Albino Jaguar

The essence of this story boils down to a quintessential passion for design. A seamless mating of luxury and power that invokes a guttural response leaving one lusting for one more taste.

An ungodly thunder roars towards my office window. I clumsily elbow my mug of coffee onto my keyboard as I jump out of my chair to see what the Hell is bellowing into our parking lot. From my second story office it sounds like a panther: wildly screaming and ripping out innards of a tortured wildebeest. I hurry down the stairs, and find my way out to the commotion. I open the door, I hear it snarling, I feel it looking at me. There it is, crouching in the furthest parking space in the car port, a Polaris White 2015 Jaguar F-TYPE R Coupe, fiercely poised on the black top. It’s one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever laid my half-waking, bloodshot eyeballs upon. Its glimmering white coat lures me closer. The headlights deviously squint in my direction as it basks in the burdening August sun.

Automobiles are a universal language, and true beauty is appreciated by all. As I was checking out the back end of the Jag, a man walked past and gave me a thumbs-up.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

The envy filled expression on his face said, “Drop dead.”

Had I the time to explain the situation to him, I would have said, “I feel you brother. Because, this isn’t my car, this isn’t my $105, 000 baby.”

But I wish it were. The engine turns off, and my boss emerges from the cockpit. My jealousy was easily recognizable as I stood there looking like I found my girl on a date with another man.

Before he had a chance to put the keys in his pocket, I blurted, “Hey, I’m going to take her out to take some pictures. Be back soon.”

As those glistening keys hit my palm, I can’t help but feel like Gollum in Lord of the Rings, with my new found, “Precious”.

I notice that the door handles are flush against the chic, contoured body. I unlock the car and they pop right out. What a fabulous integration. The cockpit is decadently upholstered in red and black leathers with red seat belts, panoramic glass roof, 770-watt Meridian Sound System, and a touch screen complete with nav and back up sensors.

An overwhelming sense of class rolls over me. I push the start button, and the engine ignites, pulling my heart strings. The soul of this Jag is unattainable. The exhaust-note would easily scare off a pack of wild hyenas.

I take off to the south end of the city. Feathering the gas through down town, a shirtless man on a bicycle yells obscenities at me as I slowed down approaching a red light. A truck full of road workers glares down at me with the heavy stench of envy. As soon as the light turns green, I spank the throttle and miraculously turn into a white dot in the distance in the eyes of the road workers and bicyclist. The exhaust pops off as though I threw a few fire crackers out of the window. Finally reaching the edge of town, I enter the long empty road I had been dreaming of.