Guy in a black Dodge Charger pulls up next to me, honks, and rolls down his window.
“Bro,” he says. “There’s a scratch on your car. I can fix it. I’m a body man.”
Maybe I look reluctant so he ups the ante on his pitch.
“Bro, that car is going to look so good when I get done with it, the ladies are going to be all over your business.”
It’s true. Some women are especially interested in what a man drives. But I’m pretty sure those women prefer flashy cars.
“But it’s a Corolla,” I say.
“You’ll never be a baller with that attitude, bro.”
The light changes and he speeds away. He may be a body man and a baller, but he is a lousy salesman because he forgot to give me his card.