I answered questions that he never asked. "I'll give you the keys. I'm going to hang out here in front of the television, just call me when you're ready."
"Okay, sir."
I started to get a headache thinking about getting shit service, having them take off the wrong tire, hassling me into getting a full set of new tires to even out the worn treads to new treads, etc. What was really getting me razzled was the TV. It was tuned to WCCO, the infomercial time slot.
A football coach (Jimmy something) turned into a snake oil salesman for trading tips. Everyone in the program wore headsets like a telemarketer for some reason. They all looked southern, they all looked heavily made up. They looked fake.
Yet I was compelled. How the fuck do these things suck you in?! I have no interest in trading or stocks (yet, I guess), and I know it's all a scam. But I was seriously making a mental note of the dates for the Trading Expo this coming week to cash in on huge tips that could boost my financial future. I got dizzy.
I literally felt my brain turning to mush. Local television UHF/VHF stations are the worst for that. There's nothing on those stations that's worth a damn. If a TV is tuned to those stations and you can't change the station it's like purgatory and torture. All the other customers were staring blankly at the screen. I got really ancy, couldn't stop moving around.
After an hour's worth of Trading Tips and a Lawn Trimmer infomercial they called me up and we settled on getting one tire put on. They tried to do a pair, but I insisted on one tire.
I walked outside like an inmate set free from prison. I did what any newly freed man would do . . . went to get a sub sandwich.
The Pixies -- "Where is my Mind?"
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