I just dropped a friend of mine off at Ray Catena Car Dealership(1) (2). He was there to pick up his mother's Jaguar. I drive the frequently aforementioned (shitty) Mercury Sable (3). Anyway, this was the sort of car dealership that brings out the worst envy pangs that riddle my system. We drive into the lot, and I park next to a $140,000 Astin-Martin. That car cost more than my parents' first home (4). Strolling through the dealership, I passed a $80,000 Jaguar S-Type, a $60,000 Porsche Boxter S, and two more $140,000 Astin-Martins. Self-loathing had begun.
My friend, Rick, picked up his car from the service department and zipped off. I walked back to my car, only to find that some jackass with a Boxter had parked, perpendicularly to the parking lines, directly behind my car. I let out the sort of over-dramatic sigh that I have been indulging lately, and walked back into the showroom.
"Excuse me miss," I said as I walked to the receptionist (5), "I believe I've been blocked in."
"Which car are you?" She asked.
"A sable," I whispered.
"A sable. A Mercury Sable."
The receptionist looked at me blankly.
"That's a rental, right?" she asked, incredulously.
"It's my car. I need to get to my car." I whispered, a little more urgently.
Eyeing me with a haughty look, the woman (a decidedly pear-shaped woman, at that), rose from her desk. She inhaled deeply, and then announced "HARRY! SOMEBODY BLOCKED THIS 'BOY'S' FORD TAURUS!"
Please God. Please let me die right now, I thought.
"THE FORD TAURUS?" Harry shouted back. Either he was hard of hearing, or he was in on this little comeuppance. Incidentally, I hate you Harry.
Harry located the "mover and shaker" who was affronted with the task of moving his Boxter for my lowly Sable. Both Harry and the Boxter owner, a sneering man who looked vaguely like Corbin Bernsen, grimaced as I backed the Sable out of the parking space. I decided to be a complete ass at this point. I rolled down my windows, lit my cigarette, and turned up the country music I had spinning in the CD player. If my ego was going to take a bruising, so too would their sense of good taste. In my best Gomer Pyle voice, I yelled back to Harry and the Boxter owner, "Gee thanks, boys. I right appreciate you moving your vee-hicle."
I sped off. To hell with people that own Porsches and Jaguars.
1. I have decided to start using footnotes. If I am going to be pedantic, I might as well go the full measure.
2. Interesting historical footnote to the Ray Catena Car Dealership: I once read an article in GQ about a Jewish hitman. The hitman used to work for the Newark (NJ) mafia. Interestingly, at least to me, Ray Catena's father was a capo in the Newark mafia. He was sent up the river, so to speak, in the latter half of the 20th Century for a slew of crimes. So, this begs the question, is Ray Catena a "made man" or is he legit? Well, he was named, along with about every other car dealer in the state, in a price fixing cause of action this year. I think that partially answers the question.
3. I hate that car. I absolutely f-ing hate that car. Still, I cannot justify buying a new car until I pay off my law school loans. Thus, I am anticipating the purchase of a 2010 Audi A4 with great pleasure.
4. Caveat: My parents' first home was in Bayonne, New Jersey.
5. The receptionist wore a telephone headset that had a full boom microphone attached to it. Secretly, I believe that the Ray Catena Jaguar Dealership may be the back-up location for Newark International Airport's air traffic control staff.