Sometimes I look at the “Bulk” section of my email inbox and get the impression the internet thinks my penis is too small.

I’ve been thinking about island sex quite a bit recently. To be specific, marooned desert island sex. Sounds like a great idea, right? Stranded in a tropical locale with the some sexual deviant, spending equal time fornicating on the beach and extracting sand from one another’s asses. The problem is, marooned desert island sex is NOT all fun and games.

See, there are real concerns that go hand-in-hand with desert island sex. And when you do a cost-benefit analysis, the sad truth is that desert island sex really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.

The first problem is there’s the woman to think about. What happens if she gets pregnant? Then she’s stuck on an island with no doctor in the area. Pregnancies can cause a lot of unforseen medical issues for women, and it’s probably just not safe to risk it for some crazy-ass, Gilligan’s Island porn fest. Sorry if that’s a downer.

Now I know what you’re thinking. “But Snood, humans have been successfully birthing infants without modern medical care for millions of years.” First of all, check the title of this webpage. That’s right, hook dick. “When Infants Attack.” Don’t think for a second you can march over here and learn ME something about no infants. I know all there is to know.

Second of all, let’s say Mother Nature does her groovy thing, and that greasy little critter comes sliding out the womb just as safe as can be. Now what? Now you’ve got a freaking baby on a desert island. No medical care, no schools, no other people, no chance at any kind of future life for this poor thing. Might as well feed it to the Bull Sharks that swim off shore. But I guess that doesn’t bother you. No, you got your wild, sand-hut, palm frond bed, doggy-style swerve on, and that’s all the counts.

So clearly, while being stranded on a desert island with an insatiable sex-hound might SOUND like a great time, there are just too many potential issues to make it worthwhile. Unless you just keep it to oral and booty-sex. Then you’re good to go.

If you like guitar music, and you don’t mind a total absence of singing, I want to you to listen to a band called Explosions in the Sky. Perhaps you’ve already heard them, as they’re only new to me, not the world. But if you haven’t, try a couple of these tracks on for size.

Your Hand in Mine
A Song for Our Fathers
Magic Hours

Your patience will be rewarded.

11PM
Wednesday, March 23
1992 Nissan Maxima–125,000 Miles
$2300

Johnny talked like one of the Saturday Night Live Superfans.

“Nah, Pal, I ain’t sold the Camry, yet. Yous wanna look at it?”

A seasoned veteran of the process, I decided to ask the tough question right off the bat. “Yeah, I can do that. But listen, if I’m interested, would you be averse to letting my mechanic in Evanston check it out?”

“Not a bit, chief. You’re running the show here.”

We worked out the details. I’d call him at nine, make sure he’d be home on time, and if so, I’d shoot up to his place. When I hung up the phone, I turned to Erin. “Busy tonight?”

She laughed and shook her head. “This is gonna be good. I can feel it.”

I called at nine, and Johnny was running late, so we set up a meeting for 10:30. PM.

“You know Howard and Western?” he asked. “I’m right there.”

He was actually one block east of Western, on a crowded, barely lit street packed with cars on either side. I drove slowly, and Erin peered out the window, looking for his address and also hoping for a glimpse of the car.

We didn’t see the car, but his place was at the end of the block. I called him when we pulled up. Moments later, he appeared at his front door. Johnny was short, squat, and wrapped in a monochromatic outfit that a contractor would wear. The fabric was rough and a bit dingy and covered with loops made for holding tools. A small flashlight hung from his waist. When he got closer, I was startled by his reselmblance to Mario from the old Nintendo games. He had the same moustache and pudgy face. The only difference was his squinty eyes and the square framed glasses that covered them.

“I’ma tell you right now, this thing is mint. M-I-N-T. I babied the shit out of this car.”

It was difficult to not roll my eyes, so I just smiled and said, “Great.” We stood there for another moment. “Can I see it?”

“Shit, this is your show, boss. It’s parked around back.”

It hadn’t ocurred to me that, in the process of searching for a car, not only would I be at Howard and Western at 11PM, I’d also be following a strange man into a dark alley. It was too late to back out, and erin didn’t seem overly concerned, so I followed him. Besides, this was Super Mario we were dealing with. What was he gonna do, throw a mushroom at me?

The alley was fairly well-lit, and as we approached the car, Johnny cranked up his spiel another notch. “What’d I tell you. Mint. Fucking Mint. Yous gotta see the interior.”

