“Coveting a Jaguar” (7/27/12) described my love affair with
the Jaguar XK120 roadster, which was manufactured during the late ‘40s and
early ‘50s. My affair, ardent though
it’s been, was unconsummated until last week.
But now I have one of my own. My
sister and brother-in-law, with characteristic generosity, bought one for
me. Requiring no restoration whatever, in perfect condition, it's burgundy, with white-wall tires
and wheels with wire spokes. It’s seven
and a half inches long, two and a half inches wide, and two and a half inches
high.
It is, in another words, a scale model, down to its
rear view mirror, its doors that open, its gear shift that moves, and its
steering wheel that turns the front wheels.
It has amber lights on its front fenders and red brake lights at the
rear. I’ve parked it to the right of my
computer and every time I look at it joy fills my soul. It’s made me happier than the real thing
possibly could. I’ll never have to
struggle to find a parking space for it nor will I ever have to pay to park it
in a garage. Its maintenance costs are
zero, no one will think me ridiculous for owning it, and I won't need help getting in and out.
Wearing leather driving gloves and a burgundy silk ascot.
I’m driving it along a sinuous mountain road.
I descend to a little town, where a red light stops me. Women look at me with interest and men regard
the car with mingled admiration and envy.
I drive slowly through the town, conscious of the conspicuousness that
might elicit a traffic ticket for an infraction, imagined or real. As the traffic lights disappear and the town
melts into the countryside, I increase my speed, slowing down only when I
approach my rendezvous, a gated estate.
What am I going to do there?
That, I’m afraid, is a secret.
