Barry, a car salesman with a comb-over that defied gravity and a polyester suit that screamed “discount,” prided himself on his “old vs. new” sales pitch. He believed in tradition, reliability, and, most importantly, thick profit margins on the older models still lingering on the lot.
A sprightly old woman, Agnes, walked onto the lot, her eyes gleaming like polished hubcaps. Barry, smelling commission, practically sprinted to her. “Madam! Welcome! Looking for something reliable, something…classic?” He gestured dramatically toward a beige 1987 sedan that looked like it had lost a fight with a lawnmower.
Agnes, however, was gazing longingly at a sleek, futuristic electric vehicle. “Oh, that one! It looks like something out of Star Trek!”
Barry chuckled, a sound like gravel gargling. “Madam, that’s…newfangled. Unreliable! All those…gadgets! Now, this beauty,” he patted the beige behemoth, “is a tank. Simple. Dependable. You could drive it to the moon and back!”
“To the moon?” Agnes’s eyes widened. “Does it come with a spacesuit?”
Barry blinked. “Well, no…but the principle is there! Now, about the engine…” He launched into a detailed explanation of the carburetor, using terms Agnes clearly didn’t understand, judging by the increasingly bewildered look on her face.
Finally, Agnes held up a hand. “Young man,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm, “I appreciate your…enthusiasm. But I think I’ll take the ‘newfangled’ one. The one that comes with a self-parking feature. My grandson says I need it. He says I parked my old car in the petunias one too many times.”
Barry, deflated, watched her march towards the electric vehicle. He muttered to himself, “Petunias? Self-parking? She’ll never understand the joy of a good carburetor!”
As Agnes drove off silently in her electric car, a small, remote-controlled toy car, seemingly out of nowhere, zipped past Barry’s feet. Attached to it was a note. He picked it up and read, “P.S. It also has autopilot. And a self-watering system for the petunias. – Agnes.”
