She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. We would go everywhere together—games, golf courses, long drives to nowhere at all. I'm sure my wife was insanely jealous, but this hottie was worth it.
We used to have so much fun, just the two of us, soaking each other with the hose, going to the park and staring at each other for hours, pulling into the drive-in and hearing the other guys whistle. Yeah, she was high maintenance—and expensive. I was forever buying her stuff I was sure I'd bought her only the year before.
Everybody, though, said she was the most gorgeous beauty in town—with her cute little rear end, sweet headlights and succulent curves. Damn, you should've seen her with her top off.
She was my little red 1961 Corvette. Rag top, white coves, 283 fuel-injected engine, big white sidewalls, gleaming chrome, big steering wheel, fuzzy red dice. Lord, she was fast. She could get rubber in all four gears.
We were together for 10 years, and every day with her was a joy. I could park her anywhere. Nobody messed with her. That car seemed to cut across age, sex and race lines. Old people ("I remember when those came out!" they'd say), middle-aged folks ("I was born that year!" they'd screech. And I'd reply, "Yeah, but most of her parts are still original") and kids ("Cool car, mister! What kind is it?") all adored her.
I remember the day I had to have one—11 years ago, at the Miami airport. I was schlepping my bags out to the curb when a Coppertone blonde wheeled up and her J. Crew husband jumped over the passenger door, into the seat. They sped off, laughing, kissing, the wind in their hair, the road opening up into rainbows just for them.
Once I had her, I took her everywhere. Drove her in parades. Lent her to photographers. Used her to chauffeur my brother-in-law and his bride from the church, the long veil spread out over the trunk. They sat up high on the back while the people threw rice. Uh-oh. My baby was going to have more rice marks than Elizabeth Taylor. So I punched it, and the bride fell backward and nearly out.
That car was a slice of Americana. If I happened to be in a bad mood, I knew not to take the Corvette, because people wanted to talk to me at every stoplight. People love classic Vettes like no other car ever built. That's classic Vettes. When you drive a muscle Vette, you look as if you're on your way to pick up your Viagra prescription.
Did women like that car? Does Homer like beer? Single men, take my advice: Forget hair clubs, cool lofts, partnerships at the firm. Just get a ' 61 Vette and you will have more women than a Tupperware convention.
But I let her go. It all happened so fast. We weren't speaking. I think she blew another water pump. Doesn't matter now. We were both hot over it. So I put money down on a sleek new Lexus coupe, walked into the kitchen and said to the wife, "Well, looks like we'll have to find a storage unit somewhere for the Vette because I just bought a new car!"