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by Doug DeMuro


  The first person I called was my friend Joe, who owned a Volvo S60R with a stick shift. He was busy. So my next call went to my former high school French teacher, who was a family friend, and who happened to own a stick shift Toyota RAV4. Since my mom had sold her stick shift Rodeo a few years before, this RAV4 was just about the only manual transmission car owned by anyone I knew. So my teacher, being both a teacher and tremendously patient, took me out in the car; first to a parking lot, and then to a road, and then to a bigger road.

  At some point, she had me drive her to Barnes and Noble. I stalled six times on the way. While she was inside, I stayed outside to practice. I stalled five more times in the parking lot. After that, she had somewhere to be, and so my lesson was over. I had just completed my very first experience with a stick shift: it lasted less than ninety minutes, and I had stalled it eleven times during the final half-hour alone. And the next day I would walk into the Ferrari dealer as a new employee who professed to merely being “a little rusty” with a manual transmission.

  And indeed I did walk into the Ferrari dealer the next day, as a new employee, and that’s when I learned possibly the most profound lesson in this entire book: even if you don’t have complete mastery over a skill, even if you are merely a beginner at a skill, even if you have only ninety minutes of practice at a skill in your high school French teacher’s used RAV4, you get pretty damn good at this skill when it really matters. For this reason, I believe I could beat LeBron in one-on-one basketball after a twenty-minute coaching session with Bobby Knight.

  Here’s what went down: Around noon the next day, my first day, my very beginning as a Ferrari dealer employee, it happened. They asked me to bring a white Ferrari F355—yes, a white one!—from the parking lot in into the garage so we could detail it before it went home to the owner. They asked this question casually, as if they were asking “Why don’t you fetch some paper towels from the supply closet?” or “Why don’t you drive us to Barnes and Noble in my RAV4?” But for me, it was like I had been asked to walk on the moon, or swim across the English Channel, or eat a live deer using only a spoon and a clock radio. Not only was this my first experience driving a Ferrari, but it was my first experience with a stick shift, save for ninety minutes of practice the previous afternoon.

  So I walked outside, incredibly nervous, breathing heavily, while various other employees were standing around in front, in back, hanging out in the break room, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was about to have this insane life-changing moment, and possibly destroy some wealthy customer’s car in the process. Climbing into that F355, I knew exactly how Orville and Wilbur felt when they launched their first flying machine, although I must admit I was hoping I wouldn’t quite reach the same altitude they did.

  So I got in the car, and I put my foot on the clutch, and I turned the key, and I slowly started backing out of the parking space. Clutch out … accelerator down … clutch out … accelerator down … and the car started inching … and inching … and I was sweating … and sweating… and clutch out … and accelerator down … and by God, ten seconds later I had completely backed out of the parking space. OK, now time to go forward. Clutch in. Accelerator up. Then clutch up … ever so slightly … accelerator down … ever so slightly … there it goes … it’s moving! It’s moving! I did it! All I had to do was steer it into the garage and my first stick shift experience would be complete! And indeed I did: I finished letting out the clutch, I pushed down on the accelerator, and moments later I was pulling into the garage. (You thought I was going to floor it and hit a shrub, didn’t you? You bastard.)

  Once I had the car into the detailing area, I walked over to the car wash guy and handed him the keys like it was nothing; like I was giving him a sandwich I had just gotten from the gas station mini mart; like I was showing him a blurry photo of the new Audi RB. But all I could think in my mind was: OH MY GOD! I DID IT!!! I DID IT!!! HELL YES!!! I DIDN’T STALL!!! I DROVE MY FIRST FERRARI!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M GETTING PAID REAL MONEY TO DO THIS!!! THAT TOOK LIKE FIVE MINUTES WHICH MEANS I JUST GOT PAID $1.25 TO DRIVE A FERRARI INTO A GARAGE! AND I DIDN’T STALL IT! I AM A MASTER OF THE STICK SHIFT! A MASTER! A STICK! SHIFT! MASTER!

  Later that night, I went home and met up with Joe, who owned the S60R. This time, Joe was available—and he let me practice on the Volvo for an hour or two. By the end, I was down to only one stall every ten or fifteen minutes. I was no longer “Doug, the new guy who’s rusty on manual,” or even “Doug, the new guy who has never driven a stick shift before in his life.” I was Doug, Manual Master. King of the Manual. Prince of the Pedals. Count of the Clutch. Of course, I had still not successfully driven a stick shift car for more than about fifteen minutes without stalling it.

  But confidence is key to this sort of thing, and I was so damn confident that I knew how to drive a stick shift that I think I willed the knowledge into my brain and the ability into my body. I ended up spending the entire summer working at that dealership, and I drove virtually every sort of stick shift car, from a 246 Dino to an Aston Martin V8 Vantage to a Ferrari F430. I never stalled a single one of them.

  Last night, however, I was backing my Aston Martin into my parking space here in Philadelphia, and I stalled it out. As I cursed myself and reached for the starter button, I couldn’t help thinking about this charming story, and that wonderful little time in my life, and my unique experience driving that Ferrari for the very first time, and how happy I was that summer driving around in all the fun exotic cars.

