I rolled into Enterprise at 11:30am, parked the vehicle, and walked into the office. Another young man patiently waited in front of me, at the counter. I hung back and listened as a smooth-talking sleazy salesman type--27 going on 40, wrinkled cheap suit, inability to make eye contact--was in the middle of a pitch. He spoke into a phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, as he typed something into a computer.
"Yeah, I mean, I got nothing right now. We're slammed. I could give you a pick-up truck. I could give you a pick-up truck for $40, just to get it off my lot, you know? No sense lettin' it sit around takin' up space, might as well get it on the road."
A middle-aged couple, clearly from out of town, came into the office. I was immediately glad to be in front of them; they looked like the type who never do anything fast, and always have problems. The man wore shiny grey polyester pants with zippers all over them--zippered pockets, zippered flare-bottoms, and zippers to cut off the pants at a capri length.
This is a disturbing trend I have noticed with a certain portion of the 'middle-aged man' demographic. Why does a man think he needs convertible pants? At what point does he feel the need to zip off into capris a mere four inches shorter than his pants? What does that accomplish? What do you do with the removed anklets? Do they become stylish bracelets? And why does he tuck a Polo shirt into these pants and think it's a cool look?
His wife looked like a real bitch. She had a narrow bird-like face, which I am pre-disposed to hate. Maybe because every woman with that look lives up to the billing. [For those of you curious, I would say the 'rodent face' would be the male equivalent. Hate 'em.] She also looked older than her husband, but who knows whether or not that was true. Maybe it's a just a simple case of him getting the bad zipper pants, and her getting the bad genes. Hey! Ho! Zing! I'll be here forever! Try the shrimp!
The point is that they both looked patently unhappy, by sight and behavior, but her scowl ran much deeper. She struck me immediately as the kind of woman who leaves fifty-cent tips for their waiter at Olive Garden, writes mean notes to her mail carrier, and doesn't understand why she can't return a soiled shirt she no longer wants at Target.
As the sleazy car salesman babbled on, she walked in real close to her husband.
"We need to bring the car with us."
"What car?"
"THE CAR WE'RE PICKING UP RIGHT NOW!"
"Oh."
"Traffic better be good on the way to San Diego--we're late."
Her husband didn't say anything, didn't care, probably has zero tolerance for his wife at this point in his life. I smiled--what a life these two must have together. Endless love...
The Salesman rambled on.
"Yeah, yeah, you could pick it up today. A Jaguar? No--the Jaguar's ninety. Well, it was probably the only thing we had left, but now I got some pick-up trucks. Look--forty bucks is the cheapest rate, so I'll give you the truck for that, since I got no cars, you know? Yeah. Alright, no sweat. Let me know what you wanna do. Cool."
He hung up the phone, handed the man in front of me a printed receipt, said goodbye, then looked at me. It was my turn.
"Hey. I just need to drop off a minivan."
I handed him the key.
"Alright, I just gotta check it out."
He left to inspect the vehicle.
The Wife sat down on a nearby bench seat, which must have been removed from one of their minivans, and began tapping her foot. The husband leaned against the counter and stared off into space.
A young woman walked into the office, another customer. She wasn't unattractive, but I wouldn't say she was attractive; she was kind of a Goldilocks. The Husband, however, seemed to be a big fan of her immediately--I noticed him surreptitiously checking her out several times. I guess the older you get, you start to appreciate any young woman, if only because of the natural attraction of the flower of youth, the lack of cellulite, the unfamiliarity. Compared to his wife, this girl was a supermodel.
As Goldilocks had walked inside the office, I heard a loud, irritating BEEP. I figured it was a motion sensor intended to inform people in the back room when a customer or thief has arrived, but then the BEEP happened again.
And again.
And again.
The Wife winced and wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"What is that God-awful noise? Where is it coming from?"
"I think it's the phone. I see a light on the phone flashing."
"Well, is anybody going to answer it?"
"I don't know."
The Wife squirmed uncomfortably on the bench seat, occasionally peeking outside to see if the Salesman was coming back. Her Husband turned around to face the speaker emitting the noise, raised his arms like a zombie, and said, in a monotone voice:
"Yes, master, I will do as you command. I am your slave."
He looked at Goldilocks and smiled. She didn't smile back. I don't think she even made eye contact with him, which greatly deflated the Husband, since the 'joke' was clearly designed solely for her benefit. He turned back around and leaned on the counter.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
His Wife had had enough of that loud noise--which was, in her defense, annoyingly loud and unending--and was on the move. She crept behind the counter, keeping her eyes peeled for the Salesman. She glanced at the phones, she looked up, she looked at the others in the waiting area, she reached for the handset and paused.
"Do you see him coming?"
As soon as she spoke, she realized he was on his way back and scurried back over to her bench seat.
