The Subtle Art of Brutality

I walked back outside, climbed into my car, and drove toward home.

4

BRENT

Clyde left in a hot panic. Can’t say I blame him. I can’t even believe he had space in his head for some special reservation when his wife is in labor, but I guess if it were my name on the business, I’d want everything to go right, too.

Before the dust even settled from Clyde’s sprint out the door, the Griffin family came back. Same dumpy Midwestern foursome pulling their same beige luggage and their same fat asses. This couldn’t be good.

“Mr. Griffin, you’re back,” I said, trying to be cheery before the shit storm I knew was coming my way.

“That car you rented me,” he said. “It smells.” Then he added, “Bad,” in case I thought he’d come back to compliment us on the floral scent of our air fresheners. We don’t use air fresheners. You get what you get.

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“Smells like ass,” the boy said. His mother immediately shushed him with a small slap to the back o

f the head. I could see the embarrassment on her face for her son and her husband. I could imagine the argument in the van before turning around, her all, “It’s fine, just drive,” and him all, “I won’t pay for a car that smells like ass.”

“We want a new one,” he said. He stuck out his chin, such as it was, and acted entitled. I took a deep breath, working hard to keep it together.

“Of course. No problem.” I sounded less like a smiley glad hand and more like a waiter about to go back to the kitchen and spit in his food. I checked the roster of vehicles, of which there aren’t many on our lot. No more minivans. “I’m afraid, Mr. Griffin,” I started. I saw him already tense up, planning his rebuttal. “That was our last minivan.”

“That’s not my problem.” His face glowed red and tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead all the way back across his dome. “The van you gave me smells like something died in the air conditioning unit and it’s obvious someone was smoking in there. We specifically asked for a non-smoking car.”

He hadn’t, since that wasn’t one of our options, but the customer is always right. Often times a humongous dick, but always right.

“Well,” I said as I checked the list of cars. “I can give you a four door sedan.”

“No, that won’t do. We need the storage. Can you not see the bags we have with us?”

“Sean . . .,” his wife tried to calm him down, but not trying very hard in case he turned his anger on her. She knew the drill.

“No, Linda, we won’t be treated like this. This is our vacation. I’m not driving around in a car that smells like a public toilet and I’m not driving around in some Japanese shoebox. We’re from goddamn Detroit for Christ sake.”

“Kids, you come with me,” Linda said as she ushered the kids away from Daddy’s tantrum.

I balled up my fists, let them loose again and tried talking myself out of using them on this jerk wad. I promised Clyde I wouldn’t have another incident like that again. The last guy I punched sued us. Almost won too, if he hadn’t been drunk. After that, Clyde installed the security camera, but I think that was as much to check up on me than any rude customers.

“I want that one,” he said. He pointed a fat finger at the black Chevy Tahoe I hadn’t had a chance to move yet.

“I do have an SUV you can have, Mr. Griffin. Let me just get it from around back and run it through the washer—”

“I want that one.” God, throw a diaper on this guy and he’d be a three hundred pound baby.

“That one is already reserved.”

“Again, not my problem. You said you had another one, give it to them. I’ve already been delayed enough. I’m not going to sit around your shitty airport while you wash another stink bomb of a car when a perfectly good, clean one is right fucking there.”

I saw the mom put a hand over one of each kid’s ears.

I wanted to punch this guy more than I’ve ever wanted to punch someone before in my life, but not more than I wanted to keep my job, so fuck it. Let him have the damn thing. The sooner he left, the sooner I could wash up the other Tahoe and give Clyde’s special repeat customer guy a twin of the Tahoe outside.

“You’re right,” I said. The thing they all want to hear. “I’ll change the paperwork for you, no need to sign anything else. You have a nice day.” I lifted the keys from the desk where Clyde had set them and traded Mr. Griffin for the minivan keys, then I secretly wished for the Tahoe to blow a tire, run off into a ditch, catch fire and trap him and his fat fucking family inside the burning wreckage where they could all sizzle to death like the chubby little sausage links they were.

I smiled the whole time I handed over the keys, but as soon as he turned his back I gave him the finger. I made sure the security camera could see it.

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