Jeffrey T. Bookman (JT) was the only man I've ever known who could dress like a circus clown and still close a deal. He was wild and unpredictable, with an impeccable sense of humor and a gift for peddling clunkers for more than they were worth, even if they didn’t have an engine.

Most car dealership owners only dreamed of finding a salesman with JT's level of hustle. "Feel that air," he teased, rubbing his fingers together in front of the vent, inviting potential customers to mimic his dramatic performance. "Have you ever felt anything as cool, crisp, and pure in your life? It's pretty incredible, isn't it?"

I worked for a government-sponsored agency during the height of his career. One night, the company threw a little shindig at a prominent nightclub in Atlanta, so of course, I invited JT. "Whatever you do," I pleaded, "please don't embarrass me." He reluctantly agreed, assuring me he'd be there by 7:00 p.m.

A winding staircase led to the open bar where my coworkers and I were seated. It was nearing 9:00 p.m. when my friend Stephanie burst out laughing. "Dear God!" she giggled, pointing toward the entrance. "Is that your friend?"

JT stood atop the staircase, bobbing his head to one side as if to say, "Hey, girls!"—his brown plaid pants, blue shirt, and checkered jacket clashing against the red carpet. "You asshole," I mouthed, trying not to laugh as he put his hand on the railing and began gliding down the stairwell like a prom queen. He was on one knee, removing Janet's patent leather pump within minutes of his arrival. "You have the most beautiful calf muscles I've ever seen."

As abrasive as JT's sense of humor was, almost everyone adored it. It's one of the reasons he was so good at his job, but whenever his sales pitch backfired, I was on the receiving end.

"Hold on a sec, lemme check with my guy," he mumbled when asked about a particular model. Covering the receiver, his muffled voice challenged the mechanic to see if the car I was interested in still had a motor. "It's in mint condition and ready to roll," he cheered, returning to the call. "Dude," I moaned, "You know I could hear you, right?"

As luck would have it, I had just started a new job with The Coca-Cola Company, and the two of us planned to attend their annual Christmas party together later that week. We agreed he would pick me up in the car on Friday night so I could take it for a test spin.

"Purrs like a kitten," he boasted, brushing the hood of a '94 Mustang. "I drove it all the way up from Gainesville with no issues whatsoever. You're gonna love it!"

It was precisely six miles from my front door to the Mariot Marquis downtown, and everything was going according to plan. "I told you the car had an engine," he laughed as we neared the exit, but he had spoken too soon. As traffic came to a dead stop, a thick fog of black smoke began oozing from underneath the hood.

"Well, I'll be damned," he pouted, avoiding eye contact. "Don't worry, I'm sure it's just a loose belt or something. See if you can get around that guy." Anxious to escape an already humiliating experience, I hopped off the exit and headed toward the hotel.

*clunk, clunk, clunk*

"What the hell is that?" I cried, lowering my head, attempting to conceal my identity.

"It's right there; pull in!" shouted JT, pretending not to notice the valet drivers waving their hands to disperse the deadly smog from our engine.

"I can't believe you tried to sell me a car without a motor," I razzed. "Did you actually think I was going to pull up to my company Christmas party in this piece of shit?" I blew past the lobby, parked illegally around the corner, and threw the keys on his lap. "There's $2 parking the next street over," I huffed, jumping out of the front seat to flatten the wrinkles from my dress. "I'll be inside."

The following week, he invited me up to the lake with friends. “How do you feel about Toyotas?” he asked. “I got a 1996 fire red Cellica with low mileage, power windows, a leather-wrapped steering wheel, and brand new engine just waiting for you to drive it off the lot.

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