"Oh my God. That's precious."
"Ma'am, I'm not trying to cause any problems," Theodore said. His voice stayed steady and unhurried, like the voice of a man who had learned long ago that volume did not win arguments. "If someone could just check the system for my name."
"There's no name to check," Derek said.
He raised his voice now, projecting it across the showroom like an announcement.
"There's no appointment. There's no son. There's a confused old man who wandered into the wrong building and is now wasting everyone's time."
He turned to Brenda. "Get him one of those flyers for the used lot on Ninth Street. Find something in his budget. Maybe a '95 Corolla with 160,000 miles and a missing hubcap."
Brenda pulled a crumpled flyer from behind the reception desk and held it toward Theodore between two fingers, arm fully extended as if she were passing garbage across a counter.
"Here you go, sweetheart. This is more your lane."
Theodore did not take it. He stood his ground, hands at his sides, spine straight.
"I appreciate the thought, ma'am, but I'm not here for a used car. My son told me to walk in, give my name, and choose any car I like. That's what I'm doing."
"Pick any car he likes," Derek repeated slowly and loudly, turning his body toward the showroom like an actor finding his audience.
Two salesmen by the window stopped mid-conversation. The couple examining the Roma Spider turned to stare. A man in a cashmere coat lowered his espresso cup.
"Did everyone hear that? This man, look at him, walked in off the street dressed like he just finished mowing somebody's lawn, and he wants to pick any car in the building."
Laughter spread through the room. It was not nervous laughter. It was deliberate, shared laughter from people who had already decided what Theodore was.
A woman near the Ferrari Portofino leaned toward her husband. "Should we say something?"
Her husband shook his head. "Are you kidding? This is the best thing I've seen all week."
A young salesman in the back row pulled out his phone and aimed it at Theodore. He nudged his colleague.
"This is going straight on TikTok. Watch this."
Derek fed off every chuckle, every whisper, every turned head. He stepped closer to Theodore, close enough that Theodore could smell his sharp, expensive cologne.
"Listen to me very carefully, old man. Cars like these are not for people like you. You can't afford the tires. You can't afford the oil change. You probably can't afford the bus fare to get home. Look at yourself."
He pointed toward Theodore's collar.
"Grease stains. You smell like motor oil and cheap sweat. This is a building for people with money, class, and standards. And you? You have none of the three."
"You are an embarrassment standing in the middle of my showroom. You are making my real customers uncomfortable just by being here."
The laughter disappeared. The silence that replaced it was worse.
Not one voice in the room rose in Theodore's defense. Not one person stepped forward.
Theodore swallowed once. His voice remained low and unbroken.
"I've worked on engines my entire life. I know what these cars are worth. And I am telling you, sir, my son arranged this visit. If you just make one phone call..."