Success

He looked at his car. He had always wanted a fast car. He had thought it was the key to success.

He remembered signing the papers. He felt as if that day would be the turning point in his life. He remembered driving it for the first time. He was free. He got it up to 120 that first night. He had never gone that fast again. He had never gotten a ticket. His insurance was already too high.

He remembered his father's look. There was no pride in it. There was no disdain in it. The look told his son that he understood, but in the end, the old man knew that a fast car meant very little in the grand scheme of things.

He remembered the first time she saw him in his fast car. Her eyes got big. She thought he was a real player. He thought she was a real goddess.

He had taken her to an expensive restaurant. All he could think about the whole night was his boss's advice, "red makes'em spread." She had a couple of glasses of the real good stuff. It was a delicious meal. He slapped down a hundred dollar bill to pay the check. He then searched in his money clip, just for effect, for a twenty through his hundreds and fifties to give the waiter a more than generous tip, the service was good but not great. Her eyes got big again.

He drove just fast enough to keep her interested. He could not afford a DUI. He brought her to his place. She was too drunk to notice the humbleness of his apartment. In the morning, she would see, but the morning came after the night.

His boss was right. Every second was great.

As he was lying on his cheap bed looking at his cheap bedroom, he was still high enough to thank his car. The car had put this beauty beside him. It had given him the best night of his life. He thought about the nights that had yet to come. He thought about beautiful women. He thought about how his fast car was giving him the life of his dreams.

In the morning, she was surprised at the apartment's poverty, but the fast car made her forget as he sped to her humble abode. She looked better in the morning light than she did the previous evening. She kissed him as she got out of the car. He would never find out if the kiss was because of the money clip or pity or something else.

When he got home, it hit him. He had given up on sex being sacred. But, now, it was something banal. He had bought himself a whore, an expensive whore. Yeah, it was great for the time that it lasted, but he would be bankrupt in weeks pursuing this lifestyle. He was already morally bankrupt. He knew there was something more to life than fucking whores. That was what it was, fucking, it was not making love or anything resembling love; it was pure unadulterated fucking. His friends would greatly appreciate it. It was the lifestyle they had championed since they were thirteen. It was just something physical, just something. They all knew better.

He could not remember the girl's name. He could not remember if she had called back or if he had seen her again. He had probably repressed those memories; repression was probably a good thing. He had gotten old. He knew it was the best looking woman he would ever see naked. He knew he enjoyed every second.

Time had taken him to a different place. His wonderful wife had wanted him to get rid of the car long ago, but instead, he put the fast car in the garage for a special day. It was still spotless. It was immaculate. Its magnetic powers were probably greater now than when he first bought it.

He thought of his father's look as he handed the keys to his ambitious son.