The Man Who Hated Little Cars, Part Five

...On this cue, two workmen, skilled craftsmen from Virgil’s days at Chrysler (whose salaries were now paid from his cashed-out stock options) released the locks and drew open the hangar doors.

At first only a sliver of sunlight fell into the cavernous opening, glinting off the mirrored finish of a chrome-dipped bumper.

The photographers readied their lenses, taking light readings, setting apertures, threading in flashbulbs.

Faintly, the burbling purr of a big-block V8 could be heard, resonating out from the darkened recesses of the hangar.

A pair of headlights switched on, glowing yellow together, just inches off the ground.

Slowly, smoothly, the car rolled forward, floating out into the crisp California dawn.

“Ooooh,” went the reporters, gaping openly in varied but similar expressions, each one a unique mixture of pleasure, amazement and lust. The gathered nodded in agreement - Virgil Exner had truly proven his talent, proven himself, outdone himself.

Oh, the sinuous curves of the front fenders flowed achingly, exquisitely down the metal surface and into the doors, curved and beaming in the sunlight, coated with layer upon layer of deep, liquid purple.

“Andalusian Aubergine!” Virgil told them. “My new signature color.”

There was an audible gasp as the windshield came into view, arced just so and framed in a bezel of pristine, silver threaded chrome. It was a droptop.

The rest of the car slinked into view, ever so slowly, ever so graciously, like a long metallic feline stepping out of its shadow, revealing itself to its enchanted prey, and its final shape was spread before them.

It had to be eighteen, twenty feet long, and no more than waist high anywhere, not even at the sloping summit of that heartbreaking windshield. The longest, lowest, widest car any of them had ever seen. It didn’t even seem to roll. It glided.

Spontaneous applause spread amongst the reporters, none of them taking their eyes off the car, mutely slapping their hands together in dumbstruck incomprehension.

Virgil stood atop his perch, looking down upon them all, smiling, waiting. “Pictures later, fellas,” he said, noticing several cameramen hurriedly focusing their lenses. “There will be plenty of time for that later…” He smirked a bit, leaning toward the crowd and lowering his voice. “We’re not done here yet.”

1 comment:

Luke said...

Damn son!
You went and did it!