A SALESMAN WITH HEART

We arrived in East London around eight on a festive Friday night. The driver was taking me to an Uno dealership, because this is what the horrified mechanic in Steytlerville had suggested I do. Also, I had no dea where else to go. We drove around the throbbing, brightly lit centre of East London for what seemed like an hour, hooting at every woman we passed. At first I thought the three men were greeting friends on the street, because the hooting was so insistent. Then I decided that they were morons, hooting indiscriminantly at anything that moved. Then, after a while, I began to darkly suspect that they were intentionally trying to draw attention to me. Wherever I looked there were upturned, grinning faces. There was no way to look in a situation like this. Dignified was bad. Haughty was very bad. Lost in a reverie was difficult when some miscreant was amusing his mates by yelling, 'Ay Bra! Do you know you're parked on a lorrie?' I settled for po-faced, which I looked up, to be sure I'd gotten it right: Having a foolishly solemn, humorlous, or disapproving expression. Yes.

The Fiat (Uno) dealership was situated in a bustling downtown part of East London, with other dealerships grouped around it. The chunky concrete signs for these places reared up like smooth white obelisks, out of football-field sized lots lined with gleaming Fiat trade-ins. Whenever I got lost over the next few days I would head for these Fiat and Jaguar and Ford insignia hovering in the heat above the jungle of Spur and Nando signs. It all looked rather high rent for the Uno, but I wasn't going back out on the truck.

The black security guard was friendly and helpfull. I was in a Uno, I was part of the club. He unlocked the chain running across the entrance and we pushed the Uno amongst the rows of polished Fiats. I even scored a place under an awning for the night, near the slick expanses of glass protecting the glossy new models in the showroom.
I told the security guard that I too had been in the security game. He told me he worked six twelve-hour night-shifts a week and got paid something like R1400 a month (about 100 English Pounds). We clucked and shook our heads. He was happy though. 'This is a safe lot!' he said, giving me the thumbs up.

He showed me where to find water and I got comfortable. I opened all four windows to allow in the warm night air. I tuned my transistor radio in, put bowls of food and water outside for Spud, and arranged my duvet and pillow across the back seat. Then I bought pies and coke across the road at a busy BP garage full of excited Friday-nighters and sat eating contentedly in the Uno, imagining myself stranded on a dark road somewhere near Gomka, with shadows stirring menacingly all round; or sitting with Dennis in his lonely old man's isolation, fretting about getting the Uno towed. This was fine. There was enough light caming from the streetlights to read by, so I lay back with Bosman's short stories while Spud made himself comfortable on his blanket in the front. Then I bunged wet bog roll in my ears and went to sleep while flocks of white and coloured teenagers roamed back and forth - many bared midriffs, what a joy to get one in the back seat - and a queue wound into a nightclub across the street. There were the usual late nights screams of high pitched revving as okes put foot in their GTI's, cruising around, yelling, peering with desperate intenstity at anything that moved - looking for girls or fights or hobos to kick. I slept happily through most of it though, absolutely exhausted from the day's tension.

I woke anxiously to a clear, pale blue sky beyond the Uno's dusty windows. The streets were quiet, and there was a hint of balmy east coast humidity in the air, reminding me of Durban. But I felt exposed here. I was going to have to deal with people. I brushed my teeth in a cup of water and picked papers and pie crusts from the Uno's floor. While I was topping up Spud's bowl of water the salesmen began arriving. They parked in the carpark and stood around the closed doors, looking and sounding like golfers at an after tournament banquet. Their voices were loud and vigourous, and laughter brayed out every few seconds. This was evidently no place for sissies. If your sales figures dropped you got booted.

