When I hopped out of the vehicle and handed the keys to the valet, he said: That's a nice car. I agreed. He said: It's really, really fast, huh? Yes, I said. It's fast. He clicked his tongue, shook his head and gawked.
I looked at him and held out the keys. He grabbed them and just stood there. Staring. So, I asked: Um. Do I need a ticket or something? He finally spared me a glance and said: No. I'll remember you.
I was already late for dinner, so I glanced at his polo shirt, which did in fact bear the logo of the restaurant, said a silent prayer that I'd have a vehicle to come back to, and went inside. I'll admit, visions of Ferris Bueller danced through my head.
But I wasn't driving a vintage Ferrari. Or a current-model Ferrari. Or Lamborghini. Or Jaguar. Or Audi. Or any other luxury super car. I was driving a Jeep. Sure it was a 2014 Grand Cherokee SRT. But (and I mean this in the nicest possible way) it was a Jeep.