“Look at these.” But the spokes consultant stops and offers his hand for a shake, sensing the changing direction of the discourse, toward a closing. “I’m Franco, by the way. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Mulroney. You know. A real fucking pleasure.”
Franco slides a brochure across the counter, an 8½ x 11 so thick and pliable it feels nearly plastic, showing the bare bones frames of the CX-61 from Olioglo in the six color schemes available, maybe. “I’ll call Chicago to see what they have. I know the Chicago crew well.”
“Does it matter that you know them?”
Franco smiles and dials. Mulroney scans the options and boils the choice down to two, which he shows to Franco, who’s reached the Chicago office and waits on hold. “That frame color is for the disc brake model only. You do not want disc brakes.”
“Disc brakes? On a bicycle?”
“Yes. They’re relatively new on road bikes, but they really are a specialty item for going very fast—” Franco holds up a finger as he exchanges pleasantries with his great good friend at Olioglo U.S.A. in Chicago and asks what he can get shipped today. “Oh? Well, yes. I think so. But the catalog shows that color in the disc brake frame only … Yes … You’re sure … ? Sizes … ? Grazie. I’ll call you back.”
Franco shrugs, underscoring his point, that what is shipped will be what they’ll get. But he thinks they can get one of Mulroney’s two choices, for the moment, in a size fifty-three. Franco assesses the candidate once more and nods. “We’re in luck.”
“The fuck, you think you can get it? You just talked to the guy. He had his eyes on it, didn’t he?”
Franco shrugs. “We often think what turns out to be otherwise.”
Mulroney smiles again, this time shaking his head. “That’s good. I gotta chew on that one. Hey, Frankie. You ever sell cars?”
Allowing for maximum potential, maximum return and above all, maximum fun, Franco pencils in specialty upgrades on every screw, washer, nut, O-ring, link, cable, rod, axle, rim, lever, tape, sprig, and relish. The build-out begins on paper, on a form that becomes a set piece in supreme excellence at maximum level. The Big M senses his transformation into the laydown of every salesperson’s dreams, and he says, “You understand, this is an exercise. We’re going through the motions here.”
“Of course. We need to see if we can even put together what you want.”
“Ease off, Frankie. You got the sales basics dicked—that would be service and product knowledge. Smoke up the ass is not necessary and could be a deal killer.”
“Sorry, Mr. M.”
“Don’t worry about it, but give me a break, for fuck sake. All I wanted was a fucking bicycle, and you’re putting together a fucking Mach nine supersonic screamer. And shitcan the part about whether you can do it. You fill in the blanks. What can’t you do?”
Franco blushes, perhaps humbled, perhaps insulted, perhaps wondering how his world-class bicycling potential got him building out extreme machines for rude, old guys. Mulroney sees. Mulroney knows. “You were a contender, huh?”
Franco thinks and jots components into each blank. He eases into grimace—make that a smile. “I had my day.”
“Yeah, we all had our day. Some of us. Hey, Frankie, ain’t it the shits, the only guys who ever buy these hotsy-totsy bicycles are fat old fucks with no chops?”
Franco looks up and stares, not quite assessing for the third time but rather reflecting on a poignant moment. “Que sera,” he offers in sanguine resignation, covering well with: “But today should be a good day for both of us.”
Mulroney thinks he made the right choice. Duly recognized and being serviced as a man of means, this process feels right. He won’t say as much because he wants to see how it plays out, but he’s already decided to go whole hog; fuck it, why not? It’ll help with the big picture. With a time and purchase to every season, it’s important to open the heart, mind, and wallet on occasion, where pleasure and joy may be at hand, or may be lost for want of a few measly shekels.
Mulroney feels game and wants to see where a bicycle might go if a buyer is willing and able to spend a few bucks on the best. Franco jots, murmuring pros and cons on one seat post or another, a particular stem and its dictate on certain bars. He smiles blithely at potential yet again—with purpose—and finally gets to a difficult series of blanks. “We’re here to get you as far as you can go. Why not, with such a solid foundation?” He reviews his choices and logic so far, through brakes, seat, handlebars, wheels, hubs, tires, and the rest. He has chosen top tier excellence on each component, meaning all carbon graphite. “We know how to take care of you. All Shimano components.”
