Hiss Of Death

Annalise Veronese was at the Lampo dealership on her day off. A soft spring breeze sent tiny blossom petals across the lot, many falling to outline windshield wiper blades.

Tired of hearing Cory Schaeffer trumpet his electric car, Annalise came to see for herself. She knew a bit about motors, since her father ran a gas station.

The salesman—Sean Hedyt, young, twenty-four, with the latest haircut and sporting the stubble fashionable among young men—was personable and smart enough not to try the hard sell.

No one was going to sell Annalise anything. Show her. She’d make up her mind.

“So, tell me, Sean, how many volts does the battery have?”

“Four hundred forty volts at forty amps. You can cruise for three hundred miles and then the four-cylinder engine will take over.”

Annalise knew that at four hundred forty volts, less than one amp would fry a person. “What are the safety measures?”

“Well, the Lampo is in the top third for crash tests. The front end absorbs most of the impact.”

“No, I don’t mean that. Sorry not to be precise.” She smiled at him. “What are the safety measures concerning the power from the battery?”

“There’s a bypass safety relay, a series of relays, to shut down power from the battery in the event of a crash.”

“And what if corrosion occurs in the relay? Perhaps the battery wouldn’t shut down.”

Surprised that he was talking to a woman who knew her beans, he swallowed. “Ma’am, that’s why you have to follow the service schedule. But you should do that regardless of what kind of car. It’s a lot easier to keep things running smoothly than to fix a problem.”

“I worked in a gas station as a kid. You’re one hundred percent right.”

This pleased him. “Would you like a test-drive?”

“Not right now. I’d like more literature to study the car. It’s all so new. I want to make sure I understand it, and I’d like you to pop the hood.”

“Be glad to.” He opened the driver’s door, leaned down, and pulled the release to the left of the steering wheel, down low in the driver’s footwell by the door.

He turned on the car and then joined her. They both peered down.

“Amazing.” Annalise whistled. “Quiet.”

“I’ll confess that took some getting used to. When I drive, I listen for the engine.”

“And you really listen when it’s a manual shift, which I love. This is truly amazing. I don’t know if the idea will catch hold, but it does seem to me, who loves a big gas engine, that we have to find some compromise.” Annalise felt a leaching loss even at the thought of bidding the internal combustion engine goodbye.

She took the brochures, bade Sean goodbye. She liked him, but then, if you don’t like a car salesman, you aren’t going to buy. Likability ought to be the first quality a dealer looks for in an employee. You can always cram the knowledge about the vehicle in someone’s head, but you can’t make an individual personable.

She drove her old quirky Saab to the Volkswagen dealer, where she tried a diesel Jetta, which got forty-four miles per gallon on the open road. She could feel a slight diesel thump, but as she hit sixty-five on I-64, the engine felt smoother. Dawson English, the salesman sitting next to her, was relaxed, because the woman could drive. The small machine handled very well, but going from zero to sixty left something to be desired: It took 9.8 seconds.

You can’t have it all, she thought to herself.

Dawson said, “You ever drive competitively?”

“Loved it. I’d be happy driving go-carts. I never had the money for the big leagues. My father and I sprinkled garage fairy dust on a few cars. We did pretty good at local tracks. I still like to drive the quarter-mile races, but it’s so expensive now.”

“Everything is,” he agreed. “You’re a doctor. I sell a lot of cars to doctors who want good gas mileage but don’t want a crossover car. What do you think about healthcare reform?”

“I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but I think the only people who can honestly deliver healthcare reform are doctors, nurses, and the hospital administrators.”