My phone rang. It was Brian, or Bryan — I couldn’t tell how he spelled it over the phone. He had received my letter about the elusive car title.
My wife and I had purchased a used car from a man named Dave, and all we got was a pink paper — no title. I had sent a letter to the address on that piece of paper. The name with the address was Diane, not Dave or Brian or Bryan. That’s why I knew we hit a dead end when Brian or Bryan called me.
He said he couldn’t help, that he moved in about a month earlier, and that he gets Diane’s mail all the time. Maybe the person on the other end of the phone was actually Diane. Hey, maybe she was a smoker.
This person with a manly voice called me “Bud,” which, unless a person is actually your bud, is a nickname someone uses when they want to feel above you — it’s another way to say, “Touché, son.” Maybe it was actually Dave pretending to be Brian or Bryan. Or maybe it was Dave pretending to be Diane pretending to be Brian or Bryan.
Whatever the case, I imagine all these people — Diane, Dave, and Brianbryan (which is his real name) — sitting in a room, maybe around a poker table, laughing at their conniving plan to make my car purchase as impossible as possible. Diane is really the mastermind, using Dave and Brianbryan as puppets. They buy and sell cars that aren’t theirs, forging signatures and requiring cash as payment.
I’m just glad they’re stupid enough to waste it all at the table — stupid enough to throw it all into the bubbling pot of luck and gambling. Give it a couple decades, when my Toyota is still running and they’re looking over they’re shoulders for the people they owe money to. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.