The Greek storyteller Aesop is credited with the expression 'Be careful what you wish for—you just might get it.' And while the following story doesn't quite lead to its protagonist getting what he asked for, towering clouds roiling with portent were appearing on the horizon with alarming frequency.
Let me explain.
It all began in October, when a man spotted an affordable used Porsche Cayman online. It appeared well cared-for and lightly used. Remarkably, it was neither black, grey nor white.
The man made an appointment with the seller and drove to look it over and perhaps take a spin. Unlike so many things which appear online, the car looked as it did in the pictures. It was in great shape with no discernible flaws.
The problem came when the man expressed a desire to take it out of the showroom and drive it. “That's staying here for now” said the salesman.
This was a form of bait and switch and the man should have left after expressing his displeasure. Instead, he answered the quick-thinking salesman's next question. “Have you ever considered a 911?”
He laughed. “Those are waaay out of my league.”
(For those of you mostly uninterested in cars, a 911 is a very expensive sports car and is the cornerstone of the Porsche brand. New, they are unobtainable for anything less than a hundred thousand dollars. Used, the initial price is often less. But you stand a good chance of making up the difference in repairs if you don't buy very, very wisely.)
“Maybe not” said the salesman henceforth referred to as Swifty. “Let me show you something.”
Like an innocent child lured with promises of candy, the man followed. He had not dared to even consider a 911. Now that resolve was dissipating. He silently chastised himself yet never slowed. He was going to be tempted. And if he were honest, would admit he wanted to be.
The whore.
Inside a dark cinder block warehouse were an assortment of new and old Porsches. Boxsters, Caymans, 911s. Even a 944. Swifty searched for one, specifically.
“Ah!” he cried. “There it is.”
Against the wall was a pewter-colored 2008 Turbo 911. As the era's 911s did, it managed to look sleek and muscular simultaneously. Menacing. Potent. Coiled. It practically appeared in motion even when still.
“Let me open it up” said Swifty.
The salesman tried to start it but the battery had lost its charge. He left to retrieve a portable charger. After a couple of minutes the car was running, with a throaty burble spilling from the quadruple exhaust pipes.
The man got in. Enveloped in a cocoon of tan leather with a sea of important-looking gauges in front of him and a firm, contoured seat beneath him, the man was, for all intent and purposes, under the influence.
He grabbed the steering wheel. He wanted to go fast—now.
Correctly reading his customer, Swifty offered up a test drive. The man grunted.
The man carefully steered the car out of the warehouse and picked his way through a tightly-packed lot to the street. Mindful of scraping the front end while exiting, he eased the car onto the road.
It felt magnificent. Like an immensely powerful beast stretching its legs before bounding off into heretofore unknown realms of speed and adhesion. The man felt intensely alive. He was electrified.
On most test drives he was a picture of restraint and self-control, rarely allowing so much as a smile even when his brain was doing cartwheels. But when traffic presented an opportunity for a good stab of the accelerator pedal, the man heard himself say “Woooo!”
He was giving the game away.
Afterwards, it was safe to say the man was aroused. No. He was corrupted. He gazed at the car stupidly as Swifty reiterated the finer points of the 997 series 911 and its Mezger engine. Despite his blood collecting in a region south of his brain, the man was able to formulate a semi-coherent response when Swifty asked “Interested?”
The car interrupted the man's sleep for nights afterward. The contrast of the tan leather interior with the metallic pewter-colored paint. The magnificent sound that emanated from the exhaust pipes. The taut sense of control the car possessed, even at forty miles an hour.
With the Cayman long-forgotten, the man acted on his better impulses and researched the 911. Was it reliable? What design flaws had twelve years revealed? And how best to recognize the seemingly innocuous condition that could erupt into a wallet-busting cataclysm?
The man learned a lot. About bore scoring and IMS bearings and how expensive maintaining and repairing a 911 could be. Unfazed, he continued to lust after it, nearly to the exclusion of all else. With a profound amount of trepidation, he admitted he needed to act on his desire.
Otherwise he would know no peace.
The man called numerous garages and repair shops to compare costs and the thoroughness of their respective pre-purchase inspections. Were compression tests included? IMS inspections? One shop in particular seemed especially qualified, and buoyed by the fact he could at last get an expert and objective opinion on the car he queried Swifty.
“Mind if I get a PPI on the '08 911?”
With Swifty's blessings, the man called the shop back to make an appointment. Whereas the shop had originally sounded almost eager and in complete agreement of the need for a PPI on a twelve year-old 911, it now sounded unenthused and almost recalcitrant, especially after hearing the seller of the car.
Even more-strangely, the shop's rep asked the name of the salesman the man was working with. Huh? Did they have some kind of mutual non-aggression pact or what?
Something didn't smell right.
And that wasn't all that changed. Where Swifty had earlier requested only a signature on a loaner agreement, a copy of the driver's license and proof of insurance, he now wanted a two-thousand dollar deposit to hold the car while it was taken in for its PPI.
Wait. Two-thousand-dollars to hold the car for a three-and-a-half hour PPI? Seriously?
This was getting weird. Fast.
And if it wasn't getting weird-enough fast-enough, know that Swifty added it wasn't “fair” to the other salesmen or to potential customers to hold the car with a deposit if he wasn't going to buy it.
Huh? But you said...
The man's internal logic processors shut-down and he was suddenly overcome with a great weariness. The months of should-I-or-shouldn't-I uncertainty suddenly weighed upon him like a pile of pig iron.
Arriving at the conclusion he was working way too hard to spend money on a complicated, often-temperamental twelve-year old car without a speck of warranty, the man unplugged. He was done.
Freed of the lingering doubt and indecision, he felt lighter than he had in months. Without a shred of evidence, the man felt he had dodged a bullet.
Or a troublesome 911. Take your pick.