When the glass doors slid open they settled into their neat row of cubicles behind the glossy showroom Fiats. They shuffled papers, arranged pens. A sense of competitive menace settled in. Cleaners wafted around hoovering up specks of dirt from the dark slate-tile floor. They sprayed and then polished to a waxy brilliance the green palms of potted plants, arranged in a row along the inside of the plate glass windows.
Mechanics began arrived in spotless blue overalls. They unlocked the tall diamond-wire gates that led to the workroom at the back and walked through. I followed and spoke to one - a beefy blonde who looked like he played club rugby and squeezed testicles at the bottom of loose mauls.
'Yes sir,' he said. 'I have a car to see to at the moment. It's a special case, this being a Saturday - my day off, you understand. I'll have a look though. Our going rate is R300 an hour, excluding parts. We deal with warranty models here, very high overheads.' He gave me an appraising look which didn't go well for me. 'From what you've told me, the noises you described, we'll have to lift the engine and look inside it. It'll take three, maybe four hours - and that's just to ascertain the damage. Perhaps sir should rethink ... ' He used the word sir like a cop or a lawyer would - not subserviently, more to establish a silky, slightly menacing air of detachment. If sir can't afford this, sir is well advised not to waste our time, or sir might find a spanner wedged up his arse.

As he spoke I snuck a look at the workshop and it was as daunting as the showroom: an airy space, without a drop of hydraulic fluid on the floor. Serious men worked quietly under hoods with power tools that now and then rippled out genteel farts. Others stood with legs astraddle, peering in a quiet huddle up at the clean underside of the lastest Uno Punto or whatever. There was no dirt anywhere, no hurry; the men moved dream like to elevator music that came from speakers hidden somewhere up in the roof's high cross beams. This was no place for the Uno, I was certain of this now. But I felt the complications of taking action knit almost physically before my nose: I had to find a phone-book, a phone, call a towing company, make sure they sent me a normal sized truck; then I had to find a cheap mechanic, one with a dingy, oil streaked workroom at the back of some derelict garage; finally, I'd have to stand there, shame faced, as he told me with cold disdain in his eye that I'd driven the Uno to death. And all the while, in the background, the snarl of the traffic was growing louder, the day hotter ...

'Listen,' I said, 'I'd like you to have a look, because basically ... basically I'm a little bit fucked here.'
'Ok sir.' He backed away from me as he spoke, wiping a stainless steel spanner with a rag, his mind already on the car behind him. 'When I get a chance I'll take a look. As you can see I'm rather busy here, this being a Saturday ... '

So I sat in the Uno with Spud, reading my book, with the door ajar, while the roof made small bonging noises in the increasing heat. The salesmen peered over from behind their desks with mounting unease and distaste . They stroked their power ties. Who was this giving off whiffs of street tackiness right outside their dazzling windows, right by the open doors, with a frigging dog running around, while the first customers of the day arrived, a good looking young couple ...

It wasn't long before the head salesman caught a whiff and came hustling out. He had his hands out in front of him, wringing them anxiously, eager to please; but concerned, confused, what the fuck was I doing out here? 'Good morning!' he brayed, his voice quivering with solicitous authority. 'Excuse me! How are you? Can I help?' He seemed to be a decent man. And God knows he deserved an explanation. Spud had just quiveringly shat on the strip of grass beside the pavement, on the other side of the low brick wall that separated the Fiat dealership from the street. Not strictly on their property, but still. I should have said something, but I was stunned, thinking about the R300 an hour for the Uno. So I just grinned and said I was fine and left it at that.

He peered at me for a few seconds, his eyebrows arched. 'Ah ... ? Good! Good!' I seemed quite assured. I must have some good reason for being here. And yet no-one inside seemed to know ... He gave me a confused, suffering grin and retreated back into the showroom. I went back to my book. An hour passed and the streets snarled with traffic. My roof bonged. The multicloured field of Fiat roofs in the carpark shimmered in the heat. A steady stream of well heeled customers cruised around the showroom. Some were taken to be seated at the desks. Then the head salesman was hustling out the door again, wringing his hands, grinning. 'Morning! I have to ask again, my friend. Can I help you? May I ask what you're doing here? I told him about my conversation with the brutal looking mechanic. 'Ah ... ' He trotted through the gate to the back, his plump bottom working huffily in expensive pants that were slightly worn. Times were tough ... and now this ...

