Today’s post is the 2nd of a two part letter written by guest contributor John Killion. In the first part of this post John is tempted into a “den of infidelity” (his local Porsche dealer) where he ponders the possible breakup of a long-term relationship with his beloved Porsche 944. If you haven’t yet done so, I encourage you to read Part I of this highly entertaining letter before embarking on today’s journey…
But there’s the Cayman S. A dark mistress with fresh lines and curves, taut and hard-bodied with an athletic yet graceful figure, and for the first time in many years I felt moved to poetry. The carefully-placed lights reflecting upon her surface brought ancient words to mind and I tried to remember the line that follows, “She walks in beauty, like the night,” but all I could remember was something about stars and cloudless climes when suddenly her scent caught me unawares and I fell into a delirium the likes of which I am sure I could never properly explain. The dapper salesman moved in at just that moment, and when I looked into his eyes I could have sworn that his pupils morphed into vertical slits when he asked,
“Would you like to talk about financing, sir?”
And I was so deep in my passionate fever that I’m sure I mumbled in the affirmative while never even shifting my gaze from this Nordic floozy.
Your 944 is Not Welcome Here
I was vaguely aware of some big numbers flying around the room. I was also momentarily offended to learn that my 944 would not be welcome in the pre-owned section of his lot, but I found myself strangely unmoved to defend the point. Legal papers were appearing before my eyes but all I could see was the Cayman S winking at me through the glass, and I think I may have winked back. The dapper salesman handed me his pen and again I thought I saw those vertical slits as I considered my immediate fate. I could feel the terror sweat building on my brow. This wasn’t something that I had asked for, it had simply happened. It was totally unexpected. A chance encounter which could alter everything. I’m as much a victim of circumstance as… as…
I needed some air and took off through the back door so that neither one of them would see me in the depths of my shame. It was then that I became aware of the gnawing hunger which usually follows my greatest moments of embarrassment, so ignoring the protestations of the dapper salesman who seemed more concerned with getting his pen back I walked to the nearby diner for a brief respite from the dilemma I’d foolishly created for myself. But there was none to be had. From my seat at the counter I could see my Old Girl parked at the dealership, still pretty in her Copenhagen Blau dress after all these years, still willing to put up with my heavy-handed and clumsy shenanigans, still willing to give her all in a sometimes-futile attempt at making me look good.
John in his faithful 944
I chocked down my flavorless burger and tried to look away from my car. The sense of guilt was overwhelming and now that I was away from the Cayman’s exotic influence I began to wonder how I could’ve even entertained such a monstrous thought as I’d been harboring. I dropped a sawbuck on the counter and made my way for the door. I stealthily snuck back onto the lot while easily using the vast inventory of SUVs for cover and made my way to my car. Sliding into the driver’s seat I could see the dapper salesman entertaining another potential suitor who’d had the foresight to dress properly for the occasion… and it was painfully obvious to me that the Cayman S was sufficiently warmed to him that she’d already forgotten my impromptu and highly undignified retreat, which was about to be compounded by a blazing exit from the parking lot.
My car of course suspected nothing, and was only too happy to kick up her heals at my suggestion that we, ‘blow this clambake’. My sense of relief and escape was palpable as I side-stepped my clutch and wound out first gear, but a lingering feeling of guilt and betrayal would have to be dealt with. So in an adolescent attempt at making things right — and before I begin to file this ugly little incident into a special black hole of my memory — I steered my 944 into the local Toyota dealership where she always enjoys strutting her stuff in front of the debutants. “See my dear,” I gently said to her. “You still got it. Even after all these years.”
About the author: John lives deep in the woods of Plymouth, Massachusetts. In his garage lurks a track-ready 944, a lightened and lowered momentum machine of serious purpose, who shares her stable with a fat and frisky 928 S4. While the 944 has seen many, many track days, in all her nimbleness, the S4 spends her time street-side, ferrying John in unparalleled Porsche luxury from one gin mill to the other. It is the best of all possible worlds.