I am a mechanic at a specialty auto shop, similar to ones my dad adores on MotorTrend. The warehouse is homey, clean, and totally unfamiliar. I assume I am the new guy: I carry the anxious weight of needing to prove myself to the New Balance boomers.
My mentor is nice enough, allowing me to test drive an immaculate and oddly shaped Jaguar. My dream logic has shaped this beast like a 1930s racing car with nautical lines and wood trim. The thing has no roof, a massive V12 up front, and is covered in a shiny coat of British racing green.
On the highway, I confess that I am not too great at driving stick. My mentor shrugs, tells me to try my best, and I do. Much to my surprise, I am handling the Jag rather well. The engine noise resembles that of my SL600, gentlemanly and moderately loud, and the two of us can’t help but yell over the sound of the exhaust. While negotiating a curve on 75, I throw the shifter down into fifth, realizing too late that I had forgotten to use the clutch at all. The Jag still allowed me to move the shifter, which I am fairly certain would be impossible in the waking world. There is a clunk and a tailspin, but I recover and my mentor shrugs it off. Lovely.
We pull the car into what appears to be a combination outdoor stage and stables, presumably to drop off the car for its owner. My feet crunches straw below me, I inhale deep the sweet smell of grain and horseshit, and look up to find Ric Flair offering to shake my hand. I do so, and his massive hams embrace me after, thanking me for the work done on his Jaguar.
Ric Flair asks me to lead him to the car, and I oblige, retracing my steps to find…an empty parking space. Petrified, I inform Nature Boy that his car was just here, and that perhaps it had been stolen, but that is impossible, I have the keys right here, and I am sorry Mr. Flair, sir. Nature Boy glows read, fuming, and storms off to make some calls, but not before sticking a summer-sausage-sized finger up under my nose to warn me that he just might press charges. I apologize, impotently, and proceed to aimlessly wander around Ric Flair’s property before waking up in a cold sweat.
I do not believe the real Ric Flair would blame me for his missing Jag.