“Sounds Japanese.”
“It is. They’re great.”
“You think they’re the greatest?”
“They’re definitely up there. Some people prefer Campagnolo. Campagnolo is Italian. It’s a matter of taste.”
“Gimme the Italian. I don’t like Japanese. Fuckers kill whales and call it research. They eat ’um. Whales. Blowfish. Jellyfish for chrissakes. Can you believe that? Eating whales and jellyfish?”
Franco strikes a pose: listening to political opinion in stillness. “It sounds like a touchy subject for you.”
“Yes, it is. It’s touchy for the whales and blowfish too. It’s no big deal for you?”
But Franco is smart and quick, sticking the shiv and pulling it out with no twist. “I love the fish and the whales. Campagnolo it is then. If you want to know the truth, Campagnolo is my personal preference. You want to try on some riding pants?”
“Then why did you assume I’d want the Japanese stuff?”
Franco shrugs. “Sorry. Campagnolo runs a good deal more money. But it’s important to get what you want. Capiche?”
“Yeah. Fuckin capiche.” Well, every closer has his downside, and understanding seems softer than a few minutes ago. Squeezing him onto a fifty-three because they didn’t have a fifty-four was easy enough, but they get so obtuse, assuming Japanese.
Mulroney asks if the good stuff that may not be the greatest but might cost a heap o’ dough less might be good enough for a hacker like himself. Franco says, “Of course, you can save a few bucks. And you might be happy forever. Or you might wonder. Why not return to cycling as you would have cycling return to you? Besides that, you’re getting all Italian.”
“Yeah, yeah. Instead of Japanese.”
“This build on a CX-61 is state of the art, so far, and will be for years. You carry through with EPS, and I think you’re going to see more miles than you ever imagined. We have another hurdle to get over, but if we can clear it, you’re going to be riding a frame that’s stronger than steel, lighter than feathers, aerodynamic as a teardrop, nearly, and with more sheer, raw love than you thought a bicycle could give you. You will have no metal parts, except for cables, so you will be rust-free forever. Let’s get done with the pain, quick and neat: top of line throughout, fifteen grand. Give or take.”
Mulroney has fifteen grand to piss down the rat hole any day he chooses and plenty more because of who he is. But Frankie’s presumption may be verging on arrogance. Why sell a bicycle for four grand when you might get fifteen on five minutes of rolling the ticket? Mulroney doesn’t mind the best but wants to avoid foolish feelings later, what his own customers like to call buyer’s remorse on what they realized as superfluous, after the sale. He doesn’t mind being a lay-down but doesn’t want to bend over, like the suckers who shell out another two grand on a piece o’ shit car for the fucking undercoating and headlight insurance and seat cover extended warranty and all that happy horseshit. Mulroney knows this business with specific regard to the emotional minefield at this juncture of the process known to Californians as the acquisition, as it reflects the essence of self.
Then again, maybe a buyer resistant to this natural process is stubborn and stupid. Maybe this kid Frankie is a natural. He does know the product, and a would-be bicyclist with adequate mobility is lucky to have his guidance �
��
Nah. Not likely.
“Bear with me, Frankie. I’ll keep that number in mind, but let’s back up to this EPS thing. What, pardon me, the fuck is EPS?”
“Electronic power shifting. Come over here.” Mulroney follows to a display rack holding a bicycle and watches Franco turn the pedals and work the shifter. It’s electric.
Mulroney smiles—can’t help it, offering his catchall assessment: “The fuck?”
“Once you’ve been, you won’t go back. The EPS package is part of your system. You can save about four grand going back to manual shift.”
“And what’s the last hurdle.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“I got three minutes. What do you got?”
