To underscore a point he had
already beaten a dead horse with, he directed us to his white Mazda RX-7, a really
nice sports car back then, and said how he used to take better care of his car
than his wife, who he wouldn't even let drive it before he was
"saved," but now, he didn't care who drove it because — you guessed
it — he didn't care about money anymore.
"You'd let anyone drive
it?" I challenged.
"Yep," he said with his
keys in his hand.
"Even me?"
"Sure!"
So I grabbed the keys from his
hand and turned to the cute girl next to me and said "Let's go!”
Rich guy asks me if I ever drove
standard before. I assured him I was very experienced, having spent the previous summer
driving a 1938 Ford Ferguson tractor. [For those of you who don't know, this is
like taking a Saturn V rocket out for a spin when you previously only drove a
1938 Ford Ferguson tractor.]
I drove around, stalled it out nearly a half dozen times, and grinded about a pound of coffee changing gears. Cute girl and I got some milk shakes and we enjoyed a warm fall day cruising around
in a car probably neither of us could ever afford — well, me at any rate.
We returned 30 minutes later to where rich guy stood at the edge of the parking lot nervously pacing around
with both the men's and women's resident assistants hanging close by.
"Hey man, nice ride," I
said, tossing the keys back to him.
"Keep the faith," I
added.
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