I've always been a loner. Books, espresso, quiet evenings in the cave. A few months ago I wandered onto a used-car lot on US-1, just to kick some tires.
The salespeople weren't pushy. They were friendly. They asked about my life. We talked about books, the weather and my existential dread, and an hour later I left with a business card and a promise to come back.
I came back. Then again. Soon I was a regular on every lot in town. I knew the salespeople's names, their kids' birthdays, their teams. I brought cookies.
There was a catch. Each visit, I felt I had to show interest in a car. Sometimes, mid-conversation, I'd find myself signing something and driving off in a vehicle I didn't need.
My garage now holds a coupe, an SUV, a vintage convertible and a minivan. Don't ask about the minivan. I go to salespeople's dinner parties and their kids' soccer games. I've never been so connected.
Is this happiness? A garage full of cars and a heart full of used-car salesmen?
Perhaps. And when the apocalypse comes, I'll have the getaway fleet.
