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Life in the Fast Lane |
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By Ron Donoho
My current mode of transportation is an eight-year-old, faded-orange mountain bike. I bought it, used, for $125. The bicycle is sturdy and reliable. It’s not, however, turbo-charged with a 6.75-liter, 325-horsepower V-8 engine. It can’t go from 0 to 60 in eight seconds. It has never punched a freeway lane change just because a toenail brushed an accelerator.
I have an open weekend on my calendar, so, you know, I take the car.
Minutes after the Rolls is delivered on a Friday afternoon, I’m besieged by beautiful babes. Okay, one is my wife and the other is my daughter, but still.
Man, oh, man, do I look cool in this auto. Who wouldn’t? The exterior is salmon, a hue that reeks of wealth and power—okay, and of octogenaria. The interior is done in hand-finished wood veneers. The upholstery is hand-stitched. There’s deep-pile wool carpet on the floor. It sounds like I’m describing a house—and for the price, shouldn’t it also come with bathroom, den and convertible garage? (If you answered “no” to that question, call Symbolic Motor Cars Ltd., 858-454-1800.)
I easily manipulate the convertible roof button. But I lose cool points when it takes me 20 minutes to close the trunk. I feel like such a Jethro. There’s another Beverly Hillbillies moment at Exxon, where it takes five minutes to open the gas tank. A 747 cockpit has fewer buttons, knobs, bells and whistles than this dashboard.
Finally gassed, I begin gliding down surface streets. I notice people pointing and making comments. The attention makes me uncomfortable, but my wife has an opposite reaction. I tell her people are gawking. She repositions her electric seat and dons an “I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. De Mille” expression. That fortuneteller—the one who predicted my wife would someday be squired through Malibu in a salmon Rolls-Royce—now wavers on legitimacy.
That’s right, destiny takes us to Malibu. I don’t mean to drive there, but the car seems to steer there under its own will—to be with its own kind. But even in L.A., the car causes a scene. I grow further self-conscious when we pull up to a hotel. The Rolls telegraphs me as a big tipper. I’ve only got three dollars and a half-eaten bag of Chee-tos. To save face, I assume the air of a dot-com millionaire. I fold the bills tightly, nix the Chee-tos and promise the bellman stock options if he makes sure not to chip the paint.
Could I be a bigger loser?
In all, I enjoy the novelty of limited Rolls ownership. I crank the speedometer up to triple digits on the freeway ride back to San Diego. But I’m oddly relieved when the car is repossessed on Monday. I watch it driven away from my house. Then I mount my bike and pull into the street. Nobody points, and no one gives me a second look. Sweet anonymity. Back at the office, I casually make a mental note to seek inner fulfillment through my work, rather than chase empty dreams filled with pretentious displays of wealth. Then the phone rings. I reach for the receiver, but hesitate. What if it’s the Boeing folks, wanting to let me know they’ve got an extra 737 available for a few days? What if the Queen Elizabeth II is being loaned to journalists for day excursions?
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