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“Everyone calls me the C King,” he argues, shooting me an exasperated look while he vigorously shakes Eric’s hand before finally dropping it and stepping back.
“Really? Who?” I ask.
“People,” he shrugs, turning his face back to Eric’s. “C King. It stands for Car King. I’m kind of a big deal.”
“Oh, my God . . . ,” I sigh.
“Holy shit! Wait a second. I know who you are!” Eric shouts, finally finding his voice after my father scared him half to death. “You own all those used car lots and do those hilarious commercials on Sunday afternoons! Ariel, why didn’t you tell me your dad was famous?!”
My dad bought his first used-car lot for a steal right after he graduated college, using an inheritance he got when my grandfather died. Business sucked and he was barely able to make ends meet. He was a month away from having to close the lot when one of his buddies from college, who graduated with a film degree, convinced him to use every last penny in his savings account to make a commercial. That thing still airs every once in a while, and it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen. They rented every farm animal you could think of and let them wander around the lot while my dad was dressed up as a cow, complete with huge udders hanging down from his stomach. I have no idea what the hell any of that had to do with used cars, but people loved it. Customers started flocking to the place just to meet the crazy man who made the commercials, which made my dad naturally assume he was a genius and should keep making more ridiculous commercials. It didn’t take long for news to spread that he was unlike any other used-car salesman because he was honest. He didn’t sell you a piece of shit and shrug his shoulders when you came back and told him the entire thing exploded on the highway when it got above twenty miles an hour. He sold good-quality used cars and he cared about his customers. If something happened to one of the cars he sold, he’d fix it. If he couldn’t fix it, he’d replace the vehicle. Pretty much every customer he has is a repeat customer. If not, they will be.
“For fuck’s sake, don’t encourage him,” I scold, shaking my head at Eric.
“Did you see the commercial I did where I wore a fluorescent green bodysuit and pretended to be one of those incredible flailing tube men?” my dad asks Eric excitedly.
Eric nods his head and they both shout in unison.
“THIS DEAL IS SO INCREDIBLE, I CAN’T STOP FLAILING! COME ON DOWN TO TRITON MOTORS BEFORE I FLAIL AWAY!”
With a groan, I drop my head and press my hand against my eyes.
Even though my dad is borderline insane now and a big jokester, when I was growing up, he was actually a lot more like the guy who first walked down here. With seven daughters in his house, tampons being left all over the place, makeup and glitter spilled all over every available surface, one week every month filled with seven times the normal amount of mood swings, since my sisters and I were always synced up, and boys sniffing around us at all hours of the day and night, he had to run his house like a militant drill sergeant. There was a lot of yelling. A lot of strict rules. And a lot of spying on us—going through our phones and getting in his car at midnight in his bathrobe to track us down. This is probably another reason why I eloped when I turned eighteen. I never really handled being told what to do very well.
Thankfully, once we all became adults and he had a nice, empty, quiet house all to himself, he lightened up. One might say he lightened up a bit too much.
“My name’s Eric Sailor. It’s nice to meet you, sir. Seriously, I can’t believe I’m meeting the Michael Triton. I used to watch your commercials in college and just crack up. No disrespect or anything.”
“None taken, my boy. The used-car business is tough work. Gotta do something to keep the customers coming in.”
I drop my hand from my eyes and wonder if I should ask these two if they need a few minutes alone, considering they can’t stop smiling at each other like idiots.
“Care to tell me why you’re holding a cat that’s inside out against your crotch?” my dad suddenly asks, pointing at Derrick Alfredo.
“He . . . uh . . . likes the warmth. You know, since he doesn’t have any hair and he’s always cold. My dick warmth comforts him, sir,” Eric replies with a nervous clear of his throat.
“And here I thought you were just covering up a boner. I like this guy, Ariel,” my dad states, clapping Eric on the shoulder before he walks over to the couch and makes himself comfortable.
