By Derek Price
I sat in the musty office trying to stay focused on work, typing away with sweaty palms and nervously glancing at the clock as I waited for her. After seeing her picture in magazines and making her the center of countless hormone-induced fantasies, I knew she would be the kind of girl who could make a day “well lived.”
Then she
arrived. She looked better than I could
have imagined, with a fabulous body and the kind of curves that leave a guy
slack jawed, shaking his head and licking his lips in lust. She had a touch of class and sophistication,
though not enough to make her unapproachable, and I instantly knew the two of
us were going to have some fun that day.
Best of all, she was topless.
“She’s
all yours for a week,” the driver said as he dropped the shiny keys on the
counter. He glanced back one last time
at the glistening convertible parked in front of the dreary office building,
then disappeared out the door to leave the two of us alone, just me and my
fiberglass mistress. We wasted no time
in getting acquainted.
I was an
automotive journalist, which is a fancy-pants way of saying “boy who just won’t
grow up,” so it was my job to spend a week getting familiar with the sexy new
Corvette. Now that the two of us were
together, nothing could keep us apart.
“I’ll be
working out of the office this afternoon,” I told the receptionist, trying to
sound as business-like as possible.
“Uh-huh,”
she grinned.
I
jaunted out of the office to start my assignment like a six-year-old on
Christmas morning. I admired the warm
richness of the leather and taunting firmness of the steering wheel, then went
through the regular checklist quicker than normal—body panel alignment,
interior quality, electronic gizmos—and fumbled with the keys before waking the
V8 beast. It purred like a two
thousand-pound kitten.
“Where
should I take this beauty?” I thought, examining and re-examining each
possibility in my mind. “The mountains
in eastern Oklahoma? Nice, twisty roads
there. Galveston? I bet the sun feels great on the coast. Odessa?
Nothin’ like the classic American road trip in a ‘Vette’.”
Ideas
kept flowing as I pulled away from the drab office building, putting on my
shades to shield me from the dancing reflections on the hood—and to look
vaguely like a chubby James Dean. As
the gentle breeze mussed my hair and the smell of tender Texas barbecue wafted
from a restaurant down the street, life at that moment was perfect. Only one thing could make it better.
“Honey!
Honey! It’s a red convertible just like I hoped!” I yelled as I ran through the
door back home, hoping for an enthusiastic response.
“That’s
nice,” she moaned. She was plopped on
the couch watching TV, her blue maternity blouse stretched to accommodate
nearly nine months of pregnancy.
“C’mon,
won’t you at least look at it?” I said
as I helped her roll off the couch and waddle toward the window.
“Looks
kind of small to me.” She waddled back
to the couch, obviously unimpressed with the car.
“Honey,”
I said sheepishly, “how would you like to go to Arkansas? The Ozarks look great this time of year.”
Upset
that I would interrupt that day’s episode of “A Baby Story” with something so
trivial, she lowered her eyebrows and muted the TV. “You know, it’s not going to be just the two of us much longer,”
she said as she rubbed her belly. “Why
don’t we just stay home and relax together?”
Though I
did not want to admit it, I knew she was right as I glanced out the window at
the parked Corvette. It beckoned; she
beckoned; and my decision was made.
I never
went on any fabulous trips with my fiberglass mistress that week, instead
trading the glorious sound of a V8 for the sweet smell of kettle corn as I
cuddled Honey on the couch. Though my
most exciting drive in the ‘Vette’ was to the grocery store, I did not regret
it. I knew more sports cars would come
my way, but I had only one chance to seize the day.
When the
Hindu poet Kalidasa wrote, “. . .today well lived makes / Every yesterday a
dream of happiness / And every tomorrow a vision of hope,” he could not have
envisioned a Corvette convertible on that sunny Texas afternoon. But he knew what brought true happiness in
life. “The bliss of growth, the glory
of action,” and “the splendor of beauty.”
None of those can be made of fiberglass.