Now if by “mint” Johnny meant “Possibly road-worthy according to Illinois state regulations,” then I suppose he was right. But it was hardly the glimmering jewel of the road that he had it made out to be. There was also one other problem. It wasn’t Nissan Maxima. It was a Honda Accord.

“Is this the car we talked about?” I asked. I honestly didn’t know. I’d looked at so many listings that day, they all started to run together.

“Yeah, sure.”

I turned to my sister. She looked dubious. We got in anyway, because it was Japanese, and really, that was my only requirement.

“See? Mint,” Johnny declared.

The front seat did seem rather clean, but when my sister closed the door, the fabric that lined it, fluttered off, draping over her like a blanket. Mint my ass. The fabric had been cut, and the only reason I could think of was a drug search by the cops.

“Lemme tell you about this here car. She runs. In a minute, I’m gonna take you to the Walgreen’s parking lot. I want you to see how clean this car is. This thing, she’s got another 200 thou in her, minimum. Minimum.”

“How many miles does it have now?”

“Let’s see here….” Johnny took of his glasses and peered at the dash. “178,000.”

“Jesus. That’s kind of a lot.”

Erin, who had apparently grown tired of the collapsing interior, sighed loudly. “Do you have the car we came to see,” she asked. “The Maxima?”

Johnny squirmed a bit, and then told a story that, even as I think of it now, I can barely make sense of. He told it haltingly, like a child who’s forced to tell a lie on the fly. I’m guessing that’s because he had the intelligence of a child, and he was lying on the fly.

“Yeah, I got the Maxima. Here’s the thing about the Maxima, though…. …. …. It was stolen…. About three months ago, it was stolen. Yeah.” Johnny leaned over me and pointed to the street. “From RIGHT OVER THERE.” He was suddenly shouting, and I actually recoiled. “The cops, they weren’t gonna find it, so…so I bought this car. That’s why I got this. I needed a car. Here’s the thing, though…. NINE WEEKS LATER, the guy who stole it…he returned the car. This guy…this guy borrowed the car for nine fucking weeks. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?”

No.

“The fucked up thing…the fucked up things was, he had a white Maxima, too. Yeah… He had the same make and model Maxima, and it was parked three spots up…It was parked right there, IN THAT SPOT… This guy, he TOOK THE WRONG MAXIMA.”

What the fuck? How does that even make sense? Did his key work in both cars?

“When I got it back…I had two cars. That’s why I’m selling both…because I have another one now, a new one. THIS GUY BORROWED MY CAR FOR NINE WEEKS…Anyways, I don’t keep the Maxima here now. I keep it in storage because…because that car is SO MINT, that if I parked it on the street, someone would steal it again. That’s HOW MINT that fucking car is.”

Just for the record, there were a lot of nice cars in that neighborhood, Lexuses, Benzs, Audis. New ones. Unless there were stacks of gold bullion in the back seat, there’s no way someone would steal a ‘92 Maxima and leave those. Anyway, as this guy told his story, he kept bumping into the horn, beeping it. Erin jumped everytime, and on the third honk, she opened the door and got out.

“Alright,” she said, walking away, “well if you get this Nissan out of storage, call us and we’ll come by.”

I hurried out of the car after her, tired of Johnny but confused by Erin’s sudden departure. I found out later that she thought the honking was a singal for some goons to descend on us, “And I wanted to be ready when those dudes popped out,” she said. “Get the drop in those motherfuckers. If I’m going down, I’m going down on my feet.”

Wow.

Johnny agreed to get the Maxima and give us a call, and by the time we reached Oakton St., Erin and I were cracking up.

“Ten bucks,” she said, “we never hear from him again.”

There was no way I was taking that bet.

All Day Long
Tuesday, March 22
1993 Honda Civic–93,000 miles
$2600

“Downers Grove?” I asked. “Where the hell is Downers Grove?”

“Far as hell.”

It was breakfast time, and I was getting an early start, running through the classifieds. I kept looking back at my printouts from autotrader, though, staring at the listing for a blue Honda Civic.

“Moonroof, automatic, AC, 93,000 miles. D’Arcy says Civics are even better than Corollas.” My too-good-to-be-true alarm was going ape-shit, but so was my I-just-want-to-find-a-fucking-car-and-be-done-with-this alarm.

“What is it, a dealer? Call ‘em up. See if they’ll let you drive it up to Shawnee. We can go up there after Leila’s swimming class.”

The man who answered had a soft voice. It lilted slightly, almost an accent but not quite.

