Exotic Car Lease - Dyer Consequences

Tim Marrs

My first stop is the Audi dealership, where I find the salesmen as attentive as one would expect when your entrance to the lot is punctuated by the howl of an Italian V-10 and the squeal of fresh carbon-ceramic brakes. I calmly step from the Lambo and express interest in leasing an R8. (Because, you know, tough economic times like these call for certain lifestyle cutbacks.) The salesman, who looks as if he's just found out he's Warren Buffet's only heir, hurries inside to get me a quote. Meanwhile, another salesman gawks at the Gallardo, gushing appreciatively over the mammoth yellow brake calipers. "Yep," I remark casually, "this one's got the optional carbon-ceramic brakes." Just then an RS4 rolls past on a delivery truck, and the salesman eagerly responds, "Oh, the RS4 has carbon-ceramic brakes, too." He's so proud of his little RS4 that I don't have the heart to correct him. Yes, your dad is as cool as my dad, and that's not rust on your RS4's brake rotors.

Meanwhile, the other salesman reemerges with some figures scribbled on his business card. "If we had an R8 sitting here - which we don't, but sometimes we do, because Audi can surprise us - it'd be $2600 a month with 10,000 miles per year. My number's on the card, but if you want, I can give you a call if we're getting a car in." But my contact information is definitely not forthcoming, because I'm so keen to get out of there that I probably do a fair impression of a Le Mans running start on my way out of the parking lot.

I'd intended to head to the Ferrari dealer next, but I find myself consumed with an unexpected emotion: sympathy. That poor bastard thought he had a big fish on the line when he'd really hooked onto a smelly old boot. I'm a jerk, and a poseur, and a fraud, with my white Lamborghini and my questions about R8s. That guy has a family to support, maybe, and I wasted his time. As I idle through traffic, I wonder if this is the most introspection and self-loathing that's ever occurred behind the wheel of a Lamborghini Gallardo.

Dreading the idea of taking my false pretenses to the Ferrari dealership - I might end up in a cubicle talking about down payments, a task that is a prominent feature of hell in my conception of the afterlife - I instead park the Lambo and switch to Plan B: picking up the phone.

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