My Redacted Life: Sunday Break

About that time, in 1972, I decided to change my image. I thought, for some strange reason, I should drive a sports car.

Since I had seen the movie Goldfinger, I had longed to drive a flashy sports car. I could just see me as James Bond driving around Little Rock with some beautiful and sexy woman, her long hair wafting gently in the wind and her hand on my shoulder, her hazel eyes staring at me, thinking impure thoughts.

I had done some trading and saved some money and began to look around. I soon found that an Aston Martin would stretch my budget a little too much, so I expanded my search.

Now while I am searching, please allow me to insert some information. I had overlooked, it seems, or had at least neglected to plan properly—an oddity for someone in my profession—for some contingent facts.

One, a man six feet tall and weighing 230 pounds, when spooned into a sports car, was going to resemble a bullfrog crammed into a sewing thimble bouncing down the road to the amusement of everyone he met.

Second, beautiful, sexy women, with long flowing hair, particularly redheads, didn’t care much for riding around in a sports car with the top off.

Third, with the sole exception of riding a motorcycle, speeding down the highway in a sports car represents the surest method on record of meeting a fiery death, a fact impressed on one by each 18-wheeler zooming past at “90-per,” the driver only vaguely aware of another “highway bug” that needed to be squashed.

Hot damn, Bubba!

Fourth, I was no Sean Connery. Beautiful women with impure thoughts were much more prevalent in the movies than in real life, sports car or no sports car.

Still, I managed to find a little green model that fit my budget. In fact, the salesman seemed quite relieved to knock a few extra bucks off the price for me. It was the ill-fated and much maligned Porsche 914 (the “Volkswagen-Porsche”) and he wanted, I’m sure, to get it off the same lot as his real Porsche and fancy Mercedes showpieces.

I loved it though. Elvis didn't drive his first Cadillac home with more pride than I did my little green angel. Further, and more importantly, it was to do the trick, as Faithful Reader will see.