I work in advertising for a well known automotive site that independent car dealers use in order to sell cars off of their lots. The ratio of men to women is something like 98 to 2. And the age gap is a joke. If I work with any guy under 50, I’m shocked. Suffice to say, I’m as noticeable when I walk into a dealership as I’m sure a Hassidic Jew would be if they walked into a Catholic mass.
A couple of weeks ago on an average Wednesday, I was making my rounds in the town of Whitman. (I know, I didn’t know it existed, either…)Visiting clients is my main daily routine, so when I see a dealer that isn’t advertising with me, I pop in, say hello and leave my card. I went in to the office and met Tony, the owner, and his comrade Larry. I schmoozed a bit with Tony, who was nice enough and is just trying to scrape by. Fine, sure, no problem Tony, I get it. Should your business pick up, give me a call and we’ll have another conversation. (Cue me leaving my card on his desk.)
But I didn’t get out fast enough. Larry, the man dressed in a leather button up vest and leather cap, not in the cool hipster circa a year ago way, starts asking questions. Whats yah name, hun? Margaret, I say politely and curtly. Mah-grett, huh? Ahh you Irish? I stare coldly at him and say yes.
Larry then crosses himself and says awww jesus! I love irish girls! It didn’t go unnoticed, by the way, that Larry was smoking a cigarette this whole time, indoors, as if the place was his. Larry starts chatting, (unaware that one of my high heeled feet was literally out the door,) about how he used to be a body guard for Ted Kennedy in the good ‘ole days. Boy oh boy, I can’t believe I’m 76—time flies! I nervously giggle and say, ah, heh heh, yeah, I bet Martha’s Vineyard was a trip…
I exit the “office” with as much grace and politeness that I can muster and almost run to the car. I stop off at a few more dealerships, chat with the owners, and head on back to the office. I look down and notice that my black berry has a missed call and voicemail on it. I listen to it, and lo and behold, it’s Larry. He calls me, and leaves a voicemail saying Ah, yah, hi Mah-grett. It’s Larry, the one at Tony’s place. I used tah bawdy gahhd fo-wah Ted Kennedy. I wanted to call yah up and see if you’d be free tuh-nite fo-wah some drinks. Gimme a call back as soon as yah get this. Thanks hun.
Ok. Let’s assess. God knows I’m not Isabella Rossellini or Scarlett Johansson, but jesus christ, I’d like to think that I’m an ok looking dame. How do dudes (76 year old ones at that) think that a 28 year old with nice legs and a good education would even CONSIDER having a drink with him? And what’s with the Ted Kennedy thing? Is that like, impressive? Great, you stood outside his house/door/whatever and gave a little knock when the Mrs. was coming back. Good for you, Larry! You’ve earned a gold star for the day!
Larry’s sure got some balls. I still have the message saved, so that if I do ever get desperate enough, I know there’s a free drink waiting for me somewhere…sigh. Fucking Larry.