Chad looked off his balcony at the blue umbrellas of beachgoers aiming their faces at the sun, the Atlantic creating its riptides unseen. His new luxury residence: two pools, one Olympic size, an attached marina, a Bocce ball and tennis courts, three sets of security gates, and valet parking only. When he moved here, he was prepared for wealth, but this was on a whole other level; in fact, he felt he had arrived.

What made his jaw really drop was the dominance of luxury vehicles including Lamborghinis, Bugattis, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris, and Aston Martins. His Genesis GV 80 turned no heads here. Every time he parked, he drooled over the deep blue, silver trimmed Maserati he knew went for over $200,000. At times, he’d lightly caress its side with one finger, inhaling its power which seemed to transform him in some way.

He really regretted not having paid each month for a reserved space in the parking garage. Every time Chad parked, he felt poor and wondered if others thought he couldn’t afford such a space—a middle-aged man. He’d notify the leasing office and request the next available reserved spot.

He began planning. A big part of him wished he could say this sneaked up on him as if it came from the unconscious—absolving him of his active involvement. What would he give to have this masterpiece on wheels? When the spot was empty, he felt as if he were missing a limb or abandoned at the orphanage’s door.
He had seen the driver on a number of occasions, a well-dressed young man who looked to be in his late twenties. Chad kept a record of the young guy’s use of the car, knowing when, for instance, he drove off on weekdays.

Weekends were more difficult to surveil, but he stood by the elevators pretending to enjoy a cigarette, though he didn’t smoke, stalking the driver’s movements. Chad planned to start small, so he began by bending the license plate a little out of shape. He slowly escalated, scratches on doors, a key dragged across its side. Doing this tore him up, but another part of him thrilled. Was it envy that someone so young could own such a thing? That some had endless resources due to their parents, grandparents? Though a very logical man, his own actions now confused him.

He took a heavy wrench and bent a couple of the vertical bars surrounding the Maserati symbol on its front grille and a week later spray painted over this iconic symbol. Chad cracked the glass on a window and punctured a rear tire. One time he was bending a windshield wiper out of shape when another resident showed up. What did she think she saw? Would she report him? Finally, the inevitable happened: the car’s owner caught him, filling door handles with glue.

“Why?” the man asked.

“I wanted your car.”

The man reached into his right front pocket, pulled out a key ring taking off the car’s fob, handing it to Chad.

“Strange way of showing it, but it’s yours. This one’s a write off. I have others in car storage. Just make sure you get it out of my space by tomorrow afternoon.”

The man grabbed his briefcase and headed to his apartment, leaving Martin to plan anew—shocked by his broken new gift and struggling to come to terms with the truthfulness of “’strange way of showing it.’”