One Monday morning Alexis Tanner, a 56-year-old bank cashier who during his childhood had achieved certain celebrity as the main character of a tooth-paste TV commercial, parked his 1980 Toyota on a street along Saint Joseph's University. He swapped its console with his handkerchief and turned the radio on and off, checking its volume. Once satisfied he stepped over the snow, locked his car and walked up to a corner, where he patiently awaited for his buyer.

     He licked a drop of coffee from his mouth, a remain of a hasty breakfast, put his sunglasses on and glanced at his watch. It was ten twenty-five. He looked around, searching for a bench where he could sit down.

    There was none.

    "Ain't gonna be warmer!" he uttered covering his ears with his mittens.

    Tanner had stayed at the mechanic's shop until three am, while his car was being repaired. Once at home he was unable to fall sleep in his bed. His mind was haunted by the outcome of his financial situation. Once again he was at the verge of bankruptcy. Once again he was about to face the stern eyes of his creditors. His salary as a bank cashier was just not good enough to cover the increasing quotas of his mortgage, not to mention his utilities and his wife's extravagant expenses.

    “If I were able to get five thousand dollars from those wealthy Arabs!” he thought. Every morning, on his way to work, he had driven by the International School for Foreigners at Saint Joseph’s University. It was there, on a rainy morning, that he had the opportunity to pick up a hitchhiking young Arab student, who minutes later told him, in a broken English, that he knew someone, a friend, interested to buy a car.

    Alex had got up from his bed without a minute of sleep. No sooner had he left his home than he felt his heart leaping at the proximity of his appointment. In spite of his lavish life style, his means were not superior to those of a middle-class clerk. His bank was about to reposses his house, and albeit his wife’s collection of fur coats, his  sport car and some memorabilia appear to be his only assets. Seven years ago he had paid seven thousand dollars for a Toyota Supra 1980. With an aerodynamic design, electric windows, leather cushions and a 2.8-liter inline 6-valve-cylinder motor, Alex’ Sport car proved to be a lemon five months after its purchase, when it broke down on New York's 5th Avenue

    “Swine!” he muttered casting a glance on his Toyota, “Now it will be my turn to let you down!”.

    “This car won’t go far,” his mechanic had told him the week before, after Tanner had paid two hundreds dollars for a used-carburettor he got in a derelict junk-yard . “The best you can do is to fix it and sell it.”

    “Unless I decide to change the motor and the rear axles,” Tanner proudly replied.

    “A new car won’t be a bad idea neither," the mechanic smirked at him.

        “Do it then,” Tanner sighed.

   “You may try to sell it to a foreigner,” the mechanic replied in a consolatory voice,“ there is a Chinese proverb that says that only a fool would be unable to take advantage of a foreigner. And let me tell you, you can see them here all around the place”.

    "Aren't you a foreigner?," Tanner snarled at him.

    "Well, I'm English. You know what sort of chaps I'm talking about, don't you?"
    
    That day, Tanner decided to let his wife know of how grave their financial situation was. For years he had never spoken to her about money matters. He had never been asked neither, but now, he felt, it was the moment to try her matrimonial vow, that that said that neither he, nor she will separate from each other in happiness or distress.

    When Tanner arrived home his wife embraced him. “A very unusual type of reception,” he thought. He procastinated his decision, then, and made love to her.
    
    “The mechanic called you, Honey,” she said from the bathroom, “He said he has found a solution to your problem. I couldn't talk to him for long . My sister was on the other line. What problem do you have, Honey?”

    Tanner decided to postpone their crucial conversation then, in the hope that everything will be sorted out soon.

    “Oh! It's nothing,” he exclaimed, “I’m just planning to buy a new car, a Mazda, or perhaps a Porsche. That depends of the credit I get".

    “You are the best man in the world!,” his wife said.

    One week later he paid five hundred dollars to his mechanic, a sum which, he was made to believe, was going to be recouped and multiplied with the sale of his car.

