Late night, a bottle of gin, and feelings of emptiness . . . and a Mak, "You . . . complete me" Options

[914-8]

Tried to get to sleep last night . . . but the multiple "badge or no badge" polls kept running through my brain, unabated, like a runaway freight train. Tossing and turning in a cold sweat.

Then came the distant twinklings of an epiphany. I pulled myself out of bed and into the kitchen, pulled the Bushmills off the shelf. Ahh, that's better.

Well, a glass turned into a bottle, and night turned into morning, but then it struck me.

All these years, yeah, it's been an ok life. But always, in the back of the mind, something was missing. That final piece of the puzzle, if you will. The "You complete me."

The badge! Of course, the badge!

All these years, I've heard them. They never thought I did, but I did. The snickering. The little chuckles. The dismissive "it's just a VW" muttered under the breath. For 20 years, I've tried to just let it go. Just laugh it off. But those close to me could see the tears behind the laughter. "Why, Mr. Fellow Motorist at the Gas Station Pump, must you torment me so?"

In my 911, I am met only with adoring adulation. The 914 derision. Why must that be? What does the 911 have that the 914 does not? Staring at my 914 and my 911 safely slumbering next to each other, I realized the answer was sitting right there on the hood. All these years, right under my very nose.

I staggered to the garage door opener, empty bottle in hand. Pushed the button to be greeted by the cool morning light. Blinking uncomfortably as my eyes adjusted to the dawn of a new day, I knew exactly what had to be done. This, indeed, would be a new day. The first day of a new life. One where I would actually live, dammit!

I twisted the key and 5.7 liters sprung to life, her idle a bit more nervous than usual. "Easy, girl, easy," I whispered gently as I pulled her out of the garage and into position, "this won't hurt much and it's all for the better." To memorialize her last day as a pitifully unadorned creature, I snapped one final picture.

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Hand trembling, and eyes bloodshot, I unholstered the faithful Makita. “Ahh, my little pretty, even three layers of lovingly applied Zaino Bros. isn’t going to protect you now!”

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As the angry tip of the carbide bit into virgin sheetmetal, my years of longing began to fly away like the tiny shards of metal being dropped at my feet. I said a silent prayer, “Please, Butzi, guide my hand lest my aim be straight and my drill be true!”

And so it was. As I stumbled back to soak in my handiwork, tears of joy welled up in my parched and delirious eyes, as a flock of white doves took flight from up behind my humble dwelling and a vision of Heinz Nordoff took shape in the reflection on that gently arching hood. Overcome, I collapsed into an exhausted heap of my now glorious and invigorated chariot. “You’re no VW, you’re no VW . . .” I mumbled as I drifted into sleep’s sweet release . . .

















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