“Whatttt!” I exclaimed.
“Mr. Pollack?” came the voice.
“Yes?” I replied, warily.
“I’ve arrived with your Jaguar,” he announced.
I dressed hastily and donned my Millennium Falcon tee, then proceeded to the front entrance. In the doorway stood a tall, attractive, bald African-American gentleman, presenting me with the keys to a high-end sports car.
“Looks like someone struggled to rise this morn,” he remarked.
“I’m a member of the Democratic party,” I disclosed.
“I am too, I am too,” he reassured.
“Last night was rough.”
“Things will improve,” he consoled. “Enjoy your Jaguar.”
Let me reiterate: The initial event post my party’s electoral loss, shattering all my progressive illusions of the preceding eight years, was a situation where an African-American gentleman presented me with a brand-new Jaguar XF-S priced at $77,085 and featuring New Jersey number plates. The irony in this scenario was so multifaceted that it defies listing. Nevertheless, on Wednesday, as the sun ascended, a car was delivered.
Ever since I commenced writing about automobiles five years ago, each week, a new vehicle has been dispatched to me for test-driving. Sometimes the cars were fairly conventional, though always brand new. Many of them were upscale. I cruise around in them, feeling immensely luxurious, even though in reality, I possess a 1998 Nissan Sentra with a cracked windshield and a dwelling obtained solely due to winnings on Jeopardy!
I enthusiastically drove that XF-S for the entire week. It was sleek and powerful: equipped with a turbocharged V6 motor generating 380 horsepower, dual-toned leather seating, the customary finicky entertainment tech that posed safety risks due to distractions, and top-notch safety functionalities. Initially, Jaguars a few years back were somewhat precarious, akin to lumbering, untrustworthy coffins. This particular model exuded unparalleled style.
Jaguar has been diligently enhancing its image in recent years. It’s touted as the vehicle of the “British antagonist,” according to the commercials. The antagonists depicted in these ads include Thomas Hiddleston and Cillian Murphy. Now, with real adversaries, not just delicate actors lurking in America, I ruminated as I drove the Jaguar to Trader Joe’s and parked amidst a row of other Jaguars.
On Sunday morning, I steered the Jaguar to a gathering that had evolved into a political sorrow-filled brunch. We savored a blend of Texan-Jewish cuisine featuring lox, bagels, Shipley’s donuts, and kolaches. Pastries abounded—so much so, that some expressed desire for lesser quantities. Our discussions were laden with pessimism, except when we cautiously explored the topic of cannabis, imbued with tentative hope.
After the gathering, as I ventured to my vehicle, a fellow I’d encountered a couple of times, parked behind
Shouted from his window, he exclaimed, “License plates from New Jersey! I wish I could afford those.”
“That car isn’t mine,” he mentioned.
He proudly stated, “Yes, indeed, this is my ride!”
He was behind the wheel of a Honda Pilot.
“May I inquire about its model year?” I inquired.
“It’s a 2003,” he responded.
“How many children do you have?” I inquired further.
“Two,” was his concise response.
“Hence, the necessity for a Honda Pilot,” he remarked. “I’ve had the pleasure of driving those, and they are quite comfortable.”
“Whatever,” he scoffed, then briskly drove off to attend a fundraiser for Leonard Peltier.
As the days passed, my experiences were a peculiar mix of bleakness and extravagance. I utilized the Jaguar for errands to the post office, bank, library, and even for a quick stop at P. Terry’s drive-thru after my child’s eye appointment, all while remaining vigilant for any signs of hate symbols. Like a vigilant guardian, I patrolled the streets in search of any hints of racial unrest. Though I did not witness any specific events, I did observe a white pickup truck proudly displaying an American flag, with “Infowars.com” boldly written on the rear window, turning it into a symbol of extremist ideology on wheels. With a sigh, I muttered, “Freedom of expression.” Upon returning to my humble abode, minus a butler, I monitored the unfolding chaos while also managing my fantasy sports investments.
Irrespective of your stance on the president-elect Trump, or your preferred candidate, it is hard to deny that these forthcoming years will bring prosperity for luxury car manufacturers like Jaguar, contrasting with the perpetual struggles of Lincoln. The affluent clientele will witness an escalation in the opulence of vehicles. A mere thousand dollars will likely be deemed inadequate for a starting watch, and an Acura might be considered a low-quality vehicle for a third child.
Presumably, by now, the Jaguar has been replaced with a Nissan Pathfinder, which is, after all, still a car. This substitution might prove useful when I head to Lowe’s this weekend to collect mulch. As my surreal luxurious week drew to a close, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the replacement vehicle would have arrived regardless of the election outcome.
However, if the results had been different, I might have proudly retained the sticker on my Prius.