In a minute he was back with the mechanic. 'I thought the gentleman had decided to look elsewhere,' the mechanic apologised silkily, running his eye over my baggies and grubby t-shirt.
The head salesman, Derek, quickly got the ball rolling. He was an ex-Zimbabwean with a ruddy, open face that trembled with earnest solicitude. He was a salesman with heart (as he soon informed me).
The mechanic brought out a power-pack and we attempted to start the Uno. Nothing happened, apart from it making a dry, wheezing sound.
'No compression,' the mechanic said. 'We'll have to lift her and look inside. Can't do it today though. It'll have to be Monday morning.'
The three of us stood around the Uno for a few minutes and agreed that the wheezing had sounded serious. Loss of compression was no laughing matter. It involved cylinders, pistons, shafts, rods, rings, heads - obvious stuff, really. I nodded shiftily.

Derrik was a whirlwind of efficiency. With some direct questioning he quickly established that I was something of an oddball, travelling around with my dog, camping. This was daft but promising. It removed the homeless reek.
'Camping! Hell!' Derrik said. 'If only I had the time!' He was an ex camper, so he could relate. He didn't think I was a mad cunt, which a lot of the harder salesmen would be thinking. Heart! He knew a camping site on the beach front. Samuel, his black driver, would take me there. On Monday I would return when they'd taken a look at the Uno. Good! Derek relaxed. Another problem had been dealt with: the eyesore outside the door.

A need for banter settled in, now that business had been taken care of. We all stared at Spud, who was trotting around happily, sensing action.
'Ay! My boy! Now this is a dog!' Derrek said. There is something about Bull Terriers that allows men to bond in a certain way, like talking about rugby: toughness without the meaness. I saw this time and again on the trip, when men stomped akwardly over to me and began the conversation with, 'No ya, dis n' gooie hond daai!'

We spoke about Spud until the driver arrived in Derriks white Opel Astra. Derrik pumped my hand and shot into the showroom to deal with a group of teenage boys who had their oily noses pressed against the window of a sporty Fiat. Sarel, the mechanic, helped me transfer my camping gear from the Uno to the Opel.
'Now what is sir going to do with the dog?' he asked me as he handed me my parrafin lamp from inside the Uno's open hatchback. His pale blue eyes watched me over a smooth little smile. I got the feeling he thought I was going to offload Spud on the roadside. Or perhaps he thought I would give Spud to him. I said I was quite committed to looking after my dog.
Then he asked me what my plans were. When I said I might fly back to London soon his eyes lit up. 'Ah! So it's not like you really need a car, for going to work and all that.' He reminded me
about his tremendous fee and peered at me like he could see the need to flog the Uno that was creeping around my weak soul. I knew I should get if towed to a cheaper place and check it out ... but those bustling, blaring streets, the glare ... and the billowing smoke and those horrible clonks when some vital broken off thing - an entire piston! - snagged in the Uno's guts. Mechanic Man may be able to smell my weak need for a quick sale, but he knew nothing about the terrible rips and rents and scoured metal that I'd caused, flogging the poor Uno to death.
'To be honest,' I said, 'I've been thinking about maybe selling.
'Ah sir!' His blue eyes flared and his patter aquired a voluptous edge. 'From what you've described, that rattle, I think your engine is finished. Scrap! Now with the cost of parts and repairs, if it's as serious as I think, you're looking at maybe five, six thousand. I think given our situation, travelling back to England - Sheez, I wish I could get the fuck out of this country too sometimes - but given your situation, as I say, selling does sound like the best option. A wise option, in my opinion, given the circumstances you find yourself in ... '

There was more of this, but I'd had enough. Retreat! Into the shade, with a stout. Mechanic man saw this too. He was unstoppable. 'Ah sir! You must be tired. Go and have a good rest. Derek's driver will take you all the way. We'll talk again on Monday. Sleep on it. You'll be making a wise decision, in my personal opinion. Best to cut your losses ... '
He was still going, clapping a hard hand on my shoulder as I climbed into the waiting white Opel and escaped with the driver into the traffic.