"I was just going to answer the phone for him," she said to nobody in particular.
Right...I'm sure she wasn't going to pick up the handset and accidentally drop it back into the cradle...
The Salesman returned, but he was not alone. An intense, petite young man in a shirt and tie steamed in behind him, shot tremendously brief glances at the assembled customers, and accompanied each look with a curt, "Hi." It sounded something like this:
"Hi, hi, hi, hi."
The young, hip, lip-service version of Wal-Mart's infamously unnecessary Greeter.
The Greeter immediately fanned the ire of the Wife when he moved straight to the back of the office without helping her. She rose, and was about to say something, when he cut her off.
"Who's next?"
The Husband and Wife both angrily said, "me." The Greeter took one look at them and realized they deserved each other, and must therefore be married.
"And what can I do for you two?"
My Salesman typed a hundred things into the computer, as he smooth-talked another customer on the phone, but I didn't pay much attention--the Greeter's conversation was much more interesting.
"Do you have a reservation?"
"Yes."
The Husband handed him a folded printout, and the Greeter analyzed it intensely.
"Hmm. A one-way."
The Greeter handed the paper to the Salesman, for his input.
"Mmm-hmm. One-way."
"Wait a minute--we can't do a one-way on GPS."
"Nope."
"We can't do a one-way on GPS. It's our policy."
The Husband looked the Greeter dead in the eyes.
"This isn't our home planet--WHAT ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO?!"
The Greeter looked at his computer screen, looked over at the Salesman, looked back at the Husband.
"You could...get a map?"
"A map? We need a GPS. How are we supposed to get to La Jolla?"
"I'm sorry...I...can't do it. It's our policy."
"Well, can you call someone?"
"No--that's just our policy. There's nothing we can do. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? What good does that do us--WE'RE SCREWED!"
The Wife, tired of throwing out occasional, irrational requests from the bench seat, stood to ask the same question everybody unfamiliar with the perils of Internet booking ignorantly asks.
"Why would they tell us we could have a GPS if we can't?"
"I...don't know. We don't do one-way rentals. Most places don't. I don't know why they would tell you that. It's always been our policy."
"Well they did."
The Salesman finally chimed in:
"You're lucky we even have one. We can't even guarantee that we will ever have one. But we do. But we can't give it to you."
This didn't help. He resumed typing up my paperwork, which seemed to be taking on Dickensian proportions.
The Husband threw his arms up in the air. "We're screwed!"
The Wife got crafty again."What would happen if we said we'd bring it back, but we didn't?"
"Then we'd charge you $300 to replace it. That's the cost of the machine."
"We're screwed!"
A lightbulb illuminated over the Greeter's head. "Wait--I know! I can Mapquest directions to where you're going and print it out for you. It'll give you the exact same directions as a GPS."
The Husband leaned in, "We need a GPS because Mapquest is 100% unreliable. I use to use it but I never use it anymore."
The Sales man and the Greeter both stared at their computers, not sure of their next move. "Uhmmm..."
The Husband suddenly screamed at his wife, who was typing something into her cell phone. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!"
"I'M LOOKING UP CAR RENTAL PLACES!"
She was frantic. Tears were nigh. I couldn't stop smiling.
It was at this point that I nearly inserted myself into the mix. I couldn't take it anymore. These two old fuckers were so clueless--as if these two Enterprise schmucks decide 'the policy' and can bend the rules for them, as if that's how things work in corporate America. And even if they did have the power to negotiate, was this really the way to persuade them to cut a deal? I don't like people who project their own unhappiness on others--especially when they're at work. Especially when they have a shitty job.
What would I have said? Why, exactly what should be on all your minds right now:
"What the fuck did you guys do before GPS was invented? For the 50+ years of your life before you ever used a GPS device? Did you never leave your house? Did you never travel anywhere? I bet you did. I bet you used a map, asked people for directions, FIGURED IT OUT. Now just take the car, leave these guys alone, buy a road atlas and some snacks at the gas station on the way to the highway that is THREE BLOCKS AWAY, get on that highway, merge onto another highway, and wind up effortlessly in beautiful, sprawling, McMansioned La Jolla, 105 miles later. Call your daughter when you get off the highway and she can guide you in--I'm sure she has GPS at home. But hurry--I bet her husband can't wait for you to get there!"
But I didn't. The Salesman finished his novel, handed it over, and offered me a ride back. I said I'd rather walk and left--the old couple is probably still there.
The most frightening thing about this whole unpleasant affair? If people in their sixties are this unnecessarily dependent on technology, imagine when children alive today grow up. All a terrorist would have to do is shoot down the GPS satellites and our entire nation will starve to death because they won't know how to get to the grocery store. We're doomed--begin senseless fornication with the most attractive person nearby.
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