The Chevy dealer’s lips gleamed with sweat as his bowels fluttered with excitement. He always got diarrhea after a big sale. The whole industry was reeling, so to sell $60,000 of Corvette was something of an event. He wasn’t going to be fired today, and his bowels were sighing with relief.
“This car goes very fast,” he said. “Seriously, it’s faster than a cheetah or an older car, you can drive away from a lot of problems in a car like this.”
The customer glanced nervously over his smart black sunglasses. His square jaw jutted forward resolutely. Overall, he had the aura of a significant man.
“Is this Anthony Weiner?” thought the dealer.
The man emitted the aura of a significant man who, knowing that he is doing something unbecoming of his station in life, goes right ahead. What kind of man drives such a car? The man asked himself what Freud would say about such a blatant phallic symbol. Would the car somehow impede the inevitable deterioration of his body? Was his constant exposure to the young and vital troubling some unknown corner of his mind? Who would this car impress? He was pretty sure he didn’t even want a mistress.
“I’ll take it,” he said in the authoritative voice he often used to impress upon his students the importance of Lacan, then drove and drove, certain he would never die.
