The Customer No One Wanted to Serve

Don Ernesto Salgado, 66, entered the salon wearing a worn jacket and an old backpack slung over his shoulder. His boots were dusty and his gray hair was disheveled. He walked slowly among the gleaming iron structures, like someone greeting old acquaintances.

Tomás Vera was the first to see him. He exchanged a mocking glance with Ricardo Luján, the 45-year-old senior salesman who was reviewing contracts at his desk. Mauricio D’Angelo, the sales manager, was adjusting his tie in front of the bathroom mirror when he heard slow footsteps. He stepped out, sized him up in two seconds: worn clothes, tired posture, patched-up backpack.

Automatic conclusion: “Waste of time.”

Don Ernesto stopped in front of a spotless white truck. He ran his hand over the chrome fender, looked at the cab, the new tires, the silver star. He had driven machines like this for forty years. He knew every valve, every screw, every whim of the engine. The three salesmen, from a distance, saw neither history nor experience: they saw appearance.

Tomás, with the confidence of someone who thinks he knows everything, was the first to approach.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said condescendingly, “these trucks are shown by appointment. If you want general information, there are brochures at the entrance.”

Don Ernesto looked at him calmly, his deep-set gray eyes.

“I’m taking five trucks,” he said without raising his voice.

The silence lasted a second; then Tomás burst into laughter. Ricardo stood up, joining in with a wry grimace. Mauricio appeared, crossing his arms, smiling sideways. They formed a semicircle around the man, like confident predators.

“Five trucks?” Tomás repeated. “Do you know how much one costs? More than 120,000. Do the math.”

Don Ernesto continued caressing the metal, like someone greeting an old friend.

“Look,” Ricardo chimed in, now in a “professional” tone. “This isn’t a museum. If you don’t have a registered transport company, we can’t even quote.”

“I have one,” he replied, without taking his eyes off the truck. “Thirty-one active units. I need five more.”

Mauricio gave a short laugh.

“Thirty-one… and it arrives like that. Fleet owners come with a driver and an accountant, not a bagged backpack.”

“It’s not broken,” Don Ernesto said, finally turning his gaze. “It has stories. Like me.”

Something in the tone of his voice made Mauricio frown, but pride won out.

“Look, we have real customers waiting. If you want to kill time, there’s a bakery two blocks away.”

Don Ernesto opened his backpack. The three of them tense for a moment, until he took out a yellowed plastic folder. He opened it carefully and spread out documents.

“My company’s deed: Transportes Salgado, founded 38 years ago. Financial statements. And a letter from the bank: approved line of credit for two million.”

Mauricio took the papers skeptically. His eyes scanned the letterhead, the figures, the signatures. The color drained from his face. Tomás and Ricardo noticed the change.

“What’s going on?” Tomás asked, leaning forward.

“It’s just,” Mauricio stammered, “that this is authentic.”

“People aren’t judged by their clothes,” Don Ernesto said, without anger, only with a gentle sadness. “Many people believe that money has only one face. That those with dirty boots can’t have clean hands.”

The silence fell heavily. Tomás felt a knot in his stomach; Ricardo lowered his gaze.

Mauricio tried to regain his authority:

“Mr. Salgado, it was a misunderstanding. Of course we can help you.” Come to my office, I’ll offer you a coffee and…

“I don’t want to shop here anymore,” Don Ernesto interrupted, putting away the paperwork.

He turned and walked toward the exit. Each step echoed on the porcelain tile like hammer blows on the pride of the three of them.

“Please wait!” Mauricio hurried after him, smelling the commission slipping away. “We made a mistake. Let us fix it.”

Don Ernesto stopped in front of the glass door without turning around.

“Do you know why I’m coming like this? Because this morning I was at the garage checking my trucks. Even though I don’t need it anymore, I still put my hands in the grease to remind myself where I came from. I slept in cabs, ate cold food at stations, and yet I’ve never treated anyone the way you treated me today.”

Tomás swallowed his shame; Ricardo clenched his fists, furious with himself.

“You’re right,” Mauricio admitted, with broken sincerity. I was arrogant. But let us show you that we can do it well.

Don Ernesto turned around. There was firmness in his gaze… and also a hint of compassion.

“I’m not going to buy anything here,” he repeated. “But I’m going to leave you something more valuable than my money: a lesson.”

He returned to the center of the room.

“Call your boss, the owner. Tell him Ernesto Salgado is here.”

Mauricio dialed with trembling hands. He put the phone on speakerphone.

“Mr. Medina, excuse me. There’s a customer asking to speak to you. His name is Ernesto Salgado.”

Five seconds of silence. Then, the owner’s voice exploded:

“Salgado? I’ll be there in ten minutes! Don’t even think about letting him go!”

He hung up.