It was a beautiful late spring day in Weeder’s Clump. Rusty Camaro, a recent graduate of Heliotrope University, was looking out the window of Poindexter’s Auto Mart, waiting for a customer. Actually, Rusty was dreaming of Amber Starr, the company secretary, who had recently been named Miss Golden Girder Chassis by the Illinois Auto Dealers at their annual convention in the Windy City. Rusty was humming “Brown-eyed Girl” and thinking of using his newly acquired sales techniques on Amber, when a customer suddenly appeared on the lot.

When the customer began to kick viciously at the left rear tire of a Grand Prix. Rusty muttered, “Aha, this guy will be an easy mark, a real sucker.” In his Salesmanship 450 at the university, Professor Forkas had taught his students that some customers are born suckers, some are to be persuaded with facts and logic, and some are to be tricked with flim-flam and clever deception. Forkas had insisted there were only three categories. The energetic way the customer was attacking the tire of the Grand Prix suggested he belonged in the first category.

“How much for this Grand Pricks?” the customer asked in a voice that boomed across the lot.
Rusty glanced quickly over his shoulder to see if any young children or elderly ladies were passing by. Gently he corrected the customer, “My friend, it’s pronounced ‘Pree.’ It’s a French name.”

“Bah! I might not be a college graduate, but I know how to spell ‘Pree.’ I wouldn’t trust this car to get me to Peoria, let alone Cody, Wyoming, or the Borrego Sink in California.” Then he asked rather abruptly, “What can you tell me about that Lemons over there?”
Rusty’s pride in his ability had been undermined, his control of the situation usurped, and his composure shattered by the onslaught of this barbarian, this rube. Consequently, Rusty replied in a very subdued voice, “No, it is pronounced ‘La Mawn.’ It’s a French name.”

The customer was momentarily taken aback, and Rusty used the opportunity to regain control of the situation. “My friend, I want you to examine the richly appointed interior of this automobile. Feast your eyes on the magnificent instrument panel and notice that the seats are as soft as an infant’s tender bottom.”

The customer, who had slid behind the steering wheel during Rusty’s flight of eloquence, grimaced and remarked, “Uggh! It smells like the infant hyperphenated in here.”

Rusty was at the point of screaming insults at the sky, but he remembered just in time the words of Professor Forkas, “When the customer throws down the gauntlet, you must use audacity, improvisation, and flapdoodle.”

“Friend, this car has been fully kraeusened, the seats have been treated with Preparation H for riding comfort, and it has been coated with Code-10 to preserve the new look.”

The customer was not impressed; he merely pointed to another car and said, “How much for that Marqqqquissssssss?” drawing out the q and s sounds with a pronounced emphasis.

“No! No! It’s pronounced ‘Markee.’ It’s a French name.”

“Well, can you please show me some American cars?” the customer demanded angrily. “What happened to ‘Merrill Lynch is bullish on America?’ ‘Remember the Alamo?’ ‘54-40 or Fight?’ ‘Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie, and Chevrolet?’ What has happened to American patriotism? What would Benjamin Franklin, Henry Ford, Willie Nelson, Nancy Pelosi, and Jane Fonda say?”

“Look, Nimrod, these are American cars. They’ve been given French names to make them seem classy and elegant. Where do you come from, anyway, a place so remote from civilization that people think a head shop is a store that sells hats?”

Rusty had clearly had enough. His temper had gone way around the bend. Enraged, he grabbed the customer by his shoulders, glared at him fiercely, shook him violently, and said, “Look, Bunbrain, get out of here and don’t come back! If I ever see you on this lot again, I’m gonna break your face and burn your gnastus! You’re gonna be cursing the day your momma ever brought you into this world!”

Rusty Camaro had been so thoroughly defeated in this encounter that he wanted to cry, but the certain disapproval of Professor Forkas prevented him from doing so. Ruefully, Rusty recalled that in his childhood he had often threatened to run away and join the circus.

Rusty succeeded finally in pulling himself together just in time to see a tall giant, a bearded lady, a dog-faced boy, and a fungoid creature with tentacles marching single file onto Poindexter’s lot. Rusty shrugged his shoulders, hummed “Send in the Clowns,” and went to greet the new customers.

Moral for this Post-Modern tale: Sometimes it isn’t necessary to run away and see the circus; the circus may come to see you.

Dr. Logsdon is the much-loved English professor who has inspired students at Western Illinois University and Eureka College for many years. He lives in Eureka with his wife, Mary, and writes a weekly story for the Woodford County News Bulletin.