  Oh, and how through-the-roof livid the owner of that white F355 would be if he ever heard this story.

  Justice for My Porsche

  I’ll never forget the time that I came home from work one day to discover that my brand-new Porsche company car had been intentionally dented. What happened was, I arrived home, I saw the dent, I flew into a rage, and then I decided to inflict serious revenge on the aggressor in the only way I knew how: some sort of non-confrontational manner where I wouldn’t risk any injury to myself.

  But before I get into the specifics of how I exacted my revenge on the Porsche-denter, a little background.

  As I mentioned before, I used to work at Porsche Cars North America, which is a large, global corporation that primarily produces Excel spreadsheets. I know this because I produced literally thousands of Excel spreadsheets while I was working there; probably enough to start a giant Excel Spreadsheet petting zoo where the children ask their mommies if it’s OK to push them on their home buttons.

  But Porsche also produces something else, and that’s cars. Of course, when I say “cars,” what I really mean is “sport-utility vehicles.” But there are a few cars tossed in there somewhere, and I used to get a new one every six months as a perk of my employment. I picked up one of my favorites in late 2011: a 2012 911 Carrera Cabriolet with giant wheels, and a black leather interior, and a bright blue paint job, which let all of my coworkers know that a) I had the coolest company car in the parking deck, and b) I was not contributing to my 401K.

  The only problem with this otherwise wonderful company car setup was that these cars came with a fairly restrictive mileage limit. Actually, it wasn’t the mileage limit that was restrictive; it was the fact that I viewed driving as a form of entertainment back then, sort of like a child might view going to a theme park, or a swimming pool, or a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet petting zoo.

  Seriously: I would wake up on, say, a Sunday morning, I would have breakfast, and then I would drive around aimlessly for approximately three hours just for fun. I did this even though I was twenty-two years old at the time, which meant I had nowhere important to actually drive to, except for the underwear store, since I only had three pairs of underwear and two of them included holes the size of a surge protector.

  The problem with all this driving was that I would constantly run up against the company car mileage limit. So I did what any normal person would do: when it was time for my brother to upgrade to a new car, I bought his old 2001 Ford Expl
orer Sport. This meant that every morning I would wake up, get ready for work, walk past my shiny new $90,000 Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet with leather seats and a navigation system and a slick six-speed manual, and I would climb inside a ratty, dirty, two-door Ford Explorer that was leaning alarmingly to one side and had dog slobber all over every surface, including the gauge cluster.

  Now, I should also mention that my living conditions at the time were a bit … unusual … for someone who had a brand-new Porsche. What I mean by this is, I lived in an “up and coming” section of Atlanta. What I mean by this is, I parked in an un-lined parking lot with dirt spaces where people occasionally burned their trash. This was not the place you expected to find a new Porsche 911. This was the place you expected to find a stolen Oldsmobile Achieva with used needles under the seats.

  In other words: I lived under constant fear that someone was going to vandalize my car, or at least pee on it.

  In order to help decrease the possibility that someone would damage the 911, I came up with an idea: I would park in a back corner of the lot, far away from the other cars, next to an abandoned 1960s Dodge Dart that inexplicably had Nova Scotia license plates. (If you are reading this from Atlanta, I am curious to find out if the Dodge Dart is still there. The address is 435 North Highland Avenue in Inman Park; the entrance to the parking lot is on the north side of the complex, on Washita Avenue. Please go there and take pictures. Just make sure you don’t disturb the crime scene tape.)

  Now, the spot I chose was large enough for two cars, but I straddled the middle of it because a) the lot was large, and there were many other empty spots, and b) this gave me somewhere to park my dog-slobber Explorer when I came home. So basically I would move the 911 to the center of the spot when I went to work, and I would move it back to the side when I came home in the Explorer. And nobody seemed to mind, because this was the corner of the parking lot, far away from all the other cars, and plus everyone else was too busy smoking meth.

  But then one day I came home to a new sight: one of my fellow tenants had maneuvered his Chevy Suburban into the half-spot between the Porsche and the Dart, coming within millimeters of both cars. My mind instantly started racing. Did he park there INTENTIONALLY? Did he DAMAGE my Porsche? Is he a complete ASSHOLE? How did dog slobber get on the GAUGE CLUSTER? Was the dog DRIVING this Explorer?

  So I walked over to get a closer look and I discovered this guy had indeed damaged my 911 by opening his driver door directly—and swiftly—into my passenger door, placing a huge dent in the side. There was no doubt this was an intentional act: there were dozens of other open spots, and he had chosen to park right there, where I had been parking for months, presumably to send me a message about my bright blue display of wealth.

  So I decided to send a message right back.

  Now, what most of you readers would do here in this situation is, you would break his windshield, or you would scratch his car, or you would write notes on the Internet about how you would totally break his windshield or scratch his car if only you didn’t have to, you know, go have dinner and stuff.

  But the problem with this is that the retaliation is too obvious: he dents my car, I break his windshield. Then he, being the kind of guy who drives a Suburban and jealously dents cars, would probably escalate things by chopping off my ears.

  So I decided I would inflict a more clever pain. I decided I would punish the guy where it really hurts.

