The Test Drive

There are two things you don’t want to let me do; 1) dance with your wife, and, 2) test drive your car. Neither of them will come back to you the same way they left you. I am looking for a Porsche… a Boxster S to be specific ( I want the extra hp and the 6 speed)…. I also want good sound… (can you blame me?). So I bring three things to a test drive…. cash (a spread in hundreds is very hard to resist)… comfortable shoes and a CD….. Chick Corea’s ‘My Spanish Heart’.

Ding- Dong… “Hey.” (hand out)… “I called about the car.” (hand shake). “So do you have the service records?..... “Any accidents?” …..(I crawl under the car at four points, inspect the brakes through the spokes, measure the tire depth….pull the dip stick and check the color and smell of the oil.) “ Have the keys?...Here are mine. I’ll be right back.” Out to route 18… NJ Turnpike exit 9 and head south to 8a. I know these roads well. The CD is in and the drive begins…. ‘Armando’s Rumba’ on repeat. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxcW_Lj7aFg ). Oh!....the empty tight right hand curve on a Saturday afternoon accelerating on the ramp…. mid engine balance… I am in heaven… I am not here for the straight road, I am here for the ramps … running fast…. 8a is a sweeping S and is a good test, as will be the sharp (but illegal) U Turn before the toll booths. Now the Boxster has the tachometer between your hands, and the speedo is covered by your left arm, so you really don’t know how fast you are going…. and that is as t should be… a true driver’s car. Sweet and deftly she moved through the alternating turns… i can not push this car hard enough… she just slips her little dance…. The Rumba… through the turn… and she didn’t even chirp in the 180 degrees of the U… not a roll… not a complaint only Armando, the road and me… and I was the limiting factor not her. Back to exit 9 with at quick run through ramps of the rest area. The wind made a wreak of my hair and I remembered my 914…. My neck and shoulders were uncharacteristically relaxed as I handed Sushill back his keys…. “I will call you.” We shake. I’m gone. Lovely…. To bad it’s silver..

Ritual

Smoking a cigar is a private ritual. This ritual brings me peace and helps me calm the devils in my head, at least for that thirty minutes that I pace my back deck. My cigar of choice is a CAO L’Anniversaire Maduro Belicoso. It’s dark brown and spicy with a nice light draw.

A ruby port is drawn filling the first third of a brandy glass, then walk the stairs to where my humidor is kept next to my bed. I have a nice cutter that my son gave me for Christmas that I use to take off the foot. I tend to overcut the opening leaving very little of the end cap which eventually falls off as the cigar gets short.

Back to the deck where a Zippo ‘Blue’ clicks with open that familiar sound that my uncles world war two Zippos had, but being butane, burns a bright blue flame and a soft roar. I toast about a quarter inch of the end and light. The first draws are empty, but soon the full flavor of the chocolaty maduro fills my mouth and I begin to pace, glass in hand between the ring finger and pinky of my left hand. A sip of the port and this is peace. The strong smell of the smoke chases intruders from disruption of my thoughts. There are thoughts of work and the lives friends, my sister and others… there are chores and projects floating in my head, but best of all are the dreams … dreams of how life can (and hopefully will) be.

The smoke circles my head like a holy incense as the cigar gets short and the glass empty. The ritual comes to a close for another day. Stubbing out the remains with a quick toss into the ivy, I introspectively, but thankfully, carry the glass back inside to the pile of dirty dishes and stack of bills. Reality sets back in, the peace abates… and this days ritual is done.