Franco leads to another display case, from which he pulls a magazine folded back on a review of the new CX-61. Mulroney scans. The review says, “The new CX-61 is only one more version of the best bicycle in the world, until you add carbon graphite wheels. Then it smokes everything else.”
Mulroney feels testier than he’d like to feel; sure, this Frankie kid is a sales manager’s dream, but who’d a thunk the Big M, himself, could get so carved up on a mere toy?
Franco does not interrupt the personal reverie, does not assert authority or fact but eases softly inside with the practiced nuance of a surgeon—never mind the blood and gore. “I can explain the pros and cons of carbon wheels whenever you want. I’m going to recommend the Certitude 1111s. You will be amazed. They’ll add three thousand to your total and will include spokes, hubs, bearings, and skewers. Wait a minute.” Franco picks up a phone and hits one button and says, “Certitude 1111 front and rear.” He hangs up and says, “I just knew it. We have them.”
Mulroney murmurs a question on who’s skewering whom. He knew coming in that this bicycle outing could go to quibble and squabble like things usually do, like maybe he should offer Frankie eight grand on the X-15 or whatever the fuck it’s called—put it right on the card and out the door: tax, tags, and dealer prep. And skewers.
Except that would be a lowball on a bicycle shop. That is low and negative. Bicycles are clean and simple. Kids ride bicycles. Mulroney was a kid, and maybe that’s the attraction here. These days are dark, so much waiting and ass-kissing and trying to sell a great house at a fair price. A bicycle seems honest and innocent—and young. It’s why he’s here, for a change of pace, and the change of scenery already looks better. So why not pay the price as stated and ride on out, for the first time in years self-propelled instead of deeply driven?
The quintessential bicycle consultant seems acutely familiar with these mental gyrations as they process in the prospective buyer’s mind, or rather in the prospective buyer’s voluntary removal of his right mind, the moment fondly referred to in shop parlance as the moment of truth. Franco steps back, feet at shoulder width, hands clasped below the waist. He neither bows nor waits but returns to the paraphernalia set out for Mulroney’s review and puts the shop in order, as it was.
This closing technique might be called modern, what used to be called soft or pussying out—failing to ask for the money. At least Frankie gave the price. And this soft touch really offers no quarter for resistance. It’s not like he’s saying take it or leave it, except that seems to be the situation, which doesn’t trigger the knee jerk, so maybe Mulroney is getting tired, or tired of it. Maybe the inner Mulroney is finally realizing the essence of the situation, or the practical side of spirituality, or some shit. Fact is, Mulroney has more money than time, or he will have and he knows it. So he probes, to be sure, seeking a drop on the game of give and take. “So with the good wheels and all you’re saying eighteen grand?”
“No. They’re included in the fifteen, give or take. I just assumed … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Product knowledge is half the battle. I think you have it.”
“I try to stay up on things.”
Mulroney grants his own knowing smile and says, “Wrap it up.”
Fuck it. It’s not a toy; it’s a tool. Besides, what good is a man of means who can’t sling some means around every now and then? Just look: the seductive finish and two-finger weightlessness of the thing emote movement, not to mention its very shape, a hi-tech hint of velocity with no effort—and no exhaust, no fuel and none of the petty suburban bullshit smothering what’s left of the world.
Besides, it’s only fifteen grand complete—including the special wheels! He thought there for a minute it would go to eighteen! That would be crazy. He’ll spend a few bucks more on spandex shorts, wicking shirts, clip-on shoes, a helmet, carbon fiber bottle brackets, carbon fiber pump, a patch kit and under-seat pouch no bigger than his scrotum with less sag and plenty of room for emergency needs: spare tube, tire levers, and a double sawbuck for snacks, phone calls, a couple brewskies, whatever. But later on that; let’s get the bike built first.
Of course, wrap it up is a figure of speech. Just so, Franco wraps up the details while Mulroney reviews the parts list. Franco computes total weight at just over fifteen pounds, which seems like a pricey pour. Mulroney would prefer seventeen or twenty pounds for better value, but this is like golf, with a lower number of pounds representing greater value.
God, I hate golf.
