By Sarah Hepola Staff Writer. The Rolls-Royce parked on the showroom floor looked like a sleek purple spacecraft. The night you were born. The last time the Cowboys won the Super Bowl if you can remember. Catch up on the day's news you need to know.
Or with:. By signing up you agree to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy. On a sunny morning in May, I pulled in to the lot on a dealership-heavy stretch of Lemmon Avenue, where the shiny doors underneath the Rolls-Royce sign reminded me of a metal mouth. They were designed to resemble the signature Pantheon grille of the vehicle itself, long rectangles in an art deco style.
The previous evening had been an opening night party, and a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Piccadilly Roadster sat in the showroom near the newfangled Spectre. He owns 15 vintage cars in total. To grow up near money without actual money is a strange dislocation: I felt poor, even as I enjoyed the grand privileges of an American girlhood.
It was a fine day in the Hepola household when my father caved and bought a four-door Honda Accord my senior year of high school, so new it had paper plates. But you can rest assured none of these had constellations in the ceiling. The closest I got was a moon roof. Most doors are two feet. I performed a tap-tap push that felt like a secret handshake I kept bungling.
No wonder rich people hire a butler. When I finally got it on my third try, the door opened smooth as a space capsule. The Spectre was mine for an hour, which honestly felt like too much rope for a half-million-dollar car. An umbrella hidden in the side of the door! A radio dial of real chrome that felt heavy under my fingertips as I adjusted the Sirius to Outlaw Country and let Waylon Jennings sing me down the lane.
