I pulled down into the used car corner of his lot, and was having a difficult time navigating the aisles in the Corvette I was driving, with that long snoot that drops out of view. I parked the 'Vette and ran up to the main dealership building, intending to enter through a side door, when I noticed a bit of a commotion around the front door; President and Mrs. Obama and the girls were there, posing with my car dealer friend for some sort of quick grip-'n'-grin photo op. You know, "Rah, rah, Detroit and the small businessman!"
So I notice the Jag I was there to buy is parked right at the side door to the showroom, and I loiter around waiting for my friend to finish whatever it is he's doing. Somehow as the thing up front breaks up and press types are dispersing and the limo's being pulled around and whatnot, I realize I'm standing right there next to President Obama. You know how it is when you find yourself in close social contact with someone with whom you have practically no conversational overlap? "So... What about this weather, huh? Sure are getting a lot of it..."
Anyhow, they all left, and I traded the 'Vette for the Jag, and my friend's daughter told me about this shindig at this club at a hotel, some out-of-town DJ or whatever, and I agreed to go since some old friends of mine would be there.
So I drove downtown that night, parked the car, and rode the elevator up to the top floor of the hotel, only to find out that I was awkwardly underdressed for the scene. I found my friend's daughter and asked what was up and apparently, what with the presidential entourage being in the neighborhood, the crowd trended a little dressier. In fact, somebody was saying that Barry and Michelle had dropped by themselves! Wonderful.
I excused myself, circulated around the fringe of the room and said "Hello-Goodbyes" to the folks I knew and made for the exit. I saw the elevator doors closing down the hall and ran for them. Somebody held the elevator and I rushed in... (You can see this coming, right?)
...and rode down with the Obamas on one of those awkward elevator rides from hell. The only thing worse than being stuck in an elevator car with a politician would be being stuck in an elevator car with a pack of Amway-selling Hare Krishnas.
"Leaving early, too, I see?"
"Mm? Yes, sir."
"I remember you from the car dealership. You were looking at that Jaguar."
"Yes, yes I was."
"Fine cars. Of course, I have to pull for the home team myself; sort of comes with the job."
"No doubt. Chrysler 300's a fine car, though, sir."
If I had to bite my tongue any harder, I was going to sever it. I'm staring at the numbers over the door, willing them to change faster. Surely the hotel wasn't this tall on the ride up? The First Lady is wavering between terminal boredom and looking daggers at the pleb who was allowed in the car.
Finally the doors open, and I exit the elevator like a cork exiting a champagne bottle, scuttling for safety across the lobby with a "Well, see ya'!" wave and a deep inner gratitude that I got away before he asked how I vote, because I'd have laughed myself to tears trying to answer.
I got to the Jag, put the top down, pulled on my baseball cap, and then I woke up.