Chapter 3
The Dark Choice
Alex Tabor sat in the silent darkness of the Nashville night soaking up the quiet sounds of his Union Station suite. This was a historic night as the new governor of Tennessee. And to think, for years that he sold franchises for his hamburger empire—small, trailer-like drive-thrus, scattered in unpredictable spots. Then, he moved into selling used cars at his tote-the-note lots located on the corner of Lebanon road (stuck more than located), and another downtown near St. Anne’s Episcopal Church. Tonight he heard the bells of Christ Episcopal Church chiming loudly and saw the shadow of the Olympia Man roof perch move slightly on the pavement below. He saw the lights of upper Broadway; and depending on which way he turned, he could see the BellSouth Tower like a peeking batman over the tops of parking garages.
Whenever Alex evaluated himself, he’d say openly, "I'm a good person. I really am a good person."
This was out of defensiveness as if saying it made it so. He never believed or followed religion. It didn't fit him much. The Catholic orphanage crammed it down his throat, and it was hard to imagine a God of love after that, especially with those nuns hammering across his knuckles with their yardsticks when he blinked out of place. There wasn't much love in those penguins. He always thought if there was a God, then why was he in the orphanage to begin with? After all, wasn't he a smart kid? Why was God punishing him? Why did God allow his parents to be killed?
Why was he stuck in this kid’s prison? It was a matter of blame, making religion a matter of avoidance.
He was pretty much a skeptic about everything; however, he left the door slightly ajar just in case God really was there or cared. He never saddled up to atheism, and he felt that agnosticism was a copout. How could he say, “I just don't know," with his finger in his chin and a Shirley-Temple look on his face? He couldn't be that dishonest. As a grownup, he left it with, "When God gets ready to show up on my doorstep calling me by name, then I’ll be ready to believe, until then, I won't." He laughed when he said it.
When he analyzed it, he knew he was waiting for a personal invitation from a personal God. If it came any other way, he wasn’t swallowing it. Someone once told him that he had a Paul of Tarsus need. He didn't know what that meant, but he knew that he needed to have it his way or not at all.
Alex wasn't all that cute as a grownup. He never paid much attention to the mirror. It was a waste of time when there were deals to make and cars to sell. He focused intensely on work. He looked in a mirror every once in a while when forced to go to a wedding or a funeral. He noticed his farmer-like face, beaten in place with deep-set, brown eyes under an almost Russian-large forehead. His hair was gray-white in a short flat-top. He had thick, protruding ears, which turned different directions as if he had fallen asleep on them the wrong way, and they never recovered. His smile displayed his coffee-stained teeth; but still, he had an honest, clean-shaven look, and he was polite to a fault. All of this made people trust him. People never imagined that anyone this unattractive could have an ulterior motive or a secret agenda. You had to trust a guy who looked like this. His looks were his finest assets after all.
It certainly proved true in the governor's race, but it wasn't much of a race. It was more of a car salesman’s write-in miracle. It seemed like a miracle to Alex. What else could it be? He reflected momentarily on the events bringing him this far? He thought about how bad the economy had become. Before the nuclear attacks, Wall Street had already been driven to a new-time low with unemployment skyrocketing. In the history of the nation, there had never been a more educated group of unemployed, including: CFOs, CEOs, insurance executives, attorneys, accountants, bank officers, MBA graduates, the highly paid professionals, and all management. Who could be in sales when people had no money to buy anything? All were on economic ropes. If someone had a useful trade, they got by. If not, they worked as security guards, janitors, fruit pickers, or road workers with picks and shovels—all for under minimum wage or in exchange for foodstuff, then most government services were shut down except an occasional postman. Even the government was scaled back to little or no representation. There were pockets of professionals who did quite well in weapons research and armament technology. Everyone wanted those jobs, but the geeks ruled, and the propeller heads had them all sewn up. What a reversal; everything was upside down.
Alex remembered sitting in his office when this guy in a three-piece suit came walking tiredly up the street into the lot. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes. His hair was sticking out in all directions and matted firmly on one side. Alex instantly thought this guy had been sleeping in the streets. From the quality of his clothes, he must have been a mucky muck somewhere. He didn't even get up from his desk as he watched him looking at the cars.
When the man finally came in, he said hesitantly, "I really need a car, Mister…?"
Alex, piped in, "Alex, Alex Tabor. Why sure! Hey, where did you come from? Your Beamer get stalled down the road or something?" Alex was always trying to be cute.
The man lowered his head slightly saying, "It was a brand new Beamer. I used to work downtown, officer at Wachovia-Wells Fargo.”
"Man, Wells Fargo. I don't think I’ve ever seen a bank go under as fast as those guys. They were involved in a lot of foreign financing or something like that. Those China Basin woes, and even did some things in Russia. Aren’t they the guys who financed the MacDonald’s chain in Afghanistan? Yeah, that’s the guys! What idiots! You poor guy! Had you been there long?”
The man seemed comforted because Alex was talking to him openly about it. No one, not even his wife and son discussed it. His wife locked herself in the bedroom and didn't come out for a week after he was fired. It was as if their world was crumbling, and it was. The fact that so many others were in the same fix wasn't comforting at all.
"I was there 25 years. Even made it through the Wells Fargo merger. I thought they'd give me severance, the 401K, some funds, just a little. But hey, there's no money anywhere. It's all gone, including the 401K, the pension, the benefits, my cell phone, and my Beamer," he trembled as he spoke about it.
