The scene is a methadone clinic on Jefferson Avenue in Detroit, about a half-mile from DaimlerChrysler's Jefferson North plant. Desiree has worked at the center for about six years, and in that time, she's seen just about everything. But not even she was prepared for what came through the door just a couple of days ago.
She'd looked up from her paperwork to check out the parking lot of the clinic, a converted Farmer Jack grocery store on the city's near east side. At just that moment, a brand new Pontiac Solstice pulled in. The driver stepped carefully out of the low-slung roadster. He was a tall man wearing a three-piece suit and exquisite Italian shoes. But as the man got closer, she realized he wasn't what he seemed. The suit was dirty, one shoe was unlaced, and the man had three days worth of stubble and eyes that seemed sunken halfway into his face.
As he entered the clinic, Desiree gasped out loud. It looked like someone she'd seen on the news talking about General Motors, but she wasn't sure it was the same guy. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"Um, yeah ... " said the man, his voice trailing off as his eyes darted nervously around the room. "I, uh, need some help."
"Well, you've come to the right place," Desiree answered. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
The man nodded. She poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and handed it to the man. With hands visibly shaking, he brought the cup to his lips and took a big gulp of the bitter black liquid inside.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Wagoner. Rick Wagoner."
"And what do you need, Mr. Wagoner?"
"I need some market share," said the man, clearly in the grip of addiction.
"Say what?" Desiree was confused.
"I ... I thought I could do it," the man said, putting his head in his hands. "I thought I could turn things around without ... them."
"Them?"
"Rebates," Wagoner answered. "Zero-percent financing. You know ... the usual. "
He took a deep breath. Clearly, talking about it was helping. "At first, I figured the product would get me through. Lutz said it would. But the G6 isn't selling -- even after that bitch Oprah gave away 300 of them. Everyone's crabbing that the Solstice doesn't have a trunk ... well, of course it doesn't, it's a freaking sports car, ferChrissake. The Impala's selling, and people like the Cadillacs, but no one's buying Buicks or Saturns. And now, gas is so expensive, no one's buying the new SUVs."
He was getting agitated. "So I figured I'd try something different. Gas price guarantees -- buy a Tahoe, I'll sell you gas at $2 a gallon. Sounded great, until those freakin' tree-huggers started breaking my stones."
Desiree watched, mouth agape, as Wagoner began to rock back and forth in the armless metal chair on the other side of her desk.
"Then, the New York Times -- the New York Freakin' Times! -- has the gall to suggest that we're trying to hurt the environment. When I read that, I guess ... I guess I just lost it."
Desiree reached over and took his hand. "And that's when the rebates started?"
"Yeah," Wagoner exhaled. "I thought I could keep them regional, but ... they just took on a life of their own. Now, we've got 0% for 6 years on just about every car except Cadillac. Rebates on the SUVs we brought out just a few months ago ... and ... and ... " His voice cracked.
"You need help," Desiree offered.
"I need help."
Desiree knew what to do. "Just fill out this form, Mr. Wagoner. I'll hook you up on some factory-to-dealer incentives ... with maybe a morphine drip."
He looked into her eyes, and saw warmth. "Thank you so much. Say, you don't need a new car, do ya?"
She patted his hand. "No, thank you. I bought a Camry three years ago, and it's still running great."
(The preceding was fiction. I don't know if there's a methadone clinic near Jeff North, and I have no information to suggest that Mr. Wagoner is addicted to anything stronger than Diet Coke.)
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