Just had a heart-racing moment. I’m at Panera working, and a guy - dressed very appropriately in all black, including suit jacket, by the way - asks me if I am the owner of the Mustang in the parking lot. Heart drops to bottom, waiting to hear "Meteor just hit it" or "So dreadful, but I seem to have backed my tank over it" or "Man, that did a spectacular 1080 when it rolled off the cliff!" or "Must not have had any plastic - all leather, cloth, and steel? - because wow, that thing is burning CLEAN!"
I say "yes" with fear and trembling, and he asks, "Is it a 2003? I'm looking to buy a 2003 Mustang convertible. Tonight."
My heart flies to the top, thinking, "I'm gonna make a crap load of money! God just placed in front of me a man who buys cars on a whim!" Thoughts fly through my head about a guy sitting around in nouveau-riche boredom, tired of everything, who can afford to act immediately on impulses like "I want a 2003 white Mustang convertible - and I want it tonight! I'm gonna drive around until I see one I like and offer a ludicrous amount of incentive for them to part with it RIGHT NOW!" The kind of guy who might, on another night, find the beer in his cooler not stimulating his ennui so he flies his plane to Copenhagen for a fresh Tuborg on tap, demanding his staff go with him because they're the closest thing to friends he has.
Then he says, "It's also white, but with a gray top."
Dang.
Heart goes back to normal. No sale. But a conversation about the car, and he was thankful.
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