I worked at a Mazda store for a while in the eighties. It was on auto row, right in the middle. We had new cars on the dealership side of the boulevard and used were across the street. I was on the new side. We were one of the few straight sale stores at the time and we had three crews of five guys most of the time. And we had a really young good-looking blonde kid on my crew. He did okay, people liked him and he sold some cars, but he was young and brash, and, well…a kid.

We got an RX7 Turbo in bright red. It was one of the first turbos we had. And they were the hot item on our menu, (“Ignore the sticker price, it’s a lot more than that.”). And it was in the showroom with strict instructions about test drives. What I remember hearing was, “If someone wants to drive this car, get a copy of his license, his phone number, and most of all at least a thousand dollars cash, or a check for the whole thing.” That’s what I heard, but apparently, the kid thought those rules were just guidelines.

One afternoon a slick looking dude came in, dressed expensive casual and he talked our kid into taking a test drive in the turbo. I didn’t hear the conversation and all the bosses were at the water cooler or something and the kid pulled the car off the showroom floor and the dude got in the passenger seat and they drove off the lot.

The bosses came back from break and wanted to know all about why the turbo and the kid were gone. I acted like I was on the phone but could still hear the voices explaining and the bosses complaining, and they were all getting louder. “Do we have a check somewhere? Do we have a Driver’s license?” My phone call lasted for a while. When the noise outside my office stopped I hung up my phone and stepped out into the fray. All the bosses and the other sales guys were all in a big circle, fear on some of the faces because of the rage on the others’ faces. I joined and struck a solemn pose.

And we waited, and waited, then waited some more.  I could see the sales manager was really going through some changes. He was one of those young, dynamic, phenoms who’s energy was powered by cocaine. He’d had a rash of disasters recently, one after the other, that resulted in destroyed company cars, massive tickets, and drug busted buddies who also worked for us. And his girlfriend, who was our F and I director, had just been fired for extreme malfeasance. He even had the sad misfortune of coming in one morning with a huge boil on his cheek. In fact, we named the sales office, Boil Heights in its honor. And now he was missing a salesman and the most expensive car we had.  He was a sad dynamo.

I don’t know how long it was, but at least an hour gone, I see the kid walking into the dealership. He was disheveled, His shirttail was out, he was sweaty and smudgy looking, and there was blood on his shirt. A fair amount of blood. And no car, no dude, and no excitement. He looked whipped.

“I pulled over and got out of the car to switch positions with the guy and when I opened the passenger door he was in the driver’s seat and he stuck me with a knife and told me to get out! So I walked back here.” was the story he gave us all. We administered first aid, it wasn’t a bad cut, so a bandage stopped the blood, and we called the cops.

By then the GM of the store had joined us, but the first he knew of the turbo going for a ride was right then. He was the one to tell us the protocol for test driving the turbo back then, at the beginning of the turbo fiasco.

The car was gone, it had a dealer plate inside and lots of horsepower, and the cops were hot on the trail. They made a report on the radio. I heard them. I could hear the shouting in Boil Heights as the GM, the sales manager, and the kid all had a meeting. I decided I needed to go look at some of the used cars across the street so I could call some of my leads, and the A/C in the used car office was very effective. It was hot inside the showroom and out. And loud and mean.

We got the car back in a few days. They towed it in. It had a few dents here and there and was muddy front to back. The rear tires were worn off on the sides of the tread from spinning around corners, I assume. Inside was full of McDonald and Burger King wrappers and cups, and there was a child’s car seat in the back. There were a thousand miles on the odometer and it had been gone for a week. The cops caught the thief in Modesto, he had his kid with him who he had kidnapped from his ex-wife.

The kid learned a lesson I hope. Our sales manager resigned/got fired a few days later for all the crap he’d pulled. I hope he got sober, I liked him. They took the car and did the bodywork, fixed the paint, put new tires on it and the GM took it for a demo for a while and we sold it later as a used car. And we waited for the next turbo to come in to fill the hole in the showroom.