Saturday, January 25, 2014

Porsche Stories Vol. 3 Part 1

"You must not be from here."

"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've been waiting for at least an hour. "


"Okay I've been here three minutes, you ready to eat?"

As we walked back to our table in what has to be one of the darkest rooms in the city, I couldn't help but think of that first night in Miami. But those blue eyes eroded that image when I sat and looked into them. She was clouding my thoughts. I couldn't remember the drugs, shoot outs, or even the cars. To her I wasn't a crook, or a shitty mid level executive. 

"So, you were asking about my job, I know you said you worked for Wells Fargo-"

"Yeah, I'm the Regional Vice President of Wholsale Operations. It's really an unimportant job."


Feeling as though I might have been unusually cynical, I decided to shift the focus on her again. In the back of her mind though she was already dreading having to answer. She didn't feared I would ask how she got there. I could see disdain on her face, no cue as to where it came from. Maybe I bored her? No this was sadness. She was hiding something in her face. 

"Did I say something?"

"What? No."

"You seem off."

"No, I'm fine. Maybe I'm a bit hungover. We went through a fair bit of beer last night. What's good here?"

"They have a quiche they only do on weekends, it's so fucking good. It's big enough for three people too."

"Hmmm let's have it!"

As our horrifically ironic waitress shifted her way back to the kitchen with our order, I went back to those eyes. I don't know if it was her personality or those eyes that were distracting me so. I began to ask had anybody else told her how beautiful they were. 

His lips turned into those of Mark Allison, standing too close to me at a booth at SEMA 2007. He went on about how beautiful I was, how my eyes stood separate from my face. I was embarrassed to talk to anyone as I stood there with my shirt tied above my navel. He handed me his card, he was Senior VP of Marketing or Advertising, I can't really remember now. I made the choice to call him when I got back to my cheap off-the-strip hotel room. He picked me up out front in a grey 997 Carrera S Cab. I couldn't wipe his smug smirk and off-the-rack Brooks Brothers from my memory ever. As he ran on about how pretty I was in the car, he laid his hand upon mine, and I flinched. The hipster waitress who smelled like Whole Foods was taking our plates. She apologised if she startled me.
"Wow I must be talking too much if you didn't see her walk up."

"No. I was just thinking about something  weird."


"Nothing important. Just me being silly."

"Okay, I have a question though."

"I may contain an answer."

"How did you come about that car?"

"The GT3-"

"Yeah. The GT3."

"We have first dibs on press fleet cars after magazines get done trashing them. I was looking for a fast car, and that one sort of popped up and I bought it without even thinking."

"Wow, you're a lucky girl."

"I guess."

The mininiscule smirk she usually carried on her face came back. Her lips were plump in a Latinate way. I began to notice her voice, it rolled between her lips in a deep sultry tone. She lacked any accent I could think of. The more I listened to her words the more I realised how perfect she was. I wasn't in love, but I was smitten at the least. She continued on explaining why she bought the car. 

I can see the passion and excitement all in his eyes as I speak. I don't know if it's the car or me, but he definitely is diving deep through me. He's so comfortable though, he doesn't care what I'm telling him, he's just absorbing it and accepting. It was like talking to Mark about my childhood. He seemed comfortable too, but he also couldn't keep his eyes off my chest. 

"So where'd you go to school?"


"Southern Cal girl, hmmm."

"No. University of South Carolina. Same school basically, except all the girls aren't blond."

"Ha. That's a good one, I'll use that sometime. I went to Stanford."


"Yeah the late 70's were wild there-"

"That's funny, my stepdad graduated from there in the early 70's."

Oh my stepdad, where do I start with him? Mom married him when I was 3. He was a shitty architect who drank constantly. Don't even get me started on the fact he was a twisted pervert and paedophile. My mother wasn't much better, she just didn't want to work so she stuck around. When she would go away to shop or binge on antidepressants, he would walk away from his drafting table to harass me. Mark seemed more obsessed with himself than children for sure. I hoped that date ended as soon as possible. 

"Ready to go?"

"Oh. Yeah, let's get out of here."

I walked with her outside, my eyes stuck to her shape as it wiggled with her steps. I could let this be the end of our time together, or I could explore a bit more and see what surprises she had for me.
"I want to show you something special."
"Like what?"

"Well if you can keep up with me, you'll find out."


"Just follow me, I think you'll really enjoy this, plus I'm not ready to quit looking at you."

The alto wail of the flat six engines rattled off every thrift shop and hipster bar around. The harmony played by the two exhausts, lifted into a mechanical symphony as we slipped on to I-277. She was following me into the unknown, and I was leading her deeper into parts I previously erased from my memory. This is no road trip. This is me eroding my comfort zone for reasons I can't quite understand. I clicked the PDK down into 4th gear to pass an old Volvo, the lime green car in my mirror never shrank. 

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