“Sure, you can take it to Evanston,” he said. “You just have to bring it back before we close.” He seemed nice. I told him I’d be there at two.

If you’ve never been to Downers Grove, don’t bother. It’s far, just a few miles east of Tunisia, and it looks like Wheeling without all the natural beauty. I had hopes for the dealership, but they were dashed quickly when I saw the lot. The cars were packed in, door to door, and the majority of them looked like they’d been towed from a backyard in West Virginia. They were rusted out and old; there was even an old short schoolbus that tottered on three wheels. There was also a section of nicer cars, and my Civic was there, too. I walked past it. It passed a routine eyeballing.

Saleem was not what I expected. There was no firm handshake, no robust laugh, no whispered promises. He was youngish, maybe in his early twenties, and slender with a too-large head. He wore glasses, and they were also too large, magnifying his eyes behind them. When I asked for Saleem, he said, “That’s me,” and he spoke so softly I could barely hear him.

We talked about what time I’d bring the car back, and he said very little, made no effort to really sell it. When I asked him if there was anything wrong with it, he said no. He seemed uncomfortable with the answer. There was another man there, larger and and louder. He laughed roughly at small television; I couldn’t tell what show. When he saw Saleem’s response, he scowled and turned the TV down. Saleem walked me outside.

“Just be back by seven,” he said. “I think you’ll like the car.” He seemed genuine, so unlike anything you’d expect from a used car dealer. I thanked him and started the car. Erin followed me in hers.

The brakes seemed a bit soft, and the tranny hiccuped a bit when it downshifted, but otherwise the car seemed clean, nice. I blasted the radio, and as we cruised down 294 back toward Evanston, I felt happy for the first time since I’d gotten home. I could see myself in that car. I imagined myself zipping around St. Louis, the moonroof open. I could also imagine buying a car from Saleem. I appreciated his soft-sell, especially after Eddie and Reinaldo. I also sensed a sadness about him, like he didn’t want to be there. I wondered why he sold cars. He clearly wasn’t very good at it.

I dropped the car off at Shawnee, and I felt food about it. I was pretty sure it needed new brakes, but I could have that taken out of the price. I was excited, and I knew I’d found my ride. Sometimes you just know.

Shawnee takes their time when they look at a car. The process is about 2 hours along, and I spent that time pacing my house, imagining cutting Saleem a chack, making both our days. In my mind, her deserved a sale, so much more than Eddie and Reinaldo.

Shawnee called at four. “What’s the diagnosis, Doc?” I asked. I was obnoxiously cheery, reveling in new car good humor.

“Uh, not good.”

I sat down on my couch and switched the phone to my other ear.

“This thing needs new brakes, a new tranny, a new radiator, oil pump. You could put a couple of thousand into this car and still have a piece of junk.”

I’m not sure what bummed me out more, the fact that the search would continue, or the fact that Saleem had tried to sell me a piece of shit. I thanked Shawnee and went to pick up the car.

On the drive back, I thought a lot about Saleem. It’s weird, the stories your mind makes up for people you don’t know. In my mind, that rough-laughing man was Saleem’s dad, and he was forcing Saleem to work at his lot. Saleem…he wanted to be an artist, a painter. And everyday he went to work and daydreamed about colors, rich reds and brilliant yellows and blank canvases and soft, horsehair brushes. He didn’t know cars. He didn’t want to know cars. He just didn’t have a choice.

It was dark by the time I got back to the lot, almost five-thirty. I parked the car and walked in, and Saleem met me at the counter.

“How’d it go,” he asked quietly. The man in the back turned the TV down.

“Not so good. They found a lot of stuff wrong.” I pulled out the printout from Shawnee and showed him. Saleem read each line, following the words with his index finger.

“Did they give you an estimate?” he asked.

I knew what he was thinking. Maybe, if it was a few hundred bucks, he could knock it off the price and make the sale. There was a touch of desperation in his eyes, and I felt something omnious, something hostile about that man in the back.

“A lot. Too much. A few thousand.”

Saleem rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses.

“Listen, thanks for letting me take it up to Evanston, though. I appreciate it.”

Saleem followed me out as if to say something, but once outside, he just shook my hand. My mom waited nearby, her car still running. I hopped in, and as we pulled away, I watched Saleem’s silhouette walk slowly back to the office.

The drive back was long, but I didn’t say much. I just didn’t feel like talking.

