I wanted a convertible—
—a red vintage convertible with shiny chrome rims and white leather seats. But the Enterprise at O’Hare didn’t have any of those.
“You wanna Impala?” The guy asked, but it was white—and I’m allergic to renting white cars. One day on the road and white cars start looking like dirty underwear.
I futzed around the lot, disappointed. If I couldn’t motor down Route 66 in something vintage and cool, I needed to at least roll in something American. I passed over the BMW’s and then salivated over the midnight-black Mustangs (“You’re not authorized to upgrade”).
“Do you have any Camaros?” I wondered. Read More…