I know nothing about cars. I failed my driving test six times, for good reason, and so I’ve never gotten a license. But yesterday, John and I went to the grand, glorious Manhattan Auto Show, because John, who’s an excellent driver, is thinking about getting a new car. The show is still going on at the Javits Center on the far West Side, where the enormous glass exhibition spaces are filled with block-long LED screens, acres of white carpeting, interactive consoles and above all else, glistening new cars, trucks, mini-vans and motorcycles, many set atop slowly rotating white platforms, to be properly lusted for.
Since I know nothing about cars, none of this interested me. When John would ask me which car I preferred, I tended to say things like, “the red one.” When we looked at the eco-friendly hybrids, I kept imagining having to shove celery and bran into the gas tanks. John was very patient and I do enjoy being a passenger. But here’s what fascinated me about the car show: the car people.
The place was crowded with bedrock, car-adoring Americans, wearing their most comfortable, oversize clothes. If you want to know who buys their jeans at Costco, in the Kirkland house brand, go to the car show. There were many sets of fathers and sons, bonding happily over Toyotas and Mercedes and Mazdas; my favorite Dad and lad were a middle-aged guy in a tucked-in, washed-out Sears polo and khakis, inspecting a Lexus beside a teenage boy wearing full makeup, artfully swooshed hair, skinny black pants and multiple piercings. There were also many groups of female friends, with everyone recording their favorite cars on their phones, like baby pictures.
The most impressive people were the impossibly glamorous sales reps. There were far more female reps, I think because they’re both more alluring and because male customers might feel intimidated by other, more knowledgeable car dudes. The women were all incredibly welcoming and well-prepared with every possible bit of information about a Prius or a Subaru or a Hyundai Hatchback. They were also undeniable babes: the Ford ladies, for example, all wore matching, fitted cobalt blue sheaths, while the Volkswagen platoon were allotted black mesh cigarette pants and skimpy grey blazers. The Lincoln women were the most high-end luxury bombshells, in spike heels and plunging, skin-tight black catsuits, with freshly blown-out hair and centerfold-ready, too-much-is-just-a-beginning makeup and eyelashes. And I want to put this delicately, but I believe that this year’s Lincolns come equipped with rather impressively engineered airbags.
From chatting with some of these women I learned that they travel all over the country for their employers. In earlier years, trade shows would often hire local actresses as window-dressing, but these women were expert salespeople, who just happened to look like Japanese anime superheroes. I’ve heard that at the boat show, bikinis are involved.
