When Selena entered More Tires For Less, a chime sing-songed above the door. The blue-blazered salesman at the register straightened his tie and swaggered around the counter.

    “Helloooo, little lady,” he crooned.

     Selena bristled and nearly spun on her high heels. Should have gone to Performance Plus as usual. But maybe she could get a good deal here. She brushed back her midnight hair.

     The man stopped short and squinted against the sharp April glare of the showroom windows. “Oh, wait, I see better now,” he said, angling his head. “Es-pahn-yohl, huh? Uno moh-men-toh, ok? We got a guy in the bays who-”

     “I speak English just fine,” she said.

     He raised his palms in mock contrition. “All right, great. So what can I do for you?”

     “I need four tires.”

     “Minivan?” he said.

     “Car.”

     “We can do that,” he said with a smile two octaves wide. “Right this way.”

     He sauntered back to his computer, leaving a cloud of Brut in his wake. Selena waved it away from her face.

    “First, miss, I have some questions for you, OK?" the salesman said, clicking the mouse. "Do you have an account with us?”

     “No. I’m from out of town.”

     “We can set one up now.” His fingers worked the keyboard. "First name?"

     “Let me see what you’ve got first.”

     The tap-tapping halted. “Fair enough. Next question: How fast do you drive?”

     “Pretty fast.”

     “I’ll bet you do,” he replied with a wink. “Come over this way.”

     He led her to the wall where various tires were displayed. He rapped his hairy knuckles on the first one and launched into a honeyed spiel: “Now this, little lady, is a passenger touring series tire with innovative roundness and a molecular carbon black-and-silica formula for safe handling in wet conditions like we get here in Illinois.” He pulled a shiny penny from his shirt pocket and stuck it in the threads. “And do you see these circumferential grooves? They channel water away for added safety. These babies are rated at ninety miles an hour.”

     Selena planted her right hand on her hip. “Not good enough," she said. "I need performance radials optimized for rolling resistance and high speed handling.”

     His eyebrows arched. “Heavy foot, huh?”

     “Like 120 miles per hour.”

     He pointed at her neon lime Mui Mui heels. “In those?”

     “Barefoot, actually.” She eyed his nametag. “Vinny, is it? Look, Vinny, I need four 75 series 225-75-15’s to fit American Racing Torq Thrust rims, type M.”

     His mouth hung open. “Geezuz, lady, you drive a dragster or something?”

     “69 Dodge Charger R/T with a 528 Hemi, a 3000 r.p.m. Hughes Torque Converter, a Gear Vendors Overdrive Unit and a Dana 60 Rear End.”

     His jaw dropped, and then he laughed. Laughed harder. Slapped his knee. “Hoo-boy! This is a joke, right? Did Joey hire you to do this? Who the hell are you?”

     “My name is Selena, tonto gringo,” she said, crossing her arms. “Do you have the tires or not?”

     When Selena returned home, fists bunched and nostrils flared, she vented to her brother Lorenzo about the salesman, waving her arms. He dropped the videogame control and guffawed. “So did you get the tires or what?” he asked.

     “Are you kidding?” she said with a flick of her hand. “From that mono estúpido?”

     “Ay, why did you talk like that to the man, pequena hija?” her mother rebuked her from the kitchen. “Do you want to give Mexican women a reputation?”

     “Yes, for being strong.”

     “Mexican men do not like their women strong.”

     “He wasn’t Mexican, Mami.”

     Her mother stood in the doorway, strangling a dish towel. “Listen to me, Selena: you must be like the Virgin of Guadalupe – quiet. Eyes lowered in respeto. How else will you ever find a husband?”

     “What’s worse,” Lorenzo chuckled, “is that this guy is gonna talk all day about a foxy Mexican chica named Selena Tonto Gringo.”