momentous journey on what should be a memorable day.

  A great benefit of cycling is the efficient decoction of life down to fundamentals. Exercise is a known antidote for anxiety. A rider is inured to negativity and distraction when he’s gasping, looking up at another half mile of the steeps. What can he do but relax and maintain, muscle and bone, push and pull, ebb and flow, down to oxygen, blood, flex, release and guidance through the aerobic target heart range? Nada is the short answer.

  And here it is, hardly by coincidence in this most recent inventory of riding and life fundamentals: Betty Burnham’s house. Is that fresh brewed coffee on the breeze? That will be delightful and a certain boost on this special morning, on which Mulroney will ask for a loan.