Danehy

I miss my favorite car salesman.

The forming and expression of that sentence puts me in a group
representing .000001 percent of the world’s population (although, in
some parts of the world, the word “car” would be replaced with “oxen”
or “large-shouldered serf”).

Not many of us have a favorite car salesman. We tend not to have
favorites of many of the people with whom we interact. Of course, there
are exceptions. I have a favorite person who cuts my hair. Many people
in my generation have a favorite pharmacist, although generally not the
kind who works at Walgreens.

When I was growing up, many of us had a favorite radio deejay. Radio
was used to play music back then, before it was taken over by the vast
right-wing conspiracy. There’s no way you can hear Earth, Wind and Fire
on the radio now, but if Toby Keith ever decided to cover “That’s the
Way of the World,” I’m sure I’d hear it on Sean Hannity’s show.

Anyway, we all had favorite deejays, at least until we actually saw
what that person looked like, and then it was over. My favorite was
“Humble” Harve Miller, who had this great, Barry White-deep voice and
was a staple on Los Angeles radio until he went home one day, found his
wife in bed with another guy, and killed them both. When he got out of
prison, his voice wasn’t quite as deep. I also once thought I saw The
Real Don Steele in a grocery store, but it turned out to be Jaye P.
Morgan from The Gong Show.

Nevertheless, for the most part, we don’t have favorite grocers or
waiters, although if I can ever find somebody working a fast-food
window who doesn’t have self-drawn tattoos on his/her hands that were
done when he/she should have been paying attention in math class,
that person will instantly become my favorite.

Oddly enough, when people use the term “favorite,” it’s almost
always about people we don’t know—actresses, athletes, authors.
Still, I do have a favorite car salesman, and I miss him. His
name is Ira Andrews, and he got sick a while back.

I first met Ira when I took my first-ever Honda (which I had
purchased elsewhere) into Dobbs for service. The head service guy was
named Steve Martin, and he liked me, because I was one of the few
people who didn’t use the words “wild” or “crazy” around him. When it
came time to get a new car, Steve recommended Ira, and it was like
magic. He was just instantly likable, with a ready smile and a slow,
pleasant way of talking with this pimp-daddy, FM-deejay kind of
voice.

Ira is a longtime Tucsonan who attended the Dunbar School almost 60
years ago. Dunbar was the all-black school near Stone Avenue and Second
Street. During Tucson’s inglorious segregated days (from 1909 to 1951),
all black kids had to go to Dunbar through the eighth grade. Those who
went on to high school would go to Tucson High, which was integrated,
making the idea of the Dunbar School all the more bizarre. (The
longtime principal at Dunbar was Morgan Maxwell, for whom a middle
school is now named.)

Ira and I would always talk basketball. He played at Tucson High and
eventually at Northern Arizona University. Somehow, he has managed to
remain a Lakers fan despite Kobe Bryant. I have higher standards.

We’ve bought five cars from him and never once felt pressured or
uncomfortable. People will seek out Hondas, but buying a car is still
generally a pain-in-the-butt experience. However, with Ira, it’s like
going to get an ice-cream cone. “OK, now what kind do you want? I think
we can do that. Do you want sprinkles on it?”

If he were any more low-key, he’d be able to communicate with
American submarines patrolling the bottom of the Mariana Trench. You
almost end up saying, “C’mon, Ira, let me buy this car!”

I can only imagine what he was like with the women back in the day
(or even now). “Please, Ira, let me take my clothes off in front of
you.”

“Well, only if you want to. I don’t want to pressure you in any
way.”

Always ridiculously fit and trim for a man his age (or any age, for
that matter), it came as quite a shock to learn that he was sick. He
was diagnosed with stomach cancer a few months ago. The doctors removed
a major part of his stomach, and it looks like he’s on his way back. He
still has some chemo to go through, but he’s planning a return to work
in a couple of months.

I’ve spoken to him a couple of times on the phone, but I haven’t
seen him. The guys at the dealership tell me he’s lost some weight. He
used to be boxer-fit like Sammy Davis Jr. Nowadays, he probably looks
like Warren Jeffs.

Doesn’t matter; he’s still Ira, and he’s still The Man. I’m holding
off on buying a new car—which are ridiculously low-priced at the
moment—until he comes back. I’m even going to play hard-to-get
for a few seconds, and then beg him to sell me one at full market
value.

This article appears in Jun 18-24, 2009.