The Day I Get A Porsche

I can’t wait until I’m 59 and a half. I’m going to drive to the bank, plop my duffel on the counter, and stare the teller in the face. After a long awkward silence, I’ll demand he, or she, give me all the money held hostage in my retirement accounts. With the bag loaded I’ll head to the nearest high-end car dealer.

Arriving at the dealership I’ll swing open the double doors. I’ll push my way through the peon salesmen who try to help me. I know what I’m there for. I’ll find the sales manager and lurk over his desk until I get his attention. When he notices me, I’ll turn over the bag dumping a fat stack of dinero on his keyboard. He’ll be speechless and that, I prefer. I’ll tell him to give me the keys to the red Porsche sitting in the middle of the lobby on the spinny thing. He’ll throw them to me and I’ll crank her up. Rolling off the platform I’ll make my way toward the glass smashing right through it. Turning out of the parking lot, I’ll make for the freeway. The sales guys will scream for me to stop. I won’t hear them. The grinding of the gears drowns their pleas.

On the freeway, I’ll open her up; letting the engine roar to a mean 55 mph. I’ll pull a CD from my vest and insert it, John Cougar Mellencamp “Cherry Bomb” blares from the speakers. All these years of delayed gratification, now I’m getting it, living it up—finding purpose. As the wispy hairs tango on the tuft at the front of my dome piece, I’ll lose myself in the moment. The mom’s darting past me will yell from behind the windows of their minivans attempting to wake me from my stupor. The Porsche magnifies my sex appeal, they can’t control themselves. The attention is nice, but I ignore it. I’m a happily married man.

After five or so miles I’ll be tuckered out. I’ll pull off to get a bite to eat. When I arrive at the restaurant, I’ll double park in the front between two handicap spots. I’ll sit down at a table in front of the window; my duffle sitting across from me. As I eat my Reuben and sip my Arnold Palmer I’ll gaze at Shauntel. By this time people will gather to gawk at her. She is a thing of beauty. But the waiter doesn’t seem to think so, as he comes over to the table telling me I have to move her. I’ll probably get pissed off. Each passing year will further multiply my impatience and sense of entitlement. I’ll jump up from my chair, reach into my duffel, and throw two handfuls of cash into the air. A riot will ensue. In the midst of the chaos, I’ll take my leave. I’ll deploy my collapsible walking cane and shuffle out the door. The police, busy restoring order, will take no notice.

When I hit the parking lot, I’ll double-time my pace breaking into a full on run toward the car. I’ll attempt to jump the door like the Dukes of Hazard but will stop just short of the act. The thought of the financial drain of a hip replacement will sober my resolve. I’ll climb in, fire her up and pull away again grinding the gears; I’m getting the hang of this. Next stop? Bingo, this is the life, this is living.



Also published on Medium.

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