Buicks, Nashes, De Sotos.
Yes, sir. ’ 22 Dodge. Best goddamn car Dodge ever made.
Never wear out.
Low compression.
High compression got lots a sap for a while, but the metal ain’t made that’ll hold it for long.
Plymouths, Rocknes, Stars.
Jesus, where’d that Apperson come from, the Ark?
And a Chalmers and a Chandler—ain’t made ’em for years.
We ain’t sellin’ cars—rolling junk.
Goddamn it, I got to get jalopies.
I don’t want nothing for more’n twenty-five, thirty bucks.
Sell ’em for fifty, seventy-five.
That’s a good profit.
Christ, what cut do you make on a new car?
Get jalopies.
I can sell ’em fast as I get ’em.
Nothing over two hundred fifty.
Jim, corral that old bastard on the sidewalk.
Don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.
Try him on that Apperson.
Say, where is that Apperson?
Sold?
If we don’t get some jalopies we got nothing to sell.
Flags, red and white, white and blue—all along the curb.
Used Cars.
Good Used Cars.
Today’s bargain—up on the platform.
Never sell it.
Makes folks come in, though.
If we sold that bargain at that price we’d hardly make a dime.
Tell ’em it’s jus’ sold.
Take out that yard battery before you make delivery.
Put in that dumb cell.
Christ, what they want for six bits?
Roll up your sleeves—pitch in.
This ain’t gonna last.
If I had enough jalopies I’d retire in six months.
Listen, Jim, I heard that Chevvy’s rear end. Sounds like bustin’ bottles.
Squirt in a couple quarts of sawdust.
Put some in the gears, too.
We got to move that lemon for thirty-five dollars.
Bastard cheated me on that one.
I offer ten an’ he jerks me to fifteen, an’ then the son-of-a-bitch took the tools out.
God Almighty!
I wisht I had five hundred jalopies.
This ain’t gonna last.
He don’t like the tires?
Tell ’im they got ten thousand in ’em, knock off a buck an’ a half.
Piles of rusty ruins against the fence, rows of wrecks in back, fenders, grease-black wrecks, blocks lying on the ground and a pig weed growing up through the cylinders.
Brake rods, exhausts, piled like snakes.