"Listen man, anything I can do for you I will. If you want a car, how are you going to pay for it?" Enough chitchat thought Alex. It's time to put up or move on.
I got a job working by the riverfront scrap yard. I help sweep up metal shavings. They pay me each day, but I got to get there. I'm getting two dollars an hour. If I show up on time each day, they give me a gallon of milk, a pound of flour, and sugar each week. Or, they’ll give me two gallons of gas in place of the extra food. Can’t miss a day, though. Days are 14 hours long.”
"So, how about my Renault over there?" suggested Alex.
Alex figured, "If he has a job, maybe he can handle something. Start him out on my cheapest car. If he can't get it back to me, I won't lose much."
"How many miles to a gallon?" He was staring out the window at the red, rust-eaten bomb.
He thought, "I bet it can't make it down the block." He was wrong because Alex prided himself on working junks, not necessarily pretty ones.
"About 30 miles to a gallon. I’ll provide a gallon of gas with your first drive out. Got an underground tank here that used to be a gas station before I converted it. Lucky me! Who would’ve thought that my gas is worth more than this whole car lot? I’ll give you gas coupons for half a gallon to get it back to me; the rest is on you. Where do you have to drive from?” Alex was still trying to size up this guy’s financial capability. It didn't look good so far.
"I live in Brentwood? Of course, I don't suppose I'll be in Brentwood too much longer. My house payments were $2200 per month, but haven’t paid in six months. Maybe the government will help. I heard they were setting up campsites for homeless people at the old Opryland parking lots."
"Yeah, I heard that too. You got any money to put down on this jewel?" asked Alex. He was getting the idea that he was wasting his time with this guy.
; "A little. I’ve got silver from my son’s silver-dollar collection."
He pulled a perfect-proof set of Morgan’s from a paper bag. The brown, leather cover was marked "1878-1890." Years ago it was worth a bundle, especially his 1882 and 1885 CC’s. Now, they were worth only the silver content. Still, silver was the most tradable form of money left, the best poor man's money. Who could cash a gold coin? It was worth too much. A silver dime worked wonders.
Alex took silver and melted it down into tradable, silver bee bees, and this guy's silver made this deal cook as far as he was concerned.
"Now you're talking! I was worried you were going to have paper money or nothing. Now silver, that's more like it." Alex was feeling much more positive. "I'll tell you what. I know you got problems, don't we all? Why don't we settle on the price of a gallon of gas? Get me 25 dollars per week, silver, foods stuff. Pay me the first three months in advance so you’re paying ahead all the time." Alex was immediately relieved. He could collect enough to buy another car and replace his gas, giving him an extra 25 dollars in his pocket. Whatever he made on top was a lot of extra gravy.
"Hey, how old is your kid? You putting him to work too?" Alex wanted to chitchat since business was about over, and he was good at it. It was Alex's ability to talk to anyone about anything that immediately set everyone at ease with him.
The man stopped for a minute and said, "He's eight-years old. I wish he could. I was a little old when we had Steve, but I'm really scared more for him than anyone."
At that moment, Alex's life changed drastically, and he brainstormed, "Hey, I got an idea. I'll knock ten dollars a week off your price if you let your son come down and work for me cleaning up my garage and cars?"
The man jumped like someone shocked him. He said, "You mean it? That’s great! But how can I get him all the way out here?"
"Hey, it's still warm out. If he wants to camp out here, he can. I got a double garage walled off in back of these bays. It’s empty except for a little storage. His first job could be cleaning them up for me. I'd send him to the downtown lot, closer for you, but I'm sure you'd want me to be near. I hang out here. In fact, I had showers and
separate bathrooms installed years ago for a Mexican family, no green cards. Boy, were they good mechanics and talk about detailing a car. He'll need a sleeping bag, a couple changes of clothes, cleanup stuff. You see over there?" Alex pointed to the far corner of the garage in the back. "I have my own washer and dryer to keep my rags in good shape. He can use it to keep his clothes clean. I'll add back another three dollars a week for his vittles."
Alex watched as the man started writing on a small pad with an expensive, diamond-studded ink pen with a pompous ruby emblem surrounded his gold inlaid initials, obviously designed to impress. He was working through the savings and costs. He hadn't seen his wife in a week, and it was getting worse. His son would probably like getting out of the house of dread and doom.
"Sure it will work. But I don't want my son to stay here by himself. It’d scare him to death. I know what will work, Alex. I know five other guys from my old office who took the same kind of job I did. Can you help them too? They have some older kids, 11 through 13. They'd give you a real good shine, and some of them might have tinkered with mechanic’s stuff with their dads’ cars. If they can have their kids help out and stay over, I'd feel better about it."
Alex jumped like he was shocked this time. "This is too good to be true," he thought. "This is perfect."
"Sure, I got plenty of cars and work to do. Get them in touch, and we'll work out the details. You send them my way, and Alex Tabor will take care of them. Alex's head was buzzing. Somehow,
he had struck onto a literal gold mine in the middle of a disaster. That's Alex, finding a nitch and milking it for all it's worth. He loved a good deal and making them.
His idea took off like wildfire. Other car lots hadn’t figured it out and were going under. They kept dumping their inventories on Alex while Alex was picking up complete car inventories from 25 to 50 dollars of silver per ride. Soon, he was moving 500 working junkers a month and had free employees. It began for Alex right there. He understood how the children might become the “new dollar,” at least his new dollars.