6:30 PM
Monday, March 21
1992 Toyota Camry–125,000 miles
$2400

Erin and I cruised down Western, headed back to Evanston. It was only minutes after the Reinaldo Experience, and I was already disheartened.

“Fuck it. I’ll just walk. I’ll walk my ass all the way from St. Louis to Huntington Beach. I won’t need a car there.”

My sister just shook her head. “You have a list of 400 cars there. Let’s try a couple more before you just give up wholesale.”

I looked at the sheet again, and my eyes rested on a listing for another Toyota Camry. “This one says ‘Like new.’ It’s a ‘92. ‘Call Eddie for a test drive,’” I read aloud.

“‘Like new,’ eh?” My sister laughed. “Well, let’s call Eddie.”

Eddie picked up on the third ring. He had an accent, though it shifted, occasionally sounding Hispanic, occasionally slavic, occasionally a bit French even.

“Hey, you have listing for a ‘92 Camry posted on autotrader. You still have it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Sure, sure. I got the Camry.”

“Can I come take a look at it?”

“Where you at?”

I looked up at the street as we passed by. Western and Addison. I relayed that to Eddie.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Tell you what. You know Lincoln? Lincoln Avenue? Meet me at Shop and Go Liquors. Corner of Lincoln and Touhy.”

I laughed, assuming Eddie was kidding. He wasn’t.

“You serious?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m serious, buddy. Shop and Go. Touhy and Lincoln. How long you think it takes you to get there.”

“About 15 minutes,” I said.

“See you then.”

I closed my sisters phone, and she looked at me.

“So where does Eddie live?”

“I don’t know. He wants to meet us in a Liquor Store parking lot.”

Erin coasted to a stop at a red light and stifled a laugh. “Yeah. This sounds legit.”

When we pulled up to the liquor store, Eddie walked toward the car. He looked over both shoulders as he approached.

“Don’t bring the kids out,” I said. “I’ll look by myself.”

Erin nodded.

Eddie turned out to be pretty friendly, and the car looked pretty nice. It was black, and it was a more modern Camry design than Reinaldo’s. It actually looked kind of smooth.

“This car, I got it at auction. I’ve been driving it for a week now. It’s a shame to let it go.” He opened the door and pushed me in. “I mean, this is high-quality. Toyota. That’s Japanese. You don’t get cars like this at auction, usually. Everyone wants Toyota.”

“It looks in pretty good shape.”

“Pretty good? Shit. I drive this thing back and forth to Valparaiso. You know Valparaiso? That’s Indiana. Not one problem. Maybe heat shield rattle a bit, but what, you want a new car? It’s 2500 bucks.”

I started the car up, and Eddie and I cruised around the block.

“Can my mechanic look at it? He’s in Evanston.”

“What do I care? It’s your money. Take it to mechanic. He’ll probably want to buy it, too. It’s Japanese. Made in Japan. Toyota.”

The car ran smooth. There was no knocking, no rattling. The brakes were quiet. I started to feel positive. Could it be this easy? Just meet a guy in a liquor store parking lot, and boom–new Toyota?

“When can I have my guy look at it. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, next Tuesday, Christmas Eve. What do I care. Just not in the morning. I be at auction, then I have doctor’s appointment. Bad back. Too much driving. Fucking Valparaiso.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning, set something up for the afternoon.”

“Whatever, great. I just hope your mechanic doesn’t buy it first.”

I pulled back into the parking lot, got out and shook his hand.

“You’ll love this car. Toyota, buddy. Last forever.”

I got into Erin’s car. “This could be it,” I said.

Later that night, I ran a Carfax on the Camry’s VIN. Everything checked out, except for one mysterious warning at the bottom of the print-out.

“Be sure to buy this vehicle from a licensed dealer. A curbstoner is a person who purchases vehicles at volumes that require a dealer license and then poses as a private seller to sell to unsuspecting buyers for a large profit. Curbstoning is illegal in most States.” Further exploration provided this information: “Curbstoners use classified ads or put the vehicles in highly trafficked areas with “for sale” signs to attract unsuspecting buyers. If you are meeting the seller in a parking lot, be wary. They usually will not meet you at their homes.”

Now, I couldn’t give a monkey’s shit if the guy made a good profit. But evidently, curbstoners have a repuation for stipping the car of everything of value, including air bags and key emissions parts. I figured my mechanic would be extra careful when examining it, so I still called Eddie the next morning.

“Camry? Sorry buddy. I sold it last night. Guy put a down payment on it. Too slow, you know. Next time, you gotta jump.”

