This is the exact setting this story takes place in. However, I’m twenty-five years old in this picture, and I have a license.

So imagine me six years younger, vegan, malnourished, and of course — without a license.

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So The Story Begins…

I wore a suit because that’s how adults dress to buy vehicles, I thought.

I wanted to be taken seriously.

However, I’m twenty-seven as I write this, and I still wear suits the way I believe adults should dress.

Unfortunately, no adults dress like adults anymore.

That’s a separate discussion though.

At nineteen, little did I know, Tesla was not a typical dealership. It wasn’t one of those bloodthirsty car lots where a salesman with rigor mortis breath and ankle socks, starts circling you the moment you glance at a bumper.

Tesla was different. Tesla was a showroom.

They wanted you to come in.

They wanted to provide you an experience.

Tesla Showroom Assistants don’t make commission, so they aren’t trying to force a sale.

But you couldn’t tell me that when I first walked in the door.

In my mind, I was walking into a battlefield of commerce.

I wasn’t “just looking.”

I was the biggest baller in the shop, and every salesperson in that room was secretly praying I would let them participate in the financial blessing that was my presence.

That was my caricature.

Serious dude, all about business, all about money.

Of course I was going to buy a car and drive out the dealership no problem.

Did I have a license?

No.

Did that concern me?

Also no.

My Showroom Assistant Approached Me

He had that calm Tesla energy. Like he had been trained to never startle the wealthy.

He asked me if I wanted sparkling or regular water.

I said, “Sparkling,” nonchalantly, with a slight head tilt to the right and a subtle lip twitch.

Because that’s what adults who are about to buy cars do, I thought.

He returned with the sparkling water.

I took the glass and held it with my tips, didn’t let it touch my palm.

That minute detail is important.

Touching palms would’ve been a dead giveaway that I was not serious.

But I was.

And the whole store knew it.

My car was in the middle of the showroom, on display for everyone to see. Similar to the image at the beginning of this article.

I stood there for a second and let the moment receive me.

My aura proliferated an ambient temperature that ensured all the other townspeople knew to stand back.

Because this car was mine.

I softly glided my right hand across the vehicle, starting from the back and moving toward the front, gentle enough to look wealthy.

Eventually, I arrived at the handle.

I pressed it at the shaft.

*ff-thook*

Door opened.

Ufff, I knew what I was doing.

Two YouTube videos worth of knowledge before walking in. Of course I knew.

I lowered myself into the seat with the elegance of a man entering inherited royalty.

My buttcheeks worked alongside a gravitational pull, connecting with the plush interior, whilst my feet still planted on the showroom ground.

I wasn’t fully in yet.

I was halfway in, halfway out, like circumcision.

My head leaned forward slightly.

My eyes looked up at all the losers around me.

And oooo, everyone is lucky I forgot my sunglasses, because this was the moment to have them on.

My feet swung in the vehicle like Freekey Zekey in a Full-Nelson.

I was inside.

The sparkling water released itself from the grips of my tips, and slid into the cupholder.

My cupholder.

The assistant strode over. And because I had fully lost my mind by this point, I lowered my window as he approached.

Mind you, we were indoors. There was no traffic.

BUT I WAS ON THE ROAD TO SOMEWHERE.

BECAUSE WHATEVER THE MIND COULD CONCEIVE AND BELIEVE IT COULD ACHEIVE.

He started telling me about all the specs my bad boy could do. Buttered me up like a biscuit about to sizzle.

I nodded with authority, as if any of this information was being processed by a licensed driver.

I asked about ALL the upgrades.

Because that’s what I wanted.

I asked about the nitrous because that’s what I was used to in Midnight Club 3: Dub Edition.

He didn’t laugh hard enough, which told me he was too broke to understand motorsport culture.

Then I asked about the acceleration and folded my arms, so he knew this was an area of importance to me.

I caressed the steering wheel as if it were my future wife because that’s how real men drive their car and turn street corners, I thought.

The showroom assistant seemed to be excited every time I did it, so I kept doing it.

I’d rub the wheel.

He’d keep talking.

I’d rub the wheel again.

He’d continue explaining.

Then he asked the question that almost collapsed my billionaire empire.

“Would you like to test drive it?”

Silence.

Not on the exterior.

But silence inside of me.

A group of tiny workers in hard hats immediately started evacuating the premises of my noggin.

I couldn’t tell him I had no license.

My pride was generationally bequeathed to me.

So I straightened my posture.

Looked him in the eye.

And said:

“I’m a man who knows what he wants. ‘Test driving’ is for pipsqueaks who don’t know a good car, even if it hit them like freight train.”

Tell that to your date next time they want to “test drive” before marriage.

Back to the plot: he accepted my answer.

Not sure if that should be concerning, but oh well.

The Price My Vehicle Would Cost

With all the upgrades?

$200,000.

That’s all, $200,000.

I looked at him in disgust.

And it wasn’t because the vehicle was too expensive.

Remember, I’m a serious business man.

I looked at him in disgust because the vehicle was too cheap.

I was offended he would even think to offer me such a low price.

What about me gave off the impression that I was on a budget?

Had I not conducted myself with enough fiscal violence?

“I’m not sure about the quality of this car. I only spend $500,000+ on automobiles,” I told him.

Then, before he could respond, I was already out the car, out the showroom, on a three-way FaceTime call with my ten lawyers in one window, my cat in the hot tub, with bath salts, cucumbers on his eyelids, and a full-time violinist playing Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in the other window.

Because that’s what adults who buy cars do.

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Sociologically, this kind of role rehearsal is recognized as anticipatory socialization — adopting the behaviors of a status or identity before fully occupying it.