He can call it a grand per pound, and that has a nice ring to it. Facilitating the amazingly light weight are carbon fiber handlebars and seatpost. “Four and a quarter for a plastic stick?” Mulroney asks aloud.
“Yes, and worth every penny. You’ll agree when it absorbs residual road shock before it runs up your spine.”
“Yeah, beginning with up my ass.”
Tasteless humor is not appreciated, so Mulroney asks more appropriately, “How will I know that I’m not feeling the pain I could be feeling?”
“Trust me. Everybody knows. You will too.”
The fuck is that? You will too? Condescension can hardly placate primitive doubt, and Mulroney experiences his first disappointment in Frankie, who had his day. Does an old guy really need this space-age stuff? That condescension is what’s wrong with the neighborhood. Make that the town, this god-forsaken stretch of coast infested with airy-fairy mental cases who couldn’t be more cocksure of what’s up in their universe.
What Mulroney knows with equal certainty is that this Frankie kid doesn’t know shit, not about life or pains in the ass or practicality. He’s a good salesperson, no doubt about it, but something keeps niggling at the old whaddayacallit—the old stickler that’ll bung up product knowledge and service every time. Ah, yeah, it’s the arrogance. How else could he see Mulroney as moneybags ripe for the plucking instead of a guy who wants to go for a bicycle ride? And at such a punk age. Frankie isn’t a punk, but Mulroney wants to set the record straight. “How old are you?”
Franco blushes, as if facing his personal poverty of podium appearances and so far past his prime. Working at the best bicycle shop in the world is hardly a job to scoff, but he’s still selling bicycles, when a man could be so much more. “I’m thirty-seven.”
“A little old to be hustling toys, isn’t it?” Mulroney doesn’t make anyone feel inadequate by choice, but as old guy out he can level a playing field any day, as necessary.
“Sir, these toys aren’t for everyone. These toys are for the select few. You can’t get one of these toys unless you’re a world-class athlete with a sponsor to buy these toys for you, or you’re a success in life and can pay for a custom-built, tailor-made bicycle for yourself. You’re making an impulse buy on a toy and accessories of around eighteen thousand dollars. Do you want a test ride?”
“Hmm.” Mulroney knew it! Knew it would go to eighteen. And he knows a test ride is in order, that only a fool buys a car or a bicycle without a test ride, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s not ready. So no, he doesn’t want a test ride. Not yet—yet he sees the seasoned dexterity in a natural closer. Franco won’t belabor his own personal status or that of his product but rather turns the dialogue on a dime, back to the buyer buying what the sel
ler is selling. Oh, this Frankie kid is good—could have knocked down a hundred grand annual in pre-owned back in the day. Maybe more. What the fuck—he could be knocking down a buck and quarter right now. Eighteen large on a fricken’ bicycle? Maybe the magical seat post is working already. At least I get a bicycle to show for the dough instead of a butt fucking from some glad-hand assholes trying to lowball the homestead so they can show their hot-flashing wives what a bunch of slick operators they are.
Fuckers.
“Tell me something,” Mulroney says. “When do you draw the line on this weight business? When do you step back and say, ‘Hey, it’s a fuckin bicycle.’ I mean it weighs less than a fuckin bag o’ spuds. So what, I want to drop a few more grand to take a couple spuds out of the bag?”
“That’s a good question,” Franco replies, sliding his business card across the counter, as necessary, disclosing his status as owner of The Spokesperson, and as such, “I’m the designated personal guidance consultant to qualifying clients. You qualify, Mister M.” With that comes the half smile of certainty, also as necessary.
Mulroney studiously scans the card. “The Spokesperson? Did it used to be The Spokesman?”
Franco allows his mild chagrin to form a smile in a calculated quarter inch to the right but not the left.
“I mean before the lefties got to you? Got to you? Fuck. Before they threatened to burn your store down?”
Franco will not distinguish such a question, so he ignores it, to make the world a more productive place. “It depends on you. How much do you want to spend? On minimal grammage.”
A California Closing Page 3