I was back at square one.

4:00PM
Monday, March 21.
1991 Toyota Camry
$?????

My sister and I poured out of the car, and I was already suspicious. The car lot we were at was small. Half-filled helium balloons and worn pennants fluttered in the wind, strung around a motley assortment of used cars. The lot was also nameless, and it looked like, if the owners had the need, they could pack up everything and be gone within an hour. I pulled Leila, my five-year-old neice out of the car and turned to my sister.

“Well, we came all this way. We might as well check out the car.”

My sister nodded and took Colton, my two-year-old nephew, out of the car. The car we were there to see, a 1991 Toyota Camry, sat parked on the street with “$2750″ soaped onto the windshield in crooked, scraggly numbers. That price, however, was different than the price posted online ($2250), which was also different than the one quoted to me over the phone ($2995). When I asked about the discrepancy, the gentleman on the phone said, in broken English with a Russian accent, “That price on internet, is low price. We say that so people get interested, come in to see car.”

Okay….

The exterior of the car looked about as expected. A little bit of rust. A few dings. A Northwestern University sticker on the rear windshield. Other than that, nothing. I glanced up at the trailer that served as an office and saw two eyes peering from between blinds. I headed toward the office.

I was startled by a rough barking. My sister, the kids, and I scrambled back. A dog, a good sized Rott, strained at against a chain held in place only by a small Mexican boy in a Sean John sweatsuit. The kid had his foot against the bumper of a purple Plymouth Neon for leverage. “He’s okay,” the kid called. “Not dangerous.

Bull fucking shit.

Unwilling to get any closer, we were saved by Reinaldo, a thirty-something Latino with a shaved head and a thin pencil moustache. He stepped out of the makeshift office, and, with a jerk of his head, gestured for the kid to take the dog somewhere else. Then he turned to us and smiled.

“She’s a beaut, eh?”

“I’m not a huge fan of Rotts, to be honest,” I said.

“Not the dog, the Camry.”

I shrugged, and Reinaldo walked past us to the car.

“Single owner,” Reinaldo continued, “Eighty-five-year-old lady. Never missed an oil change.”

My sister and I glanced at the Northwestern bumper sticker. 85-year-old lady my ass. This guy wasn’t even a good liar.

Reinaldo popped the hood. “Look at that,” he said and then whistled like we were staring at a souped up Monster Truck engine. “Everything’s there.”

Everything’s there? That’s a fucking selling point? Great.

“She runs?” I asked, and I was immediately irritated. Irritated that my car broke down and I had to buy a new one. Irritated that I had the kind of money that forced me to look at cars in shady lots instead of real ones. Irritated that soon I’d be bargaining, trying to out-hustle professional hustlers. Irritated that I’d referred to the car as “she.”

Reinaldo looked back at me slack-jawed, like I’d just asked if the Pope was catholic. “She runs? You kidding me? Like Carl Fucking Lewis. Watch this.” Reinaldo slipped into the Camry, early rush hour traffic already zipping past him on Western Avenue. He turned the ignition. Nothing. After a few moments, he popped out. “Shit, my man. I forgot. The old lady brought it in with a dead battery. You know, old fucking ladies. Lemme get a jump.” Reinaldo pulled out a Nextel and called to the office.

My sister was already fishing her keys out of her pocket, ready to go. A small slavic looking dude hustled out of the office and hooked a portable jumper to the Camry. Reinaldo hopped back into the car and turned the key. The engine jumped to life.

“See?” he called out. “Old ladies,” he repeated, as if he and I shared some old lady secret, some obscure knowledge about old lady battery maintenance habits. “What do you say we take her for a spin.”

My sister and I had made an agreement. We wouldn’t even deal with anyone who wouldn’t let our mechanic in Evanston look at the car. I figured now was the best time to bring that up. “Listen, if I like this car, can I take it to my mechanic, have him look it over?”

“Where’s your mechanic?”

“Evanston.”

“Shit. That’s too far, man. Besides, my guy looked it over.” He nodded toward the Slavic guy. He couldn’t have been older than 15. “He said it’s good to go.”

“It didn’t even start.”

“Old lady, man!” Reinaldo protested.

I turned to look at my sister. She was already halfway back to her car.

“Sorry, dude,” I said. Reinaldo shrugged.

Inside my sister’s car, I looked at the six pages of potential cars I’d printed from Autotrader.com. I looked back to my sister. “This is gonna be a long week,” I said.

She started the car.