Two Jags

It's when walking down the main street, my main street, the street through my 'burb. The place I bump into friends, the place I see those same people every day. Not friends, strangers really, but part of my community none the less. It’s when walking down this street, in this familiar and every day place that I first notice it, or notice the first one, or, whatever. That's when it starts. 

It's an old Jaguar, mid restoration, I don’t know, maybe thirty years old. The panels are all beat up and unpainted. Its exhaust is smokey and the engine sounds like sandpaper. I notice it for how cool it could be. Potentially. But what really made it memorable, that first time, was the driver. He was wearing a tweed jacket, his white beard was overshadowed by the moustache that sat upon it, tidily combed and twirling up at the edges. And in his mouth was a pipe. He looked like a caricature of himself; his appearance was not that of someone you'd forget easily. He certainly didn't look much like a mechanic obsessed with a labour of love. He looked like someone who'd been driving the same car for years. It was a cool car, but it was a tired car, that much was for sure.

Now the thing that gets to me, the part that I can't get my head around is the next day. It was a Sunday morning, and a sunny one at that. I was heading to my usual cafe, a greasy breakfast and strong coffee was beckoning to cure my hangover. I almost didn't notice it. He almost drove past me without me even realising. The bumpers were shining and the paint job was glossy. Through the windows I could see beautiful leather interior. The sound from the exhaust as it sailed past me was almost like music, so smooth and powerful sounding. I would not have even had made a connection with the day before if it wasn't for the driver, pipe smouldering away and facial hair even more elegantly groomed than on Saturday. 

I ran after him when the car stopped at the lights just ahead of me. Smiling through the window I asked the driver where his other car was today, and why two the same? Collector? He looked at me with the slightly puzzled look that people have when strangers accost them at traffic lights. "I don't have any other car son. This is the one I've been driving for nearly half my life now". The lights went green, the car in front of him pulled away, I heard a deep rumble and then his foot lifted from the clutch. The encounter over in a flash, I still can't figure it out.