  I decided I would make him pay taxes.

  You see, back then (and maybe still today), Georgia had an archaic rule about new residents registering cars: if you were moving from another state to Georgia, you had to pay sales tax on your vehicle, no matter how long you had owned it, and even if you already paid sales tax in your home state. The consequence of this was exactly what you might expect: people would move to Georgia and never register their vehicles, keeping their old states’ license plates for years at a time. These people would even take great care to cover up the expiration decals with big, fat dealer license plate frames so law enforcement couldn’t see that their plates had expired during the Puff Daddy era. This was illegal, but it was widespread, since it was the only way these new arrivals could avoid paying sales tax on their cars.

  Meanwhile, my apartment complex was full of people who had just moved to Atlanta, and the Porsche denter was one of them: I had seen his Suburban around for the last couple of months bearing license plates from Louisiana.

  So I hatched a plan.

  One night, at around 3 a.m., I woke up, I walked down to the parking lot under the cover of a) darkness, and b) and a navy blue shirt with holes the size of a smoke detector, and I removed his Louisiana license plate.

  Now the asshole Porsche denter was screwed. Essentially, he had two options, both of which were bad. Either he could drive around for a while and try to explain to the police why he didn’t have a license plate, or he could go into the Georgia DMV, register his car, and pay the sales tax.

  What he couldn’t do was contact the DMV back in Louisiana for a replacement license plate, since he didn’t live there anymore and the Louisiana DMV isn’t in the business of mailing license plates to people who no longer reside in Louisiana.

  Beginning the next day, each arrival home from work was met with great anticipation: What would Suburban guy do? Would he drive around with no plates?! Or would he go to the DMV, register his car, and pay the sales tax?

  At first, he did nothing. And then, only a few days later, I got my answer: a shiny, new Georgia license plate appeared on his car. At the time, his mid-2000s Suburban was probably still worth around $15,000, which meant that he paid 7 percent of the SUV’s Blue Book value—over $1,000—in sales tax. All because he decided he was going to teach some guy a parking lesson in a lot full of empty, unused spaces.

  Now, I admit that he probably never connected the two events in his mind: the rich asshole in the blue Porsche and the sales tax he had to pay when his license plate was stolen. But I knew. I always knew. And whenever I saw him driving his Suburban from that moment forward, I laughed at my brilliant, clever revenge; my stupendous triumph over the tyrannical forces of evil; my victory over the malicious jealousy that pervades our society and makes us all weaker human beings.

  Also, I also got five bucks for his old Louisiana license plate on eBay.

  Here’s What Happens When You Have License Plate Number 2

  You know how your license plate is an unintelligible mix of numbers and letters? Like BDS-594? Or 3WKS495? Or Z1G1518? Mine isn’t like that. Mine is the number 2.

  Yes, that’s right: I have license plate number 2. Not ABC-2. Not 0002. Just two. The number after one. The number before three. The number of elbows on a regulation human being.

  As you can imagine, this did not come about by chance. You do not just walk into the DMV and receive license plate number two. You walk into the DMV and receive whooping cough after three hours standing in line.

  Actually, in my case, it wasn’t especially difficult to get number 2. What happened was, after years of only offering “normal” personalized license plates, my home state of Pennsylvania finally started offering “special” personalized license plates. You know the plates that say “Save Wild Animals,” or “Preserve the Parks,” or “End Prairie Dog Cancer,” or “Don’t Eat Human Flesh”? Well, for years you couldn’t have those personalized in Pennsylvania; you had to take whatever number they gave you. But now that’s all changed, after what I can only assume was a long, drawn-out battle between the DMV and some guy who wanted to get “ROGER” on a Don’t Eat Human Flesh license plate.

  So as soon as they announced this decision, I went online and I did what any normal, rational person would do: I printed off the PDF order form, I filled it out, and I mailed it to the DMV with approximately the same urgency a hospital might send off a new heart to a patient who has thirty-six hours to live.

  The design I chose says “HONORING OUR VETERANS” on the bottom. Although I would like to say this was a no
ble decision intended to honor the brave men and women of the United States Armed Forces, it was not. It was cheaper. Apparently all of the other designs require some sort of monetary donation to show your support for the organization, whereas the veterans-plate people are content with drivers just cruising around and honoring them in their minds.

  When it comes to picking a personalized plate, they give you three choices. Now, when they initially issued the first “HONORING OUR VETERANS” license plates several years ago, the lowest numbers were 00001, and 00002, and such. So that meant 1, and 2, and 3, without the zeroes, were available. Since the form asks for three choices, I applied for all three of them, in that order: first 1, then 2, then 3. Then I spent the next week checking the online DMV personalized plate database as if the earth was about to be hit by a meteor and this website would tell me if my family was selected to receive a spot in the giant Humanity Escape Pod.

  For those of you who aren’t up on your motor vehicle department features, the online DMV personalized plate database tells you what combinations are taken. For example: you search for “DOUG,” and it’s taken. Or you search for “DOUG 88” and it’s available. Or you search for “JIHAD,” and it makes a little note on your passport so that you’re strip-searched the next time you’re flying back from Europe.

 

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