    “The motor runs silently, the speed is fine and the brakes are new. It will run properly for two weeks or three.

    “What after?”
    
    “We‘ll see,“ the mechanic grinned, “I cannot guarantee you. The best you can do it is to sell it as soon as you can."
    
    Tanner’s apprehension faded off as he saw his customer appearing around the corner. He studied him: a young thin man wearing an Armani green leather jacket and a red scarf.

    "Well," Tanner said stretching a pair of leather gloves in his hands, "Are you Arab, then?"

    "I‘m from Lebanon" His customer replied in a nervous tone, "¿have you been there?”.

    Tanner realized that his conversation about Middle-East geography and culture was over.

    “Not yet... Are you interested to buy this car, right?"

    "Yes," the young man stuttered, "Ali told me it was for sale."

    “Ali! What a nice body! You can call me Lex, kid.”

    “Sure, Lex,“ the young man replied. “Likewise I’ll be grateful if you call me Rick.”

    “Your English is not bad,” Tanner smiled in a patronising way, “you just have to improve your accent.”

    “That’s why I came here”.

    Tanner had understood by then that his customer was not going to be the easy prey he had awaited for the several past weeks.

    “Ten thousand dollars for my car!,” he grinned shaking his head. “A real bargain, isn't it? A 1990 Celica Supra Toyota! A collectors trophy! You have a good taste, kid!

    “Rick”, the young man corrected him.

    “I’m sorry Rick”.

    “That’s all right”.
    
    Tanner sensed he had broken the ice with his apology.

    “I like your Armani jacket by the way."
    
    "Thanks," replied the young man.

    “I’m thinking to get one like that,” Tanner added unable to miss an opportunity to show off.
    
    “You won’t be able to afford it,” Rick snarled at him.

    “Excuse me?, ” Tanner replied out of guard.

    "I like your car,” Rick said in an imperative voice. “But I find it rather dear".

    "Dear?" Tanner gasped. "Are you kidding me?"

    "I went yesterday to Ardmore, where I saw a customer buy a car very much like this for nine thousand dollars."

    Tanner felt that his heart had stopped for a few seconds. ¿Could he be more fortunate than that? Two months ago, in a moment of despair, he had almost decided to haul his car to the junk yard.

    "Last night you agreed to buy this car for ten thousand dollars" he said in an effort to look impatient.

    “We didn’t agree about the price,” Rick muttered. “I recognize, though, that you discussed it with Ali”.

    Tanner realised that this was his opportunity to push on.

    "There is no need for us to argue, Rick" Tanner added, "How much is your budget?"

    “Nine thousand,” Rick replied in a boastful tone.

    Tanner congratulated himself. He  had undoubtedly a fine understanding of psychology. “Can you pay for it?" was the sentence that had stirred Rick’s shame, indignation and pride, all at once. 

    “Can I drive it?,” added Rick shivering.

    “I’m so silly!” Tanner chuckled. “It’s freezing out here, and your jacket is so thin! Let’s go inside.”

    Tanner led his customer along the street. After taking the gloves off from his hands with the help of his perfectly white teeth, he took out a key holder from his pocket. A silver-color key shone in his fingers before he inserted it, with artistic dexterity, in the driver’s door‘s keyhole. Two seconds passed before the muscles of his forehead contracted.

    “Are you all right?,” Rick asked peeping over his shoulders.

    “I’m perfectly fine!,” Tanner gasped as his movements became more and more frenetic. “It’s just the car door, which is a little bit frozen!”

    Tanner stirred the key once and once again, until it broke in the keyhole.

    “You, fucking bitch!,” he screamed.

    Victim of his own despair he kicked the car with one of his metalic boots.

    The door slid and fell ungraciously onto the street.

    Tanner smiled nervously at his customer, who in return looked at him, not as an American citizen, not even as a human being, but as a mere curiosity.

    “So... so... sorry...” stuttered Rick before turning his back on him and walking away,  along the street.